It is a strange facet of British culture that the organisation dedicated to mapping the nation has its origins in the Armed Forces. If one were to suggest a society in which cartographers and soldiers were one and the same, it would sound somewhat implausible. Yet, even if this was not strictly the case, the Ordnance Survey had its origins after the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 revealed a need for accurate maps of the nation: the mountains of Scotland being difficult enough to shift troops, supplies and artillery pieces around even if you know where to go. Naturally, any modern army will understand the importance of maps and information, but to have the two functions so closely linked is odd in a modern, civilian existence.
Indeed, the dearth of available information is fascinating to consider in the Twenty-First century; to digress briefly, it is the sort of thing that ought to be really hammered home in schools as the century develops, to think of a world where information was difficult to find and frequently inaccurate. Or the sheer difficulty of collecting information.
Not that any of this is my own work; deriving from my reading of Rachel Hewitt's Map of a Nation: A Biography of the Ordnance Survey (Granta, 2010). The start of it is deep in the Enlightenment 'everything can be measured' approach to things, though the uses of theodolite and measuring chain required more field work than the usual image of laboratory or drawing-room bound 18th Century Science. Measuring across vast distances, with The elements and distance were not the only threats: strange folk coming to survey one's land were not considered popular (an anecdote is given of a French surveyor being killed). In the paranoid times of 1798, when French invasion was predicted around the corner, surveyors could find themselves accused of being spies.
Local pride gave map-making a different air in Wales; the importance of getting place names correct was something that could draw venom from local dignitaries and commentators. Ireland was, if anything, more fraught; the survey was part of a re-assessment of tax boundaries (with some districts paying ten times that of others). The survey was initially staffed purely by British soldiers, as a measure against convenient errors; Irish labourers would eventually be hired, as would a team of Irish Catholics specifically required to work on place names - seeking to untangle the Irish name from any later English corruption. Naturally, the survey was not altogether popular; no serious violence is recorded, but much low-level disruption. It was even the subject of a play in 1980, Boundaries - though this piece of drama is little concerned with accuracy.
The great charting of the British isles was a long process - the final piece of the map would be published in 1870 - by which time, of course, the Industrial Revolution had wrought great changes, especially in a city like Birmingham. These maps were never altogether accessible to the general public (the first map made available to the general public cost several weeks wages for a skilled labourer). The Romantic movement would crop up to comment on the division of the countryside by the survey; Wordsworth and Blake both commenting negatively on this manifestation of the Enlightenment. Blake's image of Urizen in The Ancient of Days bears the tools of geometry and called out members of the survey in his Discourses. Worsdworth's own wanderings in the Lake District could be copied by tourists with new maps.
This has some applicability to the tabletop. The notion of the survey, taking delicate equipment into desolate places - assailed by the elements or the locals - seems an excellent starting point for a campaign. Careful calculations on top of mountains has something of a magical bent to it; reaching out across the wilderness to connect peoples together. I have been considering elements of a Enlightenment set or inspired campaign for a while and this seems an excellent inspiration and a interesting historical work.
Wednesday, 16 August 2017
Monday, 7 August 2017
Twelve Grave Guardians
I might have been absent for a while, but I have not been altogether idle. A visit to The British Museum helped produce the following list of funerary charms designed to thwart necromancers. If, for whatever reason, you attempt to raise a spirit from the dead, these items will attempt to stop you. Some could only be found on a corpse that has been specifically prepared for burial; others could easily be among the possessions of a fallen soldier on the battlefield.
(If you think Twelve Grave Guardians sounds like an order of terribly serious divine warriors, you are not entirely alone).
1. Upon tampering with the corpse, five mastiffs appear within five feet of the body. They will prioritise attacking the source of the magic that conjured them, but may attack others. The mastiffs are highly motivated to defend their owner, but are otherwise just mastiffs. Upon defeating them, you can find five terracotta statues of dogs painted in crude colours among the grave goods. They are not terribly valuable.
2. Upon tampering with the corpse, the coffin or shroud in which it has been encased resists the necromancer's spells. The item enclosing the body has been prepared cannot attack, but will further resist any attempts to remove it. It must first be subdued before removal. Upon defeating it, you are in possession of a second-hand anti-necromancer device that must be restored before re-use. It is only potentially valuable, and certainly encumbering.
3. Upon tampering with the corpse, an giant eagle with a collar and chain about it's neck will appear from the chest of the cadaver. It can attack, but will prefer to take up the body in its talons and fly away before the spirit can be thrust back into the flesh as one of the undead. If indoors or deep in a dungeon, bear in mind that this is no common giant eagle; it can phase through walls if necessary. However, catching hold of the chain will assist in subduing it. Upon defeating it, a battered enamel statue of an eagle with a chain may be found. It is not terribly valuable.
4. Upon tampering with the corpse, a large tortoise with a shell the colour of mahogany will appear, covering the body with its shell. No-one will rise from the grave with that beast sitting there. It can attack - but not for more than d6 damage. But it will resist most attempts to move it, or to penetrate the thick shell. Upon defeating it, you may find a tortoise statue of dark wood, no bigger than a human thumb joint. Unless you defeat it using fire, in which case you get ash - besides having a scorched corpse.
5. Upon tampering with the corpse, a child of indeterminate sex in a thick hooded robe and holding a lantern will appear. The child will first ask you to stop. If you do not, it will wail loudly, piteously and continuously. It may then attack you, either by blinding you with a sudden flare of light from the lantern or by casting bolts of fire from the same. Either way, someone else will probably come running in response to the noise. Upon defeating it, a brass lantern with a stub of candle can be found. The candle cannot be lit.
6. Upon tampering with the corpse, an imp or other minor diabolical creature appears and attacks the nearest target. The infernal realms have a policy of not letting other parties interfere with a soul that is firmly with in their grasp. You will be attacked even despite any allegiance you might have to such powers. Friendly fire is not unknown in the inferno. Upon defeating it, you will discover a copper plaque etched with demonic script - as well as perhaps a few tokens of traffic with dark powers.
7. Upon tampering with the corpse, a ghost will appear and attack you for up to twelve rounds. Upon defeating it, you will find an elaborate box with padded sections for twelve large coins. The number of coins found is equal to twelve minus the number of turns it took to defeat this spectral mercenary. The coins are not of any currency accepted as legal tender by earthly banks, though they may have value to some.
8. Upon tampering with the corpse, three arms holding three swords, jointed at the centre like a triskelion, appear and attack, making three attacks each turn. Upon defeating it, three swords will be found among the grave goods, joined by a chain. The swords will be too corroded or too ornamental to serve as a weapon.
9. Upon tampering with the corpse, a glowing sigil will appear upon it - a necromancer's hallmark. Another wizard has used this body before, or wishes to use it in the future. Out of professional courtesy, it will not attack you. But if you wish to continue to take mastery over this corpse, you must 'hack' through the hallmark, making several mind saves. Upon doing so, the corpse looses the glowing sigil (though a talented magician could detect what had been before). The owner of the hallmark may now be aware of what you have done, however.
10. Upon tampering with the corpse, a series of miniature statues holding images of the corpses entrails will attack you. These canopic sentries are effectively miniature golems. They carry no weapons except these images. Upon defeating them, you may find preserved entrails with in these statues.
 |
| From the Louvre; Charles IV, the Fair (d. 1328) and his wife Jeanne d'Evreux (d. 1371), each holding a bag containing their entrails. Think of something like this, but two feet tall. See also the burial of Richard the Lionheart for inspiration. |
12. Upon tampering with the corpse, it bursts into fierce flames. It was clearly buried with an Emergency Pyro-Purgative; the departed apparently of the belief that undesecrated ashes were better than a desecrated corpse. If you manage to remove the Pyro-Purgative before tampering, you are now in possession of a vial of a silvery liquid that ignites in the presence of necromantic spells.
The Blazing World's method for Rejuvenation
The Empress having thus declared her mind to the Ape-men, and
given them better Instructions then perhaps they expected, not knowing that her
Majesty had such great and able judgment in Natural Philosophy, had several
conferences with them concerning Chymical Preperations, which for brevities
sake, I'le forbear to reherse: Amongst the rest, she asked, how it came that
the Imperial Race appear'd so young, and yet was reported to have lived so
long; some of them two, some three, and some four hundred years? and whether it
was by Nature, or a special Divine blessing?
To which they answered, That there
was a certain Rock in the parts of that World, which contained the Golden
Sands, which Rock was hallow within, and did produce a Gum that was a hundred
years before it came to its full strength and perfection; this Gum, said they,
if it be held in a warm hand, will dissolve into an Oyl, the effects whereof
are following: It being given every day for some certain time, to an old
decayed man, in the bigness of a little Pea, will first make him spit for a
week, or more; after this, it will cause Vomits of Flegm; and after that it
will bring forth by vomits, humors of several colours; first of a pale yellow,
then of a deep yellow, then of a green, and lastly of a black colour; and each
of these humours have a several taste, some are fresh, some salt, some sower,
some bitter, and so forth; neither do all these Vomits make them sick, but they
come out on a sudden, and unawares, without any pain or trouble to the
patient: And after it hath done all these mentioned effects, and clear'd both
the Stomack and several other parts of the body, then it works upon the Brain,
and brings forth of the Nose such kinds of humors as it did out of the Mouth,
and much after the same manner; then it will purge by stool, then by urine,
then by sweat, and lastly by bleeding at the Nose, and the Emeroids; all which
effects it will perform within the space of six weeks, or a little more; for it
does not work very strongly, but gently, and by degrees: Lastly, when it has
done all this, it will make the body break out into a thick Scab, and cause
both Hair, Teeth, and Nails to come off; which scab being arrived to its full
maturity, opens first along the back, and comes off all in a piece like armour,
and all this is done within the space of four months.
After this the Patient is
wrapt into a Cere- cloth, prepared of certain Gums and Juices, wherein he
continues until the time of nine Months be expired from the first beginning of
the cure, which is the time of a Childs formation in the Womb. In the mean
while, his diet is nothing else but Eagles-eggs, and Hinds-milk; and after the
Cere-cloth is taken away, he will appear of the age of Twenty, both in shape,
and strength. The weaker sort of this Gum is soveraign in healing of wounds,
and curing of slight distempers. But this is also to be observed, that none of
the Imperial race does use any other drink but Lime-water, or water in
which Lime-stone is immerged; their meat is nothing else but Fowl of several
sorts, their recreations are many, but chiefly Hunting.
Margaret Cavendish's The Blazing World of 1666 announces the above method of immortality for its Emperors. The method has a certain 'Hard Science Fiction' quality to it - within a Seventeenth Century understanding of 'hardness'. It is time-consuming, messy, complex and difficult. Neither is it like a magical formula which is all those things and then suddenly produces the Philosopher's Stone (or similar) in a neat, easy-to-swallow bundle.
Why post this here? It has an eminent 'grit' to it, reminiscent of OSR elements. It has potential - for use as a lych alternative or for the messier kind of magic healing. Lamentations of the Flame Princess could probably swallow it whole. It fits with that kind of White Hot Sparks from the Crucible of the Enlightenment setting I should like to flesh out more thoroughly at some point.
Tuesday, 11 July 2017
What do you wear: a case study
My recent posts have all been of a piece, but I didn't have anything in mind regarding clothing until something crossed my mind. Therefore, I shall be talking about Star Trek.
I came late to Star Trek, and therefore have never quite taken on-board all of the show-specific tropes it invokes. The nature of the original show colours everything else; the odd mix of relatively hard science fiction and woosh-bang-kapow pulp space opera never quite sat right: why have a vessel that is simultaneously a main battleship, floating embassy and exploratory mission - with a large number of civilians into the bargain? It would almost be like getting Flash Gordon to explore the cylinder from Rendezvous with Rama. Well, it does hark back to Captain Cook and other naval explorers that had to operate without close instruction. But don't tell me Captain James T. Kirk would be out of his element on Barsoom.
Part of my object, I suppose, was the uniforms; tunics or jumpsuits. I rarely recall seeing space suits festoon with oxygen cylinders or body armour for bouts of combat - "Of course this bicoloured jumpsuit is suitable apparel for a commando raid onto a giant spaceship full of deadly cyborgs." (Perhaps body armour is useless against future weaponry - but the steel helmet of the Second World War was equally useless against a direct hit; it still had a purpose).
But the all these objections aside, there is one thing this does well. It emphasizes the nature of life in the semi-utopia that is the Federation. To whit, the jumpsuits of The Next Generation lack pockets: clearly not a society that needs pocket handkerchiefs or small change. This is presumably because it has done away with the common cold and money (I'm not sure which of these is more astounding!).
There's an implication in all this: you do not need to carry anything for yourself, except your communications link with a central authority and whatever that authority thinks you will need to carry in this particular scenario. This is undoubtedly in part because Star Trek is about a (semi-) military organisation - or at least one with a hierarchy. It's perhaps another mark of utopianism that Starfleet personnel don't seem to carry sidearms unless they really have to.
The whole post-scarcity thing is centered around replicators - that seem to be the property or responsibility of communities as a whole, rather than individuals. If we conjure up an image of a libertarian United Federation of Planets...
[A notion that is open to ridicule and parody, but is worthy of taking seriously in this moment. Even if one can imagine something in the vein of 'Ayn Rand's Star Trek' being a throw-away gag in an alternate history novel. If necessary, replace the term libertarian with minarchist or individualistic or whatever seems best to you.]
.....with similar levels of technology, if different ways of applying them and at least some measure of Star Trek's virtue and goodwill. Let us say that everyone gets an education, of sorts (little state interference, not a lack of state support); most importantly -for our purposes - in the use of a replicator; to whit, the tool that can make bread out of stones. So every citizen has one of these - sold at very reasonable rates? - and can therefore make themselves food and shelter, possibly even more in the way of life support (synthesize your own penicillin!).
If there is a market, then, it is for ideas and new information and artwork and recipes. One imagines citizens wondering about in clothes with pockets or webbing full of replicator parts or modular add-ons, as well as the obligatory communicator. Because the nature of this society is what it is, you carry a replicator - in order to merely survive, or in order to exhibit your products or art or similar to society. As in Star Trek proper, the impulse to explore and discover would be strong, as means of gaining wealth and status - creating a degree of frontier culture (a lot easier to replicate into existence your dream home on virgin soil).
I've no idea how sound a civilization this is, or how true it is to Star Trek canon. But it feels a little like a combination of Iain M. Banks's Culture series and Joss Whedon's Firefly. Besides, the notion of wealth being determined by new information, ideas or art seems eminently gameable.
I came late to Star Trek, and therefore have never quite taken on-board all of the show-specific tropes it invokes. The nature of the original show colours everything else; the odd mix of relatively hard science fiction and woosh-bang-kapow pulp space opera never quite sat right: why have a vessel that is simultaneously a main battleship, floating embassy and exploratory mission - with a large number of civilians into the bargain? It would almost be like getting Flash Gordon to explore the cylinder from Rendezvous with Rama. Well, it does hark back to Captain Cook and other naval explorers that had to operate without close instruction. But don't tell me Captain James T. Kirk would be out of his element on Barsoom.
Part of my object, I suppose, was the uniforms; tunics or jumpsuits. I rarely recall seeing space suits festoon with oxygen cylinders or body armour for bouts of combat - "Of course this bicoloured jumpsuit is suitable apparel for a commando raid onto a giant spaceship full of deadly cyborgs." (Perhaps body armour is useless against future weaponry - but the steel helmet of the Second World War was equally useless against a direct hit; it still had a purpose).
But the all these objections aside, there is one thing this does well. It emphasizes the nature of life in the semi-utopia that is the Federation. To whit, the jumpsuits of The Next Generation lack pockets: clearly not a society that needs pocket handkerchiefs or small change. This is presumably because it has done away with the common cold and money (I'm not sure which of these is more astounding!).
There's an implication in all this: you do not need to carry anything for yourself, except your communications link with a central authority and whatever that authority thinks you will need to carry in this particular scenario. This is undoubtedly in part because Star Trek is about a (semi-) military organisation - or at least one with a hierarchy. It's perhaps another mark of utopianism that Starfleet personnel don't seem to carry sidearms unless they really have to.
The whole post-scarcity thing is centered around replicators - that seem to be the property or responsibility of communities as a whole, rather than individuals. If we conjure up an image of a libertarian United Federation of Planets...
[A notion that is open to ridicule and parody, but is worthy of taking seriously in this moment. Even if one can imagine something in the vein of 'Ayn Rand's Star Trek' being a throw-away gag in an alternate history novel. If necessary, replace the term libertarian with minarchist or individualistic or whatever seems best to you.]
.....with similar levels of technology, if different ways of applying them and at least some measure of Star Trek's virtue and goodwill. Let us say that everyone gets an education, of sorts (little state interference, not a lack of state support); most importantly -for our purposes - in the use of a replicator; to whit, the tool that can make bread out of stones. So every citizen has one of these - sold at very reasonable rates? - and can therefore make themselves food and shelter, possibly even more in the way of life support (synthesize your own penicillin!).
If there is a market, then, it is for ideas and new information and artwork and recipes. One imagines citizens wondering about in clothes with pockets or webbing full of replicator parts or modular add-ons, as well as the obligatory communicator. Because the nature of this society is what it is, you carry a replicator - in order to merely survive, or in order to exhibit your products or art or similar to society. As in Star Trek proper, the impulse to explore and discover would be strong, as means of gaining wealth and status - creating a degree of frontier culture (a lot easier to replicate into existence your dream home on virgin soil).
I've no idea how sound a civilization this is, or how true it is to Star Trek canon. But it feels a little like a combination of Iain M. Banks's Culture series and Joss Whedon's Firefly. Besides, the notion of wealth being determined by new information, ideas or art seems eminently gameable.
Saturday, 8 July 2017
Where do you bathe?
Having broached the "Where do you..." topic in an earlier post, I am going to revisit this. The question raised itself, unlike the nagging Skyrim bedrooms debate, in re-reading a few early Tom Clancy thrillers. There seems to be an oddly frequent number of occasions when Soviet officers in Moscow visit the public baths together. A few different critical readings of this could be developed: as a comparison between Russian and American culture or as a deliberate literary device to render alien the Soviet enemy. For my money, this was something that just stuck in Clancy's mind; it is hardly the only cultural difference that is raised, nor is it the only mention of bathing practices - we are asked to consider the difficulties of bathing aboard a submarine.
Now, bathing is something that players in a tabletop RPG are probably going to do less than sleeping. The benefits of sleep and rest are obvious; bathing perhaps less so in character sheet mechanical terms. Insisting on regular bathing in an RPG might well be overdoing it in terms of fine detail; much as noting the lavatory visits of player characters might be a little too much information.
The one time, in fact that I have made use of bathing in-game was concerning a healing spring. There is a definite trade-off. You heal, but slowly - and you wouldn't want to take your chainmail or spellbook into the pool with you.
There are some further uses of in-game bathing and sanitation that I can see - beyond the possibility of killing rodents and/or Harry Lime in the sewers.
Introducing a new culture might make mention of bathhouses; a visit to the mighty metropolis of Urbs Aeneae (or whatever Pseudo-Roman civilization happens to be in your neck of the woods) might well point out the bathhouses on a journey into the city (not that the Romans were the only ones with public bathhouses). I quite like the notion of debate regarding the water supply: the magical lobby maintains water elementals to power the aqueducts against the wishes of the opposition, who regard magic as unreliable and wish to install a purely mechanical system.The question of the gender mix also comes into play, as does if different species bath together. It need not effect a player, but it is a quiet reminder of setting.
Equally, pointing out a lack of bathhouses and the presence of bathing places on the river, along with citizens drawing water from somewhere upstream is instructive: the players know there will be no sewers to kill rodents in!
This is all rather secular; cultural tone might also be well served by purification rituals conducted in places of worship. Characters must cleanse themselves before entering the temple - a time consuming process - or (as cribbed from this post over at Roles, Rules and Rolls) immerse themselves in water to be healed - which may not be terribly efficient in the field. Speaking of purification raises an interesting time-management aspect to a game: the Church will pay you to slay demons or retrieve black magic artifacts - but then enforce several days of purification rites in order to swab any taint from you. All very well if you are being paid by the day, but if not deeply frustrating and restrictive.
Aside from this, the bathhouse might well make for a good setting. Spinning one out into an entire megadungeon is a little much. but as a setting for intrigue or assassination attempts is certainly interesting and forces some restrictions on play, calling for improvisation. Turning full circle back to Russia, I recall this happening in one of Boris Akunin's Erast Fandorin novels. Grappling with lack of weapons or armour or spellbooks is a problem; slippery floors and crowded spaces likewise - and does your assailant have any identifying marks, or are you going to have to threaten every tall blond with a red and white towel until you find them?
This offers a chance for a certain lightness of tone - think of footchases and outraged patrons - visually if nothing else: white marble or terracotta replacing the ten foot dungeon corridor.
Now, bathing is something that players in a tabletop RPG are probably going to do less than sleeping. The benefits of sleep and rest are obvious; bathing perhaps less so in character sheet mechanical terms. Insisting on regular bathing in an RPG might well be overdoing it in terms of fine detail; much as noting the lavatory visits of player characters might be a little too much information.
The one time, in fact that I have made use of bathing in-game was concerning a healing spring. There is a definite trade-off. You heal, but slowly - and you wouldn't want to take your chainmail or spellbook into the pool with you.
There are some further uses of in-game bathing and sanitation that I can see - beyond the possibility of killing rodents and/or Harry Lime in the sewers.
Introducing a new culture might make mention of bathhouses; a visit to the mighty metropolis of Urbs Aeneae (or whatever Pseudo-Roman civilization happens to be in your neck of the woods) might well point out the bathhouses on a journey into the city (not that the Romans were the only ones with public bathhouses). I quite like the notion of debate regarding the water supply: the magical lobby maintains water elementals to power the aqueducts against the wishes of the opposition, who regard magic as unreliable and wish to install a purely mechanical system.The question of the gender mix also comes into play, as does if different species bath together. It need not effect a player, but it is a quiet reminder of setting.
Equally, pointing out a lack of bathhouses and the presence of bathing places on the river, along with citizens drawing water from somewhere upstream is instructive: the players know there will be no sewers to kill rodents in!
This is all rather secular; cultural tone might also be well served by purification rituals conducted in places of worship. Characters must cleanse themselves before entering the temple - a time consuming process - or (as cribbed from this post over at Roles, Rules and Rolls) immerse themselves in water to be healed - which may not be terribly efficient in the field. Speaking of purification raises an interesting time-management aspect to a game: the Church will pay you to slay demons or retrieve black magic artifacts - but then enforce several days of purification rites in order to swab any taint from you. All very well if you are being paid by the day, but if not deeply frustrating and restrictive.
Aside from this, the bathhouse might well make for a good setting. Spinning one out into an entire megadungeon is a little much. but as a setting for intrigue or assassination attempts is certainly interesting and forces some restrictions on play, calling for improvisation. Turning full circle back to Russia, I recall this happening in one of Boris Akunin's Erast Fandorin novels. Grappling with lack of weapons or armour or spellbooks is a problem; slippery floors and crowded spaces likewise - and does your assailant have any identifying marks, or are you going to have to threaten every tall blond with a red and white towel until you find them?
This offers a chance for a certain lightness of tone - think of footchases and outraged patrons - visually if nothing else: white marble or terracotta replacing the ten foot dungeon corridor.
Wednesday, 5 July 2017
Fallout: Home Counties - The Three Sabres Mercenary Company
The Three Sabres Mercenary Company exist as a deliberate reference to the Essex county coat of arms; three sabres on a red field. The sabres are notched, making them technically 'seaxs', for those who wish to know.
Anyway, these are the brute faction. No great scheme, no great plan; just a relatively organised and coordinated protection racket. Arguably, the most laissez-faire faction of them all, both in terms of how they treat those they have power over and the direction given to regional commanders.
A few notes I made back in the day read as follows: Ethically, they’re somewhere between Mal and
Jayne from Firefly. They look like your usual wasteland lot, though
I can’t help thinking red and black tones would be used for their official (I
use the term loosely) regalia. There’s a suggestion of a loose, rough and ready
democracy to the mercenaries – no one’s going to force them into anything. One
imagines a divide between those assigned to cushy posts in the Protectorate
interior looking after the villages that support them and the towns that act as
their headquarters and offer them the chance for R&R.
If they have a literary or cultural precedent, it lies in the history of Essex as a relatively militarised region: I call to witness the Colchester garrison and Tilbury Fort (scene of Elizabeth I's "heart and stomach of a king" speech during the Spanish Armada). The late twentieth century notions of the 'Essex man' and 'Essex girl' (if you don't know, count yourself blessed) have little to do with this - though the rural idyll notion runs stronger in Kent or the Cotswalds than it does in Essex, which rather effects the way things ended up. The seaside towns of Essex and the East Coast have a degree of mid-century significance; I quite like the notion of how such places go from holiday grounds to hives of scum and villainy. A bid thudding and obvious, but that's The Three Sabres for you.
At Best, they are Lovable Rogues who'll protect you for a cost and can be negotiated with on easy terms. At Worst, they are racketeers with all the guns and all the cards who'll steal your daughter, kill your dog and eat your baked beans.
Sunday, 25 June 2017
d20 Wizarding Home Furnishings
1. A stuffed crocodile, suspended from the ceiling. Everyone at the Arcane College had one.
2. A twenty-eight league bootrack, suitable for two pairs of seven-league boots. A chest full of seven-league boot polish and brushes for the application of same sits next to it.
3. An invisible bell-pull with which one may summon an invisible servant.
4. A colony of sentient mothballs, that hover inside a wardrobe. They will attack any moths nearby, doing 1d6 damage - more than enough to obliterate most moths. Anything that might be a moth prompts a conclave of the Parliament of the Mothballs. If convinced that something is a moth, they will attack it.
5. Handprinted runic wallpaper.
6. Securely locked bookcases/scroll racks. This is because A) Wizards are enormously protective of their books, B) the bylaws of the Mages' Guild are very clear about letting just anyone near a spellbook, C) The tomes therein are dangerous not only in the wrong hands but to those wrong hands themselves.
7. Green-shaded desk lamp, with a will-o'-the-wisp inside.
8. A dresser displaying several magic mirrors, scrying dishes, &c.
9. A stack of outsize hatboxes, to accommodate hat points without denting them.
10. Writing desk with attendant Hand of Glory trained to function as stenographer (the severed member's shorthand is passable at best).
11. A cage suitable for an avian familiar.
12. Curtains, opaque from the outside and transparent from the inside, made from the same fabric as invisibility cloaks. Perfect for the paranoid, or those who want the warmth of drawn curtains while keeping the natural light offered by the window.
13. Gargoyle perch (with 1d3 gargoyles claiming occupancy).
14. Magic embroidered sampler. Like a magic carpet, but smaller and less hardy. Choice of text on sampler dependent on the tastes of the wizard in question.
15. Jewel casket, with numerous niches for amulets, rings of power, &c. Securely locked. Quite emphatically none-magical; made of materials designed to prevent the items within interfering with one another in hazardous fashions. Magic spells cast at it have a stronger chance of failing than usual - and if they succeed, will succeed in ways quite unexpected.
16. A set of occasional tables. Given the eccentric nature of wizarding occasions, there are about twenty all told.
17. Thaumaturgic grounding rod, kept in the Apprentices' quarters, in case of accidents.
18. Self-folding rug.
19. A skittles alley. The pins return themselves to an upright position a minute after being knocked down. They will do this on any flat solid surface.
20. Extraplanar potpourri.
2. A twenty-eight league bootrack, suitable for two pairs of seven-league boots. A chest full of seven-league boot polish and brushes for the application of same sits next to it.
3. An invisible bell-pull with which one may summon an invisible servant.
4. A colony of sentient mothballs, that hover inside a wardrobe. They will attack any moths nearby, doing 1d6 damage - more than enough to obliterate most moths. Anything that might be a moth prompts a conclave of the Parliament of the Mothballs. If convinced that something is a moth, they will attack it.
5. Handprinted runic wallpaper.
6. Securely locked bookcases/scroll racks. This is because A) Wizards are enormously protective of their books, B) the bylaws of the Mages' Guild are very clear about letting just anyone near a spellbook, C) The tomes therein are dangerous not only in the wrong hands but to those wrong hands themselves.
7. Green-shaded desk lamp, with a will-o'-the-wisp inside.
8. A dresser displaying several magic mirrors, scrying dishes, &c.
9. A stack of outsize hatboxes, to accommodate hat points without denting them.
10. Writing desk with attendant Hand of Glory trained to function as stenographer (the severed member's shorthand is passable at best).
11. A cage suitable for an avian familiar.
12. Curtains, opaque from the outside and transparent from the inside, made from the same fabric as invisibility cloaks. Perfect for the paranoid, or those who want the warmth of drawn curtains while keeping the natural light offered by the window.
13. Gargoyle perch (with 1d3 gargoyles claiming occupancy).
14. Magic embroidered sampler. Like a magic carpet, but smaller and less hardy. Choice of text on sampler dependent on the tastes of the wizard in question.
15. Jewel casket, with numerous niches for amulets, rings of power, &c. Securely locked. Quite emphatically none-magical; made of materials designed to prevent the items within interfering with one another in hazardous fashions. Magic spells cast at it have a stronger chance of failing than usual - and if they succeed, will succeed in ways quite unexpected.
16. A set of occasional tables. Given the eccentric nature of wizarding occasions, there are about twenty all told.
17. Thaumaturgic grounding rod, kept in the Apprentices' quarters, in case of accidents.
18. Self-folding rug.
19. A skittles alley. The pins return themselves to an upright position a minute after being knocked down. They will do this on any flat solid surface.
20. Extraplanar potpourri.
Friday, 23 June 2017
Where do you sleep?
The old chestnut "You all meet in a tavern," is rather scorned, with good reason. It has so much of the off-the-shelf fantasy world about it. The inn is, however, not just a place of meeting - but of rest. The intrepid band marches down into the dungeon and troops back later in the day short on or covered in blood and treasure. They sharpen swords, read spellbooks, make a hasty meal - and go to sleep.
What sleeping arrangements does the inn offer? A crowded bunkroom with the other cowhands? Seven feet of space in the hayloft? Sharing a bed with a strange giant and a strange doctor? Individual rooms, with bedside tables and alarm calls in the morning?
This last one would be the answer of the less than inventive setting. A quick look at the accommodation in Skyrim, for instance, rather makes me think of a Norse-themed hotel, devotedly recreating mead and roast boar and smoky longhouses, but then letting you trot off to your own cosy bed, in a private room, complete with ornate knotwork-patterned eiderdown.
(My quiet scorn for this kind of fantasy is lifted in a setting like Modesitt's Saga of Recluce - where the entire thing derives from crashed astronauts, hence the insistence on handwashing amidst the swordplay and fireballs, and why the quiet feeling of things being all faintly a little like a Western has some justification as an attempt at a modern society with limited resources. I cannot recall quite whether Anne McCaffrey's Pern was the same; I have more memories of dormitories.)
Speaking of Westerns, this has some convenience to it; if Our Heroes are passing through a one-horse town, just saying 'You all find rooms at the local tavern, a charming establishment called The Owlbear's Head' is not perhaps unreasonable. It might be tempting to mix this up, occasionally: 'Old Man Johnson will let you sleep in his barn for a copper penny a night. No open fires and you have to find your own food, but well water is free.' Naturally, this would be a really small town.
This question has more interest when we go to the big city and if we factor in wider associations. That is to say, Peregrine the Paladin might get lodging at the Chapterhouse of the Order of St. Tankred, but said Order might not care for the freeloaders in his wake - who, as ever, might be heretics, infidels, wanted by the authorities, warlocks or the like. Likewise, Clothilde the Cleric might find an empty bed at the local Vicarage equivalent but then violently disagree with the Vicar on a thorny theological issue.
It is tempting, further, to imagine a trip to the city as an opportunity for Our Heroes to get some time to themselves; the Wizard consults her colleagues in the Occult College, the Elf gets to enjoy the comforts of superior Elven company. They then meet at a pre-arranged time to continue the quest. Perhaps this has always been part of the rhythm of play; finish the dungeon, level up, go and find someone to teach you that neat sword trick where you flip the blade out of their hand. If so, perhaps the change in atmosphere could be better communicated. 'Peregrine, the sound of evensong in the Chapterhouse of the Order is heartening and comforting after so many nights spent camping in the ruins of the Dread Bastion.'
All this aside, however, I would raise another question. What sort of society offers large sets of rooms in relatively commonplace guesthouses? That is to say, the equivalent of The Blue Boar or The Owlbear's Head offers its most thrifty guests staterooms and private bathrooms as a matter of course.
One imagines a world with a lot of space to spare - the diametric opposite of the capsule hotels of Japanese cities (another flavourful way of communicating setting) - and, moreover, relatively cheap labour to build the sort of hostelry that can offer the humble wayfarer the equivalent of a luxury suite. An image from science fiction might call to mind architectural nanobots, able to construct a palace in seconds - the idea of luxury in such a place comes from the manner and skill with which it is decorated and furnished, rather than the possibility of having five rooms of one's own.
The vast worlds (and habitats) and vast resources of the late Iain M. Banks's Culture series might suggest themselves. Robert Silverberg's Majipoor, or something like it, seems as if it might offer something similar. Majipoor is a vaster planet than Earth, and the somewhat sumptuous tones of that series (or an imitator) conjure a world where such a thing might be possible, or indeed expected.
What other images could we suggest for a world of vast houses? A tent city of the desert, where a new wing is only a matter of new poles and canvas, but where water is infinitely precious? An off-world colony, where many more thousands of prefabricated housing units have been provided than are needed? (Not just replicant servants, but many more square feet of housing than 2019 Los Angeles offers).
Is this phenomenon rather socially developed? Has this polity developed curious luxuriant and stringently enforced housing laws? Does tradition demand different wings of the house for the sexes? Does a divine command call for a private space in which the faithful may make their prayers alone and uninterrupted?
Further suggestions in the comments, if you've something to offer.
What sleeping arrangements does the inn offer? A crowded bunkroom with the other cowhands? Seven feet of space in the hayloft? Sharing a bed with a strange giant and a strange doctor? Individual rooms, with bedside tables and alarm calls in the morning?
This last one would be the answer of the less than inventive setting. A quick look at the accommodation in Skyrim, for instance, rather makes me think of a Norse-themed hotel, devotedly recreating mead and roast boar and smoky longhouses, but then letting you trot off to your own cosy bed, in a private room, complete with ornate knotwork-patterned eiderdown.
(My quiet scorn for this kind of fantasy is lifted in a setting like Modesitt's Saga of Recluce - where the entire thing derives from crashed astronauts, hence the insistence on handwashing amidst the swordplay and fireballs, and why the quiet feeling of things being all faintly a little like a Western has some justification as an attempt at a modern society with limited resources. I cannot recall quite whether Anne McCaffrey's Pern was the same; I have more memories of dormitories.)
Speaking of Westerns, this has some convenience to it; if Our Heroes are passing through a one-horse town, just saying 'You all find rooms at the local tavern, a charming establishment called The Owlbear's Head' is not perhaps unreasonable. It might be tempting to mix this up, occasionally: 'Old Man Johnson will let you sleep in his barn for a copper penny a night. No open fires and you have to find your own food, but well water is free.' Naturally, this would be a really small town.
This question has more interest when we go to the big city and if we factor in wider associations. That is to say, Peregrine the Paladin might get lodging at the Chapterhouse of the Order of St. Tankred, but said Order might not care for the freeloaders in his wake - who, as ever, might be heretics, infidels, wanted by the authorities, warlocks or the like. Likewise, Clothilde the Cleric might find an empty bed at the local Vicarage equivalent but then violently disagree with the Vicar on a thorny theological issue.
It is tempting, further, to imagine a trip to the city as an opportunity for Our Heroes to get some time to themselves; the Wizard consults her colleagues in the Occult College, the Elf gets to enjoy the comforts of superior Elven company. They then meet at a pre-arranged time to continue the quest. Perhaps this has always been part of the rhythm of play; finish the dungeon, level up, go and find someone to teach you that neat sword trick where you flip the blade out of their hand. If so, perhaps the change in atmosphere could be better communicated. 'Peregrine, the sound of evensong in the Chapterhouse of the Order is heartening and comforting after so many nights spent camping in the ruins of the Dread Bastion.'
All this aside, however, I would raise another question. What sort of society offers large sets of rooms in relatively commonplace guesthouses? That is to say, the equivalent of The Blue Boar or The Owlbear's Head offers its most thrifty guests staterooms and private bathrooms as a matter of course.
One imagines a world with a lot of space to spare - the diametric opposite of the capsule hotels of Japanese cities (another flavourful way of communicating setting) - and, moreover, relatively cheap labour to build the sort of hostelry that can offer the humble wayfarer the equivalent of a luxury suite. An image from science fiction might call to mind architectural nanobots, able to construct a palace in seconds - the idea of luxury in such a place comes from the manner and skill with which it is decorated and furnished, rather than the possibility of having five rooms of one's own.
The vast worlds (and habitats) and vast resources of the late Iain M. Banks's Culture series might suggest themselves. Robert Silverberg's Majipoor, or something like it, seems as if it might offer something similar. Majipoor is a vaster planet than Earth, and the somewhat sumptuous tones of that series (or an imitator) conjure a world where such a thing might be possible, or indeed expected.
What other images could we suggest for a world of vast houses? A tent city of the desert, where a new wing is only a matter of new poles and canvas, but where water is infinitely precious? An off-world colony, where many more thousands of prefabricated housing units have been provided than are needed? (Not just replicant servants, but many more square feet of housing than 2019 Los Angeles offers).
Is this phenomenon rather socially developed? Has this polity developed curious luxuriant and stringently enforced housing laws? Does tradition demand different wings of the house for the sexes? Does a divine command call for a private space in which the faithful may make their prayers alone and uninterrupted?
Further suggestions in the comments, if you've something to offer.
Tuesday, 20 June 2017
Fallout: Home Counties - London
London is an old city; with many regions possessing identities of their own - because in centuries past, they were independent villages in the county of Middlesex. This has been a theme in novels of the twentieth century; notably, the G. K. Chesterton story The Napoleon of Notting Hill and Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere - even if the borough identities and histories of Chesterton are explicitly fabricated and although the attention of Neverwhere is not always on the character of the city, the boroughs have secret natures hidden in the cracks from those in London Above.
London has been brought low. Literally; the populace has retreated into the Underground, or has fled into the countryside. Sustaining such an existence is tricky; the Underground has little to offer in the way of arable land. Thus, those machines that can sustain some variety of life are jealously guarded. Some have managed to trade their way to prosperity, importing food to sustain themselves, wielding power over the poorer inhabitants of the tunnels.
These are the Great Companies; the Hammering Smiths, the Shepherds, the inheritors of whatever scraps of old world know-how they could claw together and pass on.
The Underground, in maps, is rather cheery and simple. Bright colours, simple lines - a complex network, to be sure, but a comprehensible one. The reality is different. This is not a system built for humans; it is one of tunnels lined with equipment and refuse, taking meandering, crooked routes. To be forced to live in these tunnels breeds a certain type of person, hardy and lean.
Hence, the dwellers of the new London -the fractious dwellers in the colour-coded tunnel-bands and the haughty, powerful Guilds.
At Best, these Guilds are Valiant Preservers of Old-World know-how, selling quality goods and services at a reasonable rate. At Worst, they are Monopolies with a chokehold on London, cloaked in tradition and secrecy.
At Best, the Colour Lines are full of hardy, plucky folk who have embodied a latter-day Blitz Spirit for longer than any might have imagined. At Worst, they are feckless tunnel dwellers who'll steal anything not nailed down.
Edit: a fairly scant section, I know. But I have a certain fondness for the main literary hooks in it; the Canticle for Liebowitz style religious (or pseudo-religious) orders preserving knowledge in a second Dark Age*.
The visual hook of the bright, smooth lines of the Underground map and the gloom of the tunnels is a good one. Even if the Tube map design dates from the 1930s, the contrast of the human-friendly face and intent of technology with the sordid reality is very Fallout. The cinematic application of this is obvious. Start zoomed in on bright well-lit tube map, whilst "We'll meet again" plays; drift back and out to show cramped tunnels and darkness, lit by gunfire.
*Possibly made darker "by the lights of a perverted science". Winston Spencer Churchill, 18th June 1940.
London has been brought low. Literally; the populace has retreated into the Underground, or has fled into the countryside. Sustaining such an existence is tricky; the Underground has little to offer in the way of arable land. Thus, those machines that can sustain some variety of life are jealously guarded. Some have managed to trade their way to prosperity, importing food to sustain themselves, wielding power over the poorer inhabitants of the tunnels.
These are the Great Companies; the Hammering Smiths, the Shepherds, the inheritors of whatever scraps of old world know-how they could claw together and pass on.
The Underground, in maps, is rather cheery and simple. Bright colours, simple lines - a complex network, to be sure, but a comprehensible one. The reality is different. This is not a system built for humans; it is one of tunnels lined with equipment and refuse, taking meandering, crooked routes. To be forced to live in these tunnels breeds a certain type of person, hardy and lean.
Hence, the dwellers of the new London -the fractious dwellers in the colour-coded tunnel-bands and the haughty, powerful Guilds.
At Best, these Guilds are Valiant Preservers of Old-World know-how, selling quality goods and services at a reasonable rate. At Worst, they are Monopolies with a chokehold on London, cloaked in tradition and secrecy.
At Best, the Colour Lines are full of hardy, plucky folk who have embodied a latter-day Blitz Spirit for longer than any might have imagined. At Worst, they are feckless tunnel dwellers who'll steal anything not nailed down.
Edit: a fairly scant section, I know. But I have a certain fondness for the main literary hooks in it; the Canticle for Liebowitz style religious (or pseudo-religious) orders preserving knowledge in a second Dark Age*.
The visual hook of the bright, smooth lines of the Underground map and the gloom of the tunnels is a good one. Even if the Tube map design dates from the 1930s, the contrast of the human-friendly face and intent of technology with the sordid reality is very Fallout. The cinematic application of this is obvious. Start zoomed in on bright well-lit tube map, whilst "We'll meet again" plays; drift back and out to show cramped tunnels and darkness, lit by gunfire.
*Possibly made darker "by the lights of a perverted science". Winston Spencer Churchill, 18th June 1940.
Tuesday, 13 June 2017
P.D James's The Children of Men: Theme, Tone and Adaptation
Recently, I came across a critical examination of the 2006 film Children of Men - an adaptation of the 1992 novel The Children of Men by British detective Author P.D James, Baroness James of Holland Park. Those readers unfamiliar with either work had better head off to Wikipedia or similar sites for a plot synopsis. Speaking of which, it is at least somewhat telling that on TV Tropes, that barometer of cultural knowledge, no entry exists for the novel. Not that this is anything new, by any means - but it gals a little; especially as I deem the book to be the more interesting work. Thus, and in keeping with this blog's recent content of apocalyptic Britain I try to correct the balance a little.
The novel is set all over England; our protagonist is an Oxford academic and visits London, the Suffolk coast and beyond; a distinction from the film's limited scenery of London and the countryside. This is an England of isolation and decay; of seaside towns barely visited anymore, with a dwindling population. There is a very palpable sense of things slowing down; of unvisited museums, gardens in public parks gone to seed - even in the heart of the capital. The film seems mainly to show bustling urban scenes; grim, tortured scenes, but still with a life to them.
Speaking of grim, torturous scenes, the government of the United Kingdom is rather different between the two. There is a moment in dystopian fiction and horror - do I repeat myself? - where everything is revealed or shown truly (if not necessarily in a comprehensive fashion); Emmanuel Goldstein's Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism, Winston Smith's conversations with O'Brien. I rather enjoy this kind of moment as a tipping point in a narrative - apart from the heady rush of worldbulding that ensures! In rather convenient fashion, in The Children of Men, the protagonist's cousin is now the despotic Warden of England. I jest, but it does give the valuable opportunity for the chance of a self-justification by the villain of the piece. The great changes in Britain, aside from the lack of new births, are in part his doing as the small council he has assembled holds near absolute power.
Democratic rights have not precisely vanished, but rather diminished to an advisory role as exercised by regional councils. Parliament no longer sits; legislative procedure and the business of building a new future rather pall when there will be no future for humanity, let alone the United Kingdom. The regime lacks any real sense of nationalism or traditional values: this is not the Jackboot of National Socialism or anything like it. The King is kept under something like house arrest. It is a mark of social change and fractured religious faith that the Warden of England can appoint an Archbishop of Canterbury that is not only female (whatever side of the debate one stands on on woman bishops, this still would generate vast numbers of column inches and public discussion) but also a republican (International readers should note well the lower case 'r'!) and a self-professed 'Christian Rationalist'. At least one charismatic preacher even goes so far as to replace the Cross with an image of the sun.
A glimpse at P.D James's Wikipedia entry informs one that after her appointment as a life peer, she sat in the House of Lords as a Conservative. The marking of a dystopia by the decay of traditional institutions may clue you into this, but it is also worth noting as an indicator of the power of the Xan Lyppiatt, Warden of England. This goes as far as an army loyal to him personally and a body of police dedicated to shoring up the new regime.
The social change wrought by Lyppiatt includes the mass suicides called the Quietus. These are described by his council as being merely the formalisation of a process that was already occurring. I am tempted to read this at face value - suicides in the bleak future of the Omega would doubtless rise; group suicides even - but the lie perhaps comes in to what degree the act is now encouraged. The Courts now function without a jury; prisoners convicted of major offences are sent to a penal colony on the Isle of Man. This colony is not overseen by the government, and the criminals there are largely from city backgrounds - unable to grow their own crops in order to sustain themselves, and have therefore devolved into a barbaric existence. Immigration has been restricted to existing as a 'sojourner' subject to repatriation once an immigrant is unable to work; even if the world of the novel is not so decayed as the film (Faren can take a tour of Europe between Acts One and Two). Finally, British subjects are required to undergo regular fertility checks; state pornography centres exist in an attempt to sustain sexual desire. Although unmentioned in the text, it might be speculated that cannabis has been legalised.
The professed values of the new regime are for security, comfort and pleasure - this is not a regime that is, if you will, ideologically cruel. It is utilitarian without regard for another generation, for there will be no future generation - and therefore is practically hedonistic. It is not short-sighted; part of the business of the Warden's government is to prepare the country for the time when there will be very little in the way of effective infrastructure as the population ages. Nor might all its edicts seem unreasonable; however degrading the business of fertility testing is described as, it seems like it might be the reasonable response to mass infertility. Even the reduction of public political participation even has some sense to it - the temptation, under the circumstances of the Omega to withdraw into those things one deems most meaningful and contemplate eternity rather than to wade into the muck and fatigue of public service.
Xan Lyppiat does not even live a life of perpetual luxury; his comforts are those one might expect of a ruler - but he is still engaged largely with the work of government; a work that interests him, even if he professes no real love of power.
The cold comfort of the Warden's government - even for the Warden himself, let alone the melancholy, apathetic citizenry; the decay of British society (I haven't even mentioned the last generation of humanity, the monstrous Omegas); the quiet collapse of human civilization.
All these are left behind almost by the film; a well-crafted film, but a film that seems to place the decay and horrors of Britain at the doorstep of a nationalist government (the closest thing we get to a notion of their motivations being a brief propaganda short). The novel seems rather to link the entire thing back to the infertility and proceeds from there.
Some of my complaints perhaps derive from structure: the first half of the novel looks at the world without the sudden burst of hope that precipitates the conflict of the narrative. It vastly benefits from this examination of the setting, rather than having to stuff it all into background references. Of course, changes in an adaption, both due to the nature of the medium and the decisions of the creators are inevitable (for instance, the organised mass suicides called the Quietus is, in the film, literally re-branded as government issue suicide kits). Parts of the film change even more dramatically - that the United Kingdom of 2021 has in the adaptation a department of Homeland Security is a rather blatantly international touch for a novel that is so very rooted in British institutions and culture.
The adaptation has been widely lauded and explored (try a simple search of Youtube); it is not wrong to do so, however ubiquitous and trite some of these seem. But I resent how it has occluded the novel, to the extent that one website noted P.D James's passing in 2014 by commenting on the success of the film as an adaptation, rather than discussing her work. I have seen many a claim in my researches as to the sudden new relevance of the film. There has been no concommitant claim for the significantly more vital and wide-ranging novel, which is unfortunate.
The novel is set all over England; our protagonist is an Oxford academic and visits London, the Suffolk coast and beyond; a distinction from the film's limited scenery of London and the countryside. This is an England of isolation and decay; of seaside towns barely visited anymore, with a dwindling population. There is a very palpable sense of things slowing down; of unvisited museums, gardens in public parks gone to seed - even in the heart of the capital. The film seems mainly to show bustling urban scenes; grim, tortured scenes, but still with a life to them.
Speaking of grim, torturous scenes, the government of the United Kingdom is rather different between the two. There is a moment in dystopian fiction and horror - do I repeat myself? - where everything is revealed or shown truly (if not necessarily in a comprehensive fashion); Emmanuel Goldstein's Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism, Winston Smith's conversations with O'Brien. I rather enjoy this kind of moment as a tipping point in a narrative - apart from the heady rush of worldbulding that ensures! In rather convenient fashion, in The Children of Men, the protagonist's cousin is now the despotic Warden of England. I jest, but it does give the valuable opportunity for the chance of a self-justification by the villain of the piece. The great changes in Britain, aside from the lack of new births, are in part his doing as the small council he has assembled holds near absolute power.
Democratic rights have not precisely vanished, but rather diminished to an advisory role as exercised by regional councils. Parliament no longer sits; legislative procedure and the business of building a new future rather pall when there will be no future for humanity, let alone the United Kingdom. The regime lacks any real sense of nationalism or traditional values: this is not the Jackboot of National Socialism or anything like it. The King is kept under something like house arrest. It is a mark of social change and fractured religious faith that the Warden of England can appoint an Archbishop of Canterbury that is not only female (whatever side of the debate one stands on on woman bishops, this still would generate vast numbers of column inches and public discussion) but also a republican (International readers should note well the lower case 'r'!) and a self-professed 'Christian Rationalist'. At least one charismatic preacher even goes so far as to replace the Cross with an image of the sun.
A glimpse at P.D James's Wikipedia entry informs one that after her appointment as a life peer, she sat in the House of Lords as a Conservative. The marking of a dystopia by the decay of traditional institutions may clue you into this, but it is also worth noting as an indicator of the power of the Xan Lyppiatt, Warden of England. This goes as far as an army loyal to him personally and a body of police dedicated to shoring up the new regime.
The social change wrought by Lyppiatt includes the mass suicides called the Quietus. These are described by his council as being merely the formalisation of a process that was already occurring. I am tempted to read this at face value - suicides in the bleak future of the Omega would doubtless rise; group suicides even - but the lie perhaps comes in to what degree the act is now encouraged. The Courts now function without a jury; prisoners convicted of major offences are sent to a penal colony on the Isle of Man. This colony is not overseen by the government, and the criminals there are largely from city backgrounds - unable to grow their own crops in order to sustain themselves, and have therefore devolved into a barbaric existence. Immigration has been restricted to existing as a 'sojourner' subject to repatriation once an immigrant is unable to work; even if the world of the novel is not so decayed as the film (Faren can take a tour of Europe between Acts One and Two). Finally, British subjects are required to undergo regular fertility checks; state pornography centres exist in an attempt to sustain sexual desire. Although unmentioned in the text, it might be speculated that cannabis has been legalised.
The professed values of the new regime are for security, comfort and pleasure - this is not a regime that is, if you will, ideologically cruel. It is utilitarian without regard for another generation, for there will be no future generation - and therefore is practically hedonistic. It is not short-sighted; part of the business of the Warden's government is to prepare the country for the time when there will be very little in the way of effective infrastructure as the population ages. Nor might all its edicts seem unreasonable; however degrading the business of fertility testing is described as, it seems like it might be the reasonable response to mass infertility. Even the reduction of public political participation even has some sense to it - the temptation, under the circumstances of the Omega to withdraw into those things one deems most meaningful and contemplate eternity rather than to wade into the muck and fatigue of public service.
Xan Lyppiat does not even live a life of perpetual luxury; his comforts are those one might expect of a ruler - but he is still engaged largely with the work of government; a work that interests him, even if he professes no real love of power.
The cold comfort of the Warden's government - even for the Warden himself, let alone the melancholy, apathetic citizenry; the decay of British society (I haven't even mentioned the last generation of humanity, the monstrous Omegas); the quiet collapse of human civilization.
All these are left behind almost by the film; a well-crafted film, but a film that seems to place the decay and horrors of Britain at the doorstep of a nationalist government (the closest thing we get to a notion of their motivations being a brief propaganda short). The novel seems rather to link the entire thing back to the infertility and proceeds from there.
Some of my complaints perhaps derive from structure: the first half of the novel looks at the world without the sudden burst of hope that precipitates the conflict of the narrative. It vastly benefits from this examination of the setting, rather than having to stuff it all into background references. Of course, changes in an adaption, both due to the nature of the medium and the decisions of the creators are inevitable (for instance, the organised mass suicides called the Quietus is, in the film, literally re-branded as government issue suicide kits). Parts of the film change even more dramatically - that the United Kingdom of 2021 has in the adaptation a department of Homeland Security is a rather blatantly international touch for a novel that is so very rooted in British institutions and culture.
The adaptation has been widely lauded and explored (try a simple search of Youtube); it is not wrong to do so, however ubiquitous and trite some of these seem. But I resent how it has occluded the novel, to the extent that one website noted P.D James's passing in 2014 by commenting on the success of the film as an adaptation, rather than discussing her work. I have seen many a claim in my researches as to the sudden new relevance of the film. There has been no concommitant claim for the significantly more vital and wide-ranging novel, which is unfortunate.
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