William Morris, Arts and Crafts Dwarves, and the Pfiflitriggi

I recently had occasion to watch over a few clips from the Peter Jackson film adaptation of The Hobbit from these last few days. They were not films I rated highly - however influential I found the Lord of the Rings flicks in my youth. However, they continued the visual style of those films (for better or worse) and one way or another this got me thinking on the Dwarves and how they are portrayed, especially in regard to industry.

This is the point where I talk about William Morris.

Pictured.

There are some very clear connections between the early-to-mid twentieth century work of Tolkien and the mid-to-late nineteenth century work of designer, novelist and activist William Morris. Most obviously, perhaps, his fantasy novels  such as The House of the Wolflings and his translation of several Icelandic Sagas in 1896-1870. Beyond that, the Arts and Crafts movement (another major proponent of which being John Ruskin, of whom more here) which Morris was such a big part of has a likeness with Tolkien in a concern with the effects of industry upon the British country and people. The battle of the Ents against the factories of Isengard being perhaps the clearest example in Tolkien's mythos.

Of course, one would most likely call neither Morris nor Tolkien an Anarcho-Primitivist. Both make a place for the work of the smith and the machine. The crafted sword of Aragorn may fight off numerous manufactured orc blades - something which has echoed in named weapons throughout post-Tolkien fantasy, even into the often deconstructionist A Song of Ice and Fire. Such swords provide material for the cynical or satiric fantasist; I paraphrase Tom Holt in referring to a King suffering a blow from "not a battle-axe with runes all over the blade- just something run up by the local blacksmith."  Morris seems willing to have embraced elements of mechanisation in the production of his textiles, even as he criticised the omnipresence of industry and its effects.

Dwarves are not the only craftsmen in Tolkien, of course, but they have the most association as a race with that notion - from their creation by the Valar smith Aule, to their lives within a crafted environment in the mines. Such notions go back to the Poetic Edda, but this deserves spelling out.
All this goes doubly so for Post-Tolkien work, which can ramp this up quite considerably (see, for instance, the black powder, gyrocopters, steam tanks, and blimps of the Warhammer and Warcraft franchises).

A Warhammer Fantasy Dwarf Gyrocopter minature. From 8th Edition

Let us reframe Dwarf-dom, then, away from the actively industrial. Let us have dwarves just as craftsmen (and women), not machinists. Dwarves who must forge their own weapons and armour from scratch; dwarves working for themselves, upon their own creations, to their own designs. I am reminded of  the taboo mentioned in Sir Terry Pratchett's Men At Arms of one dwarf touching another's tools. Doubtless there would be some communal activity - in wartime, in carving out mountain homes for themselves. But the mass production of goods seems unlikely, however prolific such dwarves would be to produce a horde large enough for any prospective Smaug to take a nap upon. Likewise, perhaps we might say that it is only the fully mature dwarf who works so. The child is educated in basic techniques until they are grown and qualified to work for themselves.   The superhuman hardiness and resolve of dwarves may be called upon the plug any gaps in this scheme.

This might have an angle of the Victorian socialism of Morris, but it would be a mistake to have non-human society when worldbuilding imitate precisely the ways of any given political system or culture from human history. Moreover, to quote from Tolkien's friend and colleague C.S. Lewis in Mere Christianity, "There will be no manufacture of silly luxuries and then of sillier advertisements to persuade us us to buy them*....We should feel that its economic life was very socialistic and, in that sense, 'advanced' but that its family life and its code of manners were very old-fashioned - perhaps even ceremonious and aristocratic." This is not perhaps an entirely pertinent quote in itself, but elements of it might reflect upon an optimistic view of this Arts and Crafts Dwarven polity.

Pivoting on this awkward quote, I should like to suggest that these dwarves already, after a fashion exist: in the work of C.S.Lewis. Not, as might be obvious, the dwarves of Narnia, but some of the denizens of Malacandra in Out of the Silent Planet from The Cosmic Trilogy. I speak of the Pfiflitriggi.

How to describe them? The face is "long and pointed, like a shrew's, yellow and shabby-looking, and so low in the forehead that....much more insectlike or reptilian...Its build was distinctly like that of a frog...that part of its forelimbs on which it was supported was in human terms, rather an elbow than a hand. It was broad and padded and clearly made to be walked upon, but upwards from it, at an angle of forty-five degrees, went the true forearms - thin, strong forearms, ending in enormous, sensitive many-fingered hands." About their bodies, they carry a number of small instruments. One that the protagonist, Dr Ransom, meets is dressed "in some bright scaly substance which appeared richly decorated...It had folds of furry clothing about its throat...dark bulging goggles...Rings and chains of a bright metal ...adorned its limbs and neck."

By Nathan J. Anderson. 

The Pfiflitriggi are suited to be craftsmen; the one met in Out of the Silent Planet is a sculptor. When asked about their position with the other races of Malacandra, he says "No one learns the speech of my people, for what we have to say is said in stone and sun's blood and stars' milk." Their homes are in "The true forests, the green shadows, the deep mines," with "houses with a hundred pillars, one of sun's blood ,and the next of stars' milk all the way...and all the world painted on the walls."

These mines are worked by all, though "each digs for himself the thing he wants to work"; if a pfifltrigg does not work the mines, how is he to "understand working in sun's blood unless he went into the home of sun's blood himself and knew one kind from another and lived with it for days out of the light of the sky." There are hints of matriarchy - confirmed in Lewis's Postscript, along with the fact that they are short-lived among the races of Malacandra and oviparous. They bear names such as Kanakaberaka, Kalakaperi, Parakataru and Tafalakeruf. Such humour as they possess is said to be sharp and excel in abuse.

This is not perhaps very typically Dwarven. But the crafting and mining - and the semi-Utopian air in which it occurs - fit in very nicely with the 'Morrisian Dwarf', if such a thing can be. However, I believe that the humble pfifltrigg deserves a chance at adventure on the tabletop. Therefore, I propose to create a homebrew class for one for The Fifty-Two Pages.

THE PFIFLTRIGG

HP - d6+1+ CON +/-.

Attack Modifiers - +1 Melee/+1 Missile.
Mind Save 7 + WIS +/-
Speed Save 9 + DEX+/- [They are shown to jump quite far]
Body Save  5 + CON +/-

Knowledge    Notice Detail   Hear Noise   Handiwork   Stealth   Athletics
      [XX]               [X]                [X]                [X][X]             [  ]             [X]

Starts with Background Words: Underground, Language: Old Solar and Two Pfifltriggi Tools (see below).

Level Advancement: +1 Melee/ +1 Missile every Fourth Level
                                    +1 to all Saves every Odd Level
                                    +1 Pfifltriggi Tool every Level (see below)

A Pfifltrigg may carry a great number of tools that may perform some physical function similar to Energy/Creation/Change spells or an otherwise bulky item of equipment. These have the same limitations as such spells (only so much fireball juice in the fireball machine). They gain such items once per level and must manufacture them personally, providing time and money for raw materials, parts and testing.

By Nathan J. Anderson. He plays a mean harpsichord.

*There seems something curiously resonant with the 'murderhobo' stereotype about this: either a piece of jewellery is enchanted, and useful; and thus worth keeping - or it is treasure, to be sold when the adventurer reaches the nearest large town. It would be interesting to see what would happen it was made clear that an amulet of strength (or what have you) was terribly beautiful, but mechanically inferior next to its counterpart.

Majipoor and OSR Aesthetics of Ruin

I recently decided to re-read some of Robert Silverberg's Majipoor stories. The series starts with Lord Valentine's Castle (1980), which won the Locus Award for Best Fantasy Novel in 1981. There are a handful of other books and short stories, but I'm going to pick on this one for a lot of my points - firstly because this was the book to set my thoughts in motion; secondly because this is the first in a series (even if they are all, by and large, self-contained) and has to do the heavy lifting, worldbuilding -wise.

The 1981 British Edition, by Pan Books. Cover art by Josh Kirby; this photograph from Abe Books.

Majipoor, for the uninitiated, is a planet many times larger than Earth, if less dense. It has been settled by mankind and by various aliens for many thousands of years, though it is also occupied by the Metamorphs, the natives of the planet. Science Fiction? Not quite; however many far-future devices might be employed by denizens of Majipoor, (hovering floaters, energythrowers), an agricultural career seems more likely than not. Moreover, forms of magic appear to exist and the story of Lord Valentine's Castle is about a deposed prince reclaiming his throne. (This article from Tor places it firmly in the Science Fantasy camp).

This extends to the system of government; however laissez-faire day to day or local governance may get, the world of Majipoor operates something like 'an adoptive divine-right duumvirate buttressed by two dream-manipulating spiritual powers'. This is never really questioned, even by the rare absolute outsider we see. The fact that criminals can be pursued by the Long Arm of the Law into their dreams is taken as completely natural. (I might stake money on there being a  Young Adult dystopia based on this very premise; that Silverberg has an entire world just take it as read is interesting.) The system, incidentally, seems to work: war is virtually unknown on Majipoor, though other ills are not. This gentleman describes it as somewhat utopian; I am not so sure - however pleasant it may be I suspect it has quite enough worldly cares, obsessions and woes to disqualify it.

(This site has a great deal more on the details of Majipoor).

What has this largely vital, if slow-changing world to do with Aesthetics of Ruin? I shall draw on this article from Manola's Against the Wicked City - which is well worth reading.

From Lord Valentine's Castle: 'The mount was comfortable, as well it might be, for they had been bred for comfort for thousands of years, these artificial animals, these witchcraft creatures out of the old days, strong and tireless and patient, able to convert any sort of trash into food. The skill of making them was long forgotten, but now they bred of themselves, like natural animals, and it would be a slow business of Majipoor getting around without them.'

'The new road...and was paved in smooth blue-grey stuff of light resiliency, a springy, flawless roadbed that probably was of great antiquity, as were many of the best things of this world.'

'They said this Lord Valentine the Coronal lived in a castle eight thousand years old, with five rooms for every year of its existence, and that the castle sat on a mountain so tall it pierced the sky, a colossal peak thirty miles high, on whose slopes were fifty cities as big as Pidruid...The world was too big, too old, too populous for one man's mind.'

Let us set this against the aesthetics of ruin, as expressed in the above article. Players are 'tiny figures wandering a world of dead and dying titans, stumbling amidst the wreckage of mighty forces they do not understand'. These ruin-settings are 'likely to be inhabited by clans of mad and degenerate morlocks practicing weird semi-functional cargo-cult sorcery based on badly-misunderstood fragments of ancient knowledge'. 

Art by Jim Burns, used as the cover for The Majipoor Chronicles.

To compare with a near-contemporary of Lord Valentine's Castle, in Majipoor, however dwarfed by the accomplishments of the past, people do not live in the grounded spaceships of Nessus of Gene Wolfe's Book of the New Sun. Though the titular castle is vast, it is still added to by each Coronal in turn. Silverberg makes clear fairly early the tone of the novel: '...for what was the use of being alive and healthy on a world as full of wonders as Majipoor if you did not journey hither and thither on it?' 
Indeed, journeying - as a travelling performer, as the Coronal on a grand procession, as a soldier on campaign - would seem to be the preferred existence of the characters. The series is never uniformly light-hearted or whimsical, but always has an eye on such moments. 

If Majipoor is a world of ancient devices and societies, they have aged gracefully. The wilder portions of the landscape provide wonders for the settled lands. The loss of knowledge is not a festering sore or an absent limb, but a distant memory. The vast age of Majipoor can be daunting,m but not overpowering. If you will permit the poetry, on Majipoor the titans are not dead or dying - they may, appropriately enough, be dreaming.

None of this is to hold up Majipoor as the diametric opposite to the Aesthetics of Ruin, just as a meaningful contrast, or as a different usage of some of the same elements. I have not been able to find much in the way of RPG materials for Majipoor - which is a shame. It would be interesting to hold it up to more scrutiny and comment; perhaps opening up the setting for other authors, something like the short story collection Songs of the Dying Earth, would be a valuable project.

Map of a Nation: A Biography of the Ordnance Survey

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.

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.

11. Upon tampering with the corpse, you are prevented from doing so by Consanguinity Charms! These chains link together members of the same family line - if you would raise one, you must raise those linked to it - which is a terrible strain on the magical abilities of an inexperienced necromancer. The more members of the same lineage are in the same tomb, linked by the same chain, the more difficult it becomes. A well-made chain is integrated into a family vault or catacomb in such a way as it is very difficult to remove physically. Upon removing or nullifying the chain, you are in possession of many feet of heavy engraved chain, ornamented with semi-precious stones (for preference, red ones).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.