Epistle

A Secrets of sha-Arthan 'Zine?

If you’re a regular reader of Grognardia, you have probably already seen this post, but, in case you haven’t, go ahead and take a look at it, because it’s relevant to what I’m sharing today.

I’ve been working Secrets of sha-Arthan one and off since June 2021 – four years – and, in that time, I’ve drafted and redrafted many aspects of it, each time doubting both the content and even the approach I was taking. One of the main problems has always been the immensity of presenting an entire fantasy setting as well as the rules for playing in it under the cover of a single book. (It didn’t help matters that I hemmed and hawed about what rules I would use – more on that in the next couple of SosA posts here, starting next week.)

Fortunately, I have a large circle of friends and colleagues within the RPG industry who are always available to offer me advice and suggestions. Earlier this year, while whining about not knowing how to proceed, Sean McCoy, creator of Mothership – a great science fiction RPG you should check out if you haven’t already – made the wise suggestion that I start small by releasing a series of ‘zines, each of which presented a section of the sha-Arthan setting. That way, I could build up the setting slowly, revealing more and more of it with each new issue. This would not only make my workload more manageable, but it would also save readers from being deluged with information.

Sean went on to make another great suggestion: the framing device for each issue should be in the form of a travelogue by someone from within the setting. Doing so would provide me with another avenue for injecting some flavor into the material. In addition, it would provide scope for individual referees to adopt, adapt, or discard anything I presented on the basis that the in-setting author of the travelogue isn’t wholly reliable. Some of what he presents might be rumor or hearsay and thus mistaken, or at least incomplete in some way.

That’s how the idea of calling each issue an epistle, after the ancient Greek, Roman, and of course Biblical practice of a public circular letter, came about. I then started to experiment with different formats before settling on one that did most of what I wanted to do. Here’s an example of what I’m talking from the current draft of Epistle #1:

0113 Wolaka

Population: ~500

At the far end of the Senok, where the road turns south toward Uldakal, I came upon the village of Wolaka, a scatter of slate-roofed homes and terraced fields clinging stubbornly to the hillsides. Here the river slows, deepens, and disappears into the earth, as if retreating from the world. The fishermen work its quiet bends and herdsmen lead their flocks along narrow trails, ever wary of the iljanga said to descend from the eastern mountains. The villagers speak in hushed tones of caves that breathe like sleeping beasts, of old things buried beneath the peaks, and of ghostly lights that dance along the ridges when the moons are thin. It’s a place that feels watched, somehow – not unfriendly, but as though it remembers more than it says.

Points of Interest

This morning, I walked beyond the village to where the Senok gathers in still, dark basins before vanishing underground. The Riverbend Pools are deep and sluggish and the fishermen here spin tales of nets snagged by strange weeds or worse and of bones dredged from the depths. I saw only murky water and the usual stink of river mud; if monsters lurk there, they must be shy ones.

I climbed further to the Terraces of Akwen, ancient and worn, but still bearing their thin harvests of roots and bitter greens. The stones are laid with a skill these folk could never hope to match today. Some claim that a hidden stairway lies beneath the lowest terrace, sealing away forgotten treasures – or forgotten curses, depending on who’s telling the story. I dismissed it easily enough at the time, though I admit the terraces had a peculiar air about them.

Curiosity led me up toward the Hollow Wind Cave as well. It breathes a steady, warm draft, but hardly proof of anything sinister. The locals claim birds will not fly near it (though I spotted a few setin) and that the winds carry the voices of ancient things. I found only Old Hio, the village’s lorekeeper, leaving her usual offerings. Yet, as I stood there a while longer, I fancied I did hear something in the shifting air: a sound like distant, broken singing. Perhaps the cave does speak after all.

Notable Inhabitants

I have met a few souls worth noting in this strange place.

Old Hio, the lorekeeper, is a woman of Ironian blood, her eyes milky with age but her tongue still sharp enough to cut. She tends to the sick and the broken, but just as often speaks of older wounds, the kind left by forgotten debts and the things that slumber beneath the mountains. Many here still listen when she warns them.

Matar, a young herder, has little patience for such tales. He laughs at the old fears, though he has lately lost several of his jirisa and curses the iljanga for it. He gathers the other restless youths, speaking boldly of traps and spears, though there are whispers that what took his beasts was no common predator.

And there is Tresno, a merchant who comes with the seasons, heavyset and soft-spoken, a man of the Chomachto. He brings salt, tools, and a few stories besides. He always takes lodging close to the river and I have seen him more than once gazing up at the mountains, as though expecting something to stir among their peaks.

Adventure Seeds

• The Thing in the Pools
  The Riverbend Pools’ waters have begun to churn without wind and dead fish surface with peculiar bite marks. Old Hio says the “sleeping water-child” may be stirring. Fishermen demand protection and rumors fly about what might be lurking in the depths.

• When the Iljanga Spoke
  A herder returns from the high pastures claiming an iljanga spoke to him in a dream and demanded tribute. Days later, his jirisa flock is untouched while others have suffered attacks. Is he mad or has he unwittingly struck a dark bargain?

• The Light Above the Ridge
  Each time both moons wane, pale blue lights dance along the ridge. A sage visiting from Eshkom wants to study them, but the villagers refuse to guide him. The villagers say the lights are the souls of those who once tried – and failed – to unlock the secrets buried in the old stone tombs above. Whatever they found there, it did not wish to be known.

I have a lot more to say about the ‘zine, its format, and contents, but I’ll leave those to a future SosA post. For the moment, I’m curious to know what you think about the approach I’ve adopted, as well as any constructive criticisms of it. Since it’ll still be some months before Epistle #1 is released into the wild, I’m still very much open to suggestions on how I might improve its presentation and content.