How to Write a One-Shot

The art of the one-shot can be complex, but it can also be simplified. To design a campaign requires different skills altogether--while a campaign required sustained, connected effort, a one-shot requires focus and a different kind of perspective. In the past, I've addressed specific needs for one-shots: how to write a one-shot about a murder mystery, for instance, or how to write a one-shot based on a movie. But thinking about a general one-shot is important, too, so let's consider the steps to take when writing a one-shot for a general purpose. 

[Remember to check the top of the homepage for a catalog of one-shots based on movies, original systems, and D&D.]

In this guide, I'm going to provide two approaches to developing a one-shot: one for planner GMs and one for improv GMs. They're functionally very similar, but the level and type of preparation is different. Both follow the same basic formula: 

opening scene + intermediate step + escalating incident + intermediate step + finale

Let's address the formula first, and then we'll get into how to develop the parts of it. The opening scene establishes the one-shot's stakes and setting. It's here that you'll deliver the quest, so to speak, that will define the one-shot. Because of the nature of a one-shot (it's contained and short), you'll really only be concerned with one primary goal, and this is the quest. You should also spend some time developing the setting by describing the environment, the NPCs, and the other things that may be relevant. By the end of the opening scene, the players will be on their way. 

Then, there will be an intermediate step. For planner GMs, this will mean establishing a small step between the beginning and the escalating incident. This could be a complication or a distraction, or perhaps some time for characterizing the player characters. For improv GMs, this will be an exploration sequence. The players will be allowed to freely investigate and interact with the world while they move forward in their quest. For combat-oriented one-shots, this is often a small-scale fight. 

Next is the escalating incident. This is the midpoint in the story, and it will raise the stakes of the adventure. There are several ways to do this: you can give the players a glimpse of their foe, perhaps in a short fight which doesn't end in the foe's death; you can reveal that someone is working against them, and they are now racing the clock to succeed; you may add an obstacle that complicates their progress. The vital thing here is that the story pick up momentum as it heads into its second half. For combat games, this should be a major battle.

Then, there is another intermediate step. For planner GMs, this will be another complication or distraction, or more characterizing time if your players wish. The complications shouldn't rise above the level of the escalating incident, but you can make things more dire and frustrating. For improv GMs, this can be more exploration, especially to see what the players do about more threats to their success. For combat games, another small-scale fight. 

Finally, we move into the finale. In the finale, you resolve the story and try to offer a dramatic conclusion. For planner GMs, you will want to devise consequences for a few of the overarching ways that the one-shot might end. For improv GMs, you'll be focusing on offering a satisfying ending off the top of your head. For combat games, this is the big battle with the big bad that everything has been building towards. There should be some meaningful challenge overcome here. 

This is how the formula works: introduce the tension of the opening scene, lessen it slightly with the intermediate step, heighten it again with the escalating incident, lessen it slightly again (but still at a higher level than the last intermediate step), and bring it to a head with the finale. This up and down effect with the momentum keeps things dynamic and allows the players to really get into the story with the allowance of some breathing room. So let's talk about how to write these parts of the formula. 

1. Opening Scene

Start with the quest. What is this adventure about? You need a hook or a concept to begin with. Look for inspiration and try to determine what the most distilled experience you're going for is. If it's a combat game, what do you want the players to get out of the fights? If it's a roleplay game, what do you want the players to emotionally experience? If it's a shenanigans game, where do the laughs come from? Once you know the central element in your game, it's time to really get started.

With your idea in mind, how do you present it as a story? If you have combat in mind, who is the enemy, and why is fighting them important? If it's a storytelling one-shot, what are the key scenes in the story? If you're playing for hijinks, what story will accommodate your laughs? Keep in mind that this doesn't have to be original or elegant. If you want to do a one-shot about evil lemonade that makes people into zombies, you don't need to reinvent storytelling to do it. What kind of story would easily be a home for that? A classic zombie story with the twist of the evil lemonade would serve perfectly well. Feel free to keep things simple in a one-shot--there just isn't time to really get carried away with the details. 

That said, there are details you need to prepare for, no matter how much you improvise. The setting is contained within the opening scene, and it's important to spend some time thinking about this in advance. How does the setting affect the story? How does the story affect the setting? With the evil zombie-causing lemonade example, if the outbreak has been going for a while, the setting will feature destroyed or abandoned buildings and lots of danger, whereas if the outbreak happens during the opening scene, the setting should be more normal. The way NPCs think, speak, and act should be changed by things like this. 

But even beyond this conceptual information, you need to know about the places in the one-shot. You don't need full detailed maps of everything, but you should know the layout of the areas, what is in them, and how the area functions both logistically and socially. These details come up in-game incredibly quickly, and establishing the setting means being able to furnish information about the world with little time. Even good improv doesn't match good preparation, so be familiar with the spatial details of your one-shot before you get going. 

The actual offering of the quest itself is also important. I cannot tell you how many times I have offered the quest in a one-shot and had resistance from the players over accepting it. This is partially due to the fact that I have played with a lot of shenanigans-type gamers, and they tend to be the ones who resist a fairly offered quest. But we cannot assume as GMs that the party will accept the quest. In the confined context of a one-shot, the quest is basically everything. So either offer a reward so sweet that the party would be fools to turn it down (and don't just go for lots of money--really offer something that you know your party in particular would want), or announce a hefty penalty for not complying (death can be a good option here). You could do both if so inclined. But the quest offer must be clearly considered beforehand, because the one-shot cannot start in earnest until it is accepted. (Note: if you are instead opting for a rescue mission, make sure to be very clear about how important kidnapped NPC is to the party.)

With the concept defined, the quest written, and the setting considered, the actual playing out of the opening scene is fairly simple. To be honest, I find this part of a one-shot quite boring. We all know that the one-shot requires compliance with the quest, but there are so many logistical details to attend to (the ones named above). Nevertheless, you shouldn't speed through the opening scene. Deliver the information, get the quest started, and get the party on their way so the one-shot can truly begin. 

2. Intermediate Step

There are a few approaches to the intermediate step. You can keep things thematically consistent and introduce a side element of the quest's story here. You might also choose to present your world as larger than the story and throw in a moment that is consistent with the tone of the story but involves separate dramatic stakes. Let's consider the benefits and drawbacks of both of these approaches. 

Keeping things thematically consistent is attractive for fairly obvious reasons: you get to keep your one-shot consistent narratively and tell a deeper story by saying more about the main story you have chosen to focus on. Let's imagine this using the evil zombie lemonade example. In the opening scene, you establish that evil lemonade caused an outbreak, and the party must follow certain steps to end the outbreak or cure people or both or establish a safe place to live away from the zombies. So in the consistent story, you present a small piece of information about the outbreak. You could reveal a lab where the evil lemonade was developed; you might have a person who is transforming into a zombie in front of the players; you could encounter a store which is totally ransacked except for dozens of bottles of evil lemonade. These keep the players' attention on the overall story. 

On the other hand, a scene with separate dramatic stakes can expand the scope of the one-shot. Rather than sticking with only zombie-related scenes, you could include a slice of life that steps outside of the overall story. So as the GM, you might have the players stumble on a family that doesn't seem to have noticed the outbreak. You could have a bandit raid happen on the settlement where the one-shot is set, only for the bandits to realize there's really no plunder to be had. You might even have a meteorite crash down just beyond the city--to respect the one-shot's story, that meteor shouldn't have many larger story implications, but the sense of impending doom would contribute to the atmosphere of the story. 

For planner GMs, these intermediate steps are things that should be planned out in less meticulous detail than the opening scene, the escalating incident, and the finale. Even if you aren't an improv GM, you should allow your players at least a bit of freedom here. Without a bit of reined freedom, the players will feel like the entire one-shot is already decided, and many players will lose interest. So I suggest writing a simple framework and filling in the spaces in between as the players explore. They don't need complete freedom, but just enough to explore a space and talk to someone in-game is good enough to keep the game moving while giving them a sense that the story includes them. 

For improv GMs, these intermediate steps are spaces to finesse the direction of the story. In the first intermediate step, you can help to make sure that the party follows the quest well enough. If they're hesitant in this step, offer them some incentive to continue (increased threats of danger can work) or show them the dramatic stakes in another way (the way the scene suggestions above demonstrate the direness of the situation). You want to guide the momentum of this section just slightly down from the excitement of the opening scene and then rise into the escalating incident. 

For combat games, these fights should be short and somewhat simple. I would recommend making the fights in the intermediate steps be about half the length and difficulty of the fights in the other sections. The goal here is not to overwhelm the party; we want to challenge the party a bit, but these moments are not the star of the show. The more substantial fights surrounding them should be the star here. 

3. Escalating Incident 

The escalating incident is where we raise the stakes, and so it should be something that intensifies the need to complete the quest or a complication that requires the party to complete the quest in a specific way. One strategy here is to allow the party to pursue an easy and simple strategy for the quest in the first two parts of the one-shot and then reveal in the escalating incident that something has occurred which renders that plan useless. (An antidote to the zombie lemonade has been proven to kill the patient the following day.) Alternatively, you can just apply more pressure. In combat games, this is where the big bad hires more foot soldiers or takes on a stronger form (or something to that effect). 

For planner GMs, this scene is relatively simple. You need to get your party from the previous intermediate step to the next, and you need to show a way that things have gotten more dire. This should be as simple as creating a transition from the previous intermediate step, developing the escalating incident itself, and creating another transition to the next intermediate step. Be sure that if you have an NPC appear in this part of the one-shot who you want to appear in the finale, you have taken precautions to make sure that they survive this scene. 

For improv GMs, the escalating incident can be delicate. You want to up the stakes, but still leave room for the finale to be the star of the show. You need to create a memorable scene that anchors the middle of the one-shot, but you can't steal the show in the middle scene and disappoint in the end. I recommend just a bit of planning so that you can calibrate the intensity just right, but that's really the only part of the escalating incident that's important to plan if you improvise. 

It's important when actually deploying your escalating incident to use appropriate dramatic pacing. I think that having the escalating incident revolve around a surprise is a really helpful strategy. The opening scene and the intermediate incident will likely follow a traditional and familiar series of beats, and that's perfectly fine--they're serving important purposes. But the escalating incident can buck that pattern and make the one-shot more memorable. So try to go with something that really inspires the players. For our evil lemonade example, let's say that the players defeat a horde of zombies only to discover that the zombies have lemonade-inspired telepathy and can communicate across the area. This then leads to more zombies appearing during any combat. The strength of this example is in how it escalates the stakes and also pushes the players towards a shocking moment. 

Once you've delivered your escalating incident, it's important to offer some indication of what the way forward is. You can make it obvious (an NPC directly tells the party how to move on, for instance) or subtle (there's a faint trail of glowing blood that leads to the next area, possibly). But a sign of what to do is pretty important. Remember that you've just confounded your players, so they'll be stuck in consideration mode until they can figure out what to do. You can offer a slight hint and get moving to the next part of the story. 

4. Intermediate Step

The function here is the same as last time: connect the escalating incident to the finale and provide some variation in tone and momentum. This intermediate step should be slightly to moderately more exciting than the last one. It should also include some foreboding omen of the struggle to come in the finale. For the zombie lemonade example, this might mean a massive horde of zombies in the distance, the death of an ally, or the appearance of a more powerful type of zombie. 

In general, you should follow the same steps and considerations here as before. Allow a bit more freedom than the major parts of the one-shot, slightly lessen the tension compared to the surrounding sections, and be conscious of how you are pacing things; you want a gradual dip after the escalating incident and a rise into the energy of the finale. 

5. Finale

The finale is the part of the one-shot which is hardest to write. This is for a number of reasons. Firstly, a good ending allows the players to make a meaningful choice. But if they have a choice, there are infinite possible choices they could make, and no one could ever meaningfully prepare for that. So writing an ending that directly responds to players is fundamentally impossible. Secondly, that leave us with preparing an ending ahead of time, which I personally detest. But a simple binary choice isn't exactly rewarding for players. So we are left with preparing a number of likely options and having to improvise based on actual player input. But this is big picture talk; let's consider the actual details of writing and playing your finale. 

In a one-shot, actually seeing the final conflict through is vital. Some players resist conflicts that make them nervous; if you have one or more of those in your group, be sure that there is some mechanism that forces the party to commit to the conflict. If you're playing a system that has magic or magic-like forces in it, you can use those rules to confine players to the conflict. 

I want to add here as a disclaimer that I despise railroading. I think that taking choices away from players spoils the entire purpose of tabletop gaming. That said, one-shots are different. A one-shot is meant to be played in one setting and moved on from. But some players' natural tendencies tell them to not commit aggressively to much of anything, and allowing that as a GM would genuinely mean less enjoyment for everyone at the table, including the player who hesitates. Think about how much fun people have when games pointlessly drag on and on. Or how much fun players really have just sitting around and doing literally nothing. It pains me to say, but in the case of the one-shot, you do actually need to push your players around a bit more to be able to offer the experience they're looking for. 

So, you've gotten your party into the final conflict. There are many ways to play tabletop games. Maybe your players are trying to kill a big bad; maybe they're having a charged discussion with an NPC; maybe they're cracking one-liners at their foes. Whatever energy your players give you, run with it. The end of the one-shot is the most vital place for improvising. Use your best skills to match the players and manage the pacing. Build up the energy as much as you can without exhausting or overwhelming your players, and then allow the conflict to be resolved at just the right moment. [Check out this guide on managing a boss fight for more details if you're doing combat for a finale.]

The most delicate part of the entire one-shot is the final moment. After your party has emerged victorious (or not, depending on your type of game), you need to leave them with something that resolves the one-shot. This can be prepared if you can discern what your players will do ahead of time. More than likely, though, you will need to either improvise this moment or adjust something you've pre-written. The goal of this final moment is to close up the story of the one-shot and offer a glimpse at some consequence of the party's actions. 

Actually doing this is more complication than just saying as much. Let's consider for one last time the zombie lemonade example. The players discovered the zombie outbreak, made it past obstacles, discovered the problem was worse than they thought, braved even more obstacles, and fought to save humanity. How do we end this? If they did really save everyone, we paint a picture of a recovering city: destroyed buildings being rebuilt, people recovering in sick wards across the city, a ban on lemons entering city limits, families once again peaceful and safe in their homes. (For a fun twist, after this idyllic ending, we can also briefly mention a lone bottle of lemonade that went unnoticed until a young child found it, too thirsty to resist.) If they failed, we describe a ruined countryside, swarms of zombies devouring wildlife in the woods beyond town, plants overtaking the now-abandoned city. And after a while, the zombies pass on to other places, and settlers arrive in the forgotten town to forge a new life. (Again, we can twist this and add that they, unsuspecting, discover the lemonade and are grateful for a sweet drink.) You'll notice that both endings provide a tonally consistent resolution to the story, and the twists serve to make the one-shot feel like there's something more--but the adventure is over. The players are left wanting more and yet feeling satisfied at the same time. This is the ideal outcome for the finale. 

These five scenes together will take most parties between an hour and a half to three hours, depending on how much combat is involved, how much players investigate the world, and how much time the group is allotting to playing. With hijinks players, things take less time; with combat players, things take more time; roleplay players are somewhere in the middle. You can add or subtract more intermediate steps if you see fit for your party's needs. If you're having a hard time getting the game to follow the momentum you want, try this guide on how to pace your game. 

And while there is more to writing and GMing a one-shot than this formula, most everything else falls into place when you've done a bit of good planning and preparing for your players. Thinking of a one-shot as one continuous hours-long experience makes them seem daunting to write. But if you think of it as just being five short scenes, it's much more approachable. So give it a shot--a one-shot! (Sorry.)

That's all for now. Coming soon: public views of a historical event in my homebrew setting, transportation in my homebrew setting, and a time loop adventure set on a space station. Until next time, happy gaming!

Funeral Rites in My Homebrew Setting

So much of a tabletop game like Dungeons & Dragons is about death. Combat revolves around avoiding death while imposing it on others; so many spells and in-game abilities manipulate death; I've written a guide about dealing with player deaths specifically as well as fudging rolls and managing boss fights to avoid deaths and their sticky issues. All of this is true, but these are mechanical concerns, and in-game, we rarely think of death in any realistic way in tabletop games. Death is how we lose the game, but how often do we really think about it as a part of the in-game experience? To that end, I want to spend some time thinking about how the groups in my homebrew setting deal with death--what sorts of ceremonies, rituals, and rites accompany death in my world? 

A small disclaimer: ordinarily when I develop material for my homebrew setting's groups, I strive for a balance between original content and borrowed inspiration. My profile on the natural world of my setting borrows quite heavily from the real world--each of the biomes included are closely based on real-world places. I aim to avoid that with this guide. I believe it would be in poor taste to appropriate real-world funeral rites for my use in a game, and so I will not be doing any research into real-life funeral rites for this guide (apart from using the Western world's burials for Daltoners). If there are any coincidences in terms of what follows and what exists in real life, the coincidence is unintentional and not intended as disrespect.

Daltoners

Daltoners' faith, which centers around a bloodthirsty incarnation of Pelor, the sun god, views death as a fundamental part of the life cycle, but not in the way that some of Evanoch's more militant groups do; rather, Daltoners see death as a purpose of life. Dying in service of Pelor or taking the life of another in the name of Pelor is essentially the highest honor a Daltoner can earn, so death is something that Daltoners are basically trained not to fear. Along these lines, being a human sacrifice to Pelor is considered one of the highest purposes in life, but that does not necessarily mean that average Daltoners truly desire it. Death by combat is viewed with honor, but not as highly as a death for Pelor. In theory, Daltoners are the group most culturally taught to embrace death, but in practice, they avoid death more than most groups. A "pointless" death (one that does not advance Daltoners as a group or one's family in particular) is considered especially shameful; accidental deaths and deaths from illness are quietly judged. 

Daltoners have gone through a few periods in terms of funeral rites. Initially, on the island of Dalton, Daltoners buried their dead in large plots called graveyards. The dead would be placed in wooden boxes called caskets and buried deeply enough beneath Dalton's rocky soil to avoid the island's occasional flooding. The buried casket would be indicated through a carved stone which bore the deceased's name and dates of birth and death. Later, as real estate on the island became more and more precious, there lacked room for actual burial, and dead bodies were cremated, but the gravestone custom persisted, filling in Daltoner graveyards with more stones. But when Daltoners arrived on Evanoch's shores, there was suddenly room for burials again, and graveyards with buried caskets became the fashion once again. Today, a larger proportion of city land is devoted to funeral sites in New Dalton than anywhere else in Evanoch. 

When a Daltoner is buried and their gravestone erected, it is common for an official of Pelor to speak briefly about the role of the deceased in the universe--these speeches usually revolve around Pelor accepting the deceased as a parent accepts a child. These ceremonies are kept brief, as dwelling on emotions besides pride in the deceased is considered improper. Family members and friends sometimes visit the gravestone of a passed Daltoner to remember them; this is a complicated social procedure. Paying respects regularly is seen as a matter of duty, but "too much" time spent in a Daltoner graveyard carries a social toll as one becomes perceived as overly emotional, obsessed with death, or unwilling to accept Pelor's wisdom. At the same time, it is considered inappropriate to visit a graveyard with anyone else, but having someone wait at the entrance to the graveyard to assist you when you leave the graveyard with strained emotions is common, and many Daltoner graveyards have waiting areas at the entrance for such chaperones. 

Faninites

On their home island of Fanin, death is regarded by Faninites as a natural step in one's progression through existence. Faninites believe that people are born close to nature and that there are two complicated processes that determine one's relationship to nature. It is believed that children have an innate understanding of nature but lack an intellectual understanding of it; children can feel nature but not express it. As a Faninite grows, they slowly lose parts of the innate understanding in exchange for the more intellectual understanding--the ability to articulate the ideals of nature. Upon death, both understandings are bestowed upon the deceased. The goal of a Faninite, then, is to retain or regain the childlike understanding and develop the intellectual understanding before death to enjoy it in life. Death, then, is seen as a great gift and equalizer, as all Faninites gain true natural wisdom when they pass on. Death is not feared by Faninites, but neither is it sought out; just as plants and animals live and die, Faninites know that their lives will end as a part of the natural cycle. 

Faninites have always followed the same naturalistic way of tending to the dead: they return the deceased to nature in the most direct way possible. When a Faninite dies, their family and close friends are consulted, and the Faninite's inglefrane, or "place of return," is determined. The inglefrane is a physical location in nature that is dear to the deceased, oftentimes a wooded area where the Faninite has visited for peace and sanctuary during their lifetime. Once the ingelfrane is located, the Faninite's body is taken to the location and placed in a position of rest or contemplation, whichever was preferred and indicated by the deceased. The Faninite's body is then left to decompose or become food for the animals of that area. Most other groups regard this element of the practice to be somewhat barbaric and unfeeling, as it is common for deceased Faninites to be moved around by the animals and elements; however, Faninites think of this as being a fundamental part of the return to nature--allowing the Faninite's body to become a part of nature again, removed from humanoid conceptions about dignity or separation from nature. 

When one wishes to mourn for or connect to a deceased Faninite, there are two general schools of thought. One of these ideas dictates that the visitor should go to the location of the Faninite's inglefrane and commune with them there. This method is fairly standard for the period of time after the Faninite's body has returned to nature through decomposition or disturbance by animals; many Faninites, even the most nature-minded, struggle with seeing the still-present corpse of their loved one before the return to nature. The other view, which is more popular among the recently passed as well as those mourning Faninites who were laid to rest across the ocean back in Fanin, is that being joined with nature makes someone universal with nature, meaning that the Faninite's spirit is not tethered to a specific location. Communing with a Faninite in this way means that the deceased is in a way everywhere, and it is not uncommon for Faninites to speak under their breath to passed family members and friends regardless of location, as they believe the deceased to exist everywhere in nature. 

Dwarves

Dwarves regard death as a complicated concept, and while many dwarves claim to understand death as an unavoidable part of the process of life, the practical reality is more complicated. Broadly speaking, most dwarves fear death; despite (or perhaps because of) their relatively long lifespans, they see death as something that can rob them of their rightful claim to life more than as an entity in and of itself. It is because of this conception of death that fewer dwarves call themselves worshippers of Nerull than any other group--in fact, dwarves pray for long and safe lives more than any other group. For an average dwarf, dying is something that remains unspoken about--death is the great taboo of dwarven culture. When a family member or close friend dies, dwarves usually stay as distant as possible socially and emotionally, but because participation in funeral rites is socially important, they often contribute what is expected and resist anything further. 

The dwarven method of remembering the dead began when essentially all dwarves lived in the capital city of Underhar, but it has been adapted to use in other places. In Underhar, the city is mined out of a mountain range's foundation; the city exists under and inside the mountain itself. Traditionally, when a dwarf died, their name would be chiseled into the walls of Underhar--not the walls of the buildings carved within, but the outer walls that hold the buildings. Thus, the first eight feet or so of every outer wall are covered in intricate dwarven writings that name the fallen dwarf. Over time, these carvings have climbed higher and higher up the walls, and many lower class dwarves have taken to chiseling the passed dwarves' names onto the ground or into the buildings where they lived, while wealthier dwarves' names have climbed even higher up the outer walls. Traditionally, the dwarf's name is carved by loved ones, each of whom is responsible for an individual dwarven rune. Outside of Underhar, fallen dwarves are memorialized by carving their name or simply initials into nearby stone faces--family and friends perform this rite if possible, but it is increasingly accepted to have the nearest allies do so. The carving of the name is more about being one with the stone and less about being preserved in some way. Dwarves' physical bodies are cremated in special forges. 

Dwarves culturally reject notions of emotion expressed over death--they simply prefer to not directly address these ideas. However, for dwarves in grief, the most common approach is to make practical use of the emotion. The commonest method for this is in creating arts or crafts, usually in the form of small and intricate rock carvings but increasingly via similarly small leatherwork pieces--these crafts honor the dead by depicting things that the deceased cared about. It is believed that putting care and intention into the passions of the deceased connects the living to the dead. These tokens are kept at home and are distributed when the grief has passed. Receiving a token of this sort is a great honor, as it indicates importance to the passed dwarf, but it would be completely unheard of to display one of these tokens, even in one's private home. Visiting the carved name of a passed dwarf is considered highly dramatic and is frowned upon; this would generally be seen as hysterical and impractical. Speaking the name of a dwarf in the first year after their death is considered terrible luck; rather, nicknames are employed to avoid explicitly naming them. 

Orcs

Orcs regard death not as a singular idea, but a broad series of related concepts. Death itself is the end of life, but it is also a new part of existence--generally speaking, orcs believe that an unknowable new life begins at death, and many orcs argue that existence on Evanoch is itself not the first life that a being experiences. At the same time, it is believed that the only things that remain constant throughout these continuous lives are nature and the orc's spiritual development, and death actually unveils hidden spiritual knowledge unavailable in life. Thus, death is regarded as just shy of a celebration in terms of advancement for the passing orc, but it is also a somber time for the orc's clan, who must learn to live without the deceased. This is also affected by what role the orc in question played during their life. A noted warrior is more mourned than celebrated, as their value to the clan is greater in life than in death, where a wise woman or curtran is more celebrated than mourned, as her death indicates the "promotion" of her soul to the next world. Along similar but practical lines, losing a warrior means losing clan strength, where losing a curtran means the promotion of the next generation of wisdom. 

Orcs mark the passing of their dead via a marking called a horroscan, or "spirit marking." The horroscan is a very metaphorical method of remembrance--the death of an orc is marked by driving a spike into a stone and removing it, leaving behind a hole which represents the "hole" left behind by the orc's passing. The horroscan is sometimes created at the site of the orc's death, particularly when the orc's passing accomplished something of note beyond combat, but it is usually created at a favorite place of the deceased, usually not far from the orc's home. As a result, many orcish settlements have noticeable patches of holes driven into the ground or elsewhere. The horroscan does not change appearance or creation method regardless of how the orc died--an orc who died defending a village and an orc who passed from illness are marked with identical holes--and the holes are not labelled in any way, making each hole totally anonymous. In fact, trying to link a specific orc to a specific hole is frowned upon, as it is believed that all beings are equal in death. [Note: The physical body is completely ignored in burial. Orcs consider a dead body to be fundamentally the same as a pile of earth.]

In orcish culture, there is a special utterance--not quite a prayer, but more spiritual in nature than a simpler mantra--which one recites to honor the dead. Some orcs feel inclined to honor any horroscan they see, while others avoid addressing even loved ones out of respect for death's role in orcish society. Those who recite the utterance consider three distinct concepts in turn. First, they attempt to imagine an orc without defining features to respect the anonymity of the horroscan. Next, they reflect on the concept that death is death, and any death propels the orc towards a new struggle, a new life. Finally, they consider the metaphor of the hole--how the elements can never undo the hole's creation, but they can expand it. The rememberer promises to expand and never undo the passed orc's legacy, whatever it may be. Those raised in orcish culture can perform this process quickly and almost automatically, but even the most practiced tend to suspend the practice in the larger parts of Grob Island, the homeland of orcs which bears the horroscans of generations slain in the War of Kraal. 

Elves

As Evanoch's long-lived denizens, elves have a somewhat peculiar set of views on death. To an elf, who can live to be a millennium old, the cause of death is thought of as an incidental fact. Even whether or not a death is prolonged or painful means fairly little to an elf--elven soldiers are notorious in the military world for being the least susceptible to intimidation and torture. The only thing that matters in death to an elf is the age at which one dies. Even here, the idea does not guide much meaning in terms of tragedy--elves regard the loss of the young, middle-aged, and old as functionally equal in terms of senselessness, as each period of life could be said to carry great tragedy. Rather, elves most strive for and respect deaths which exemplified the qualities of their lives. Elven artists desire deaths befitting of their creativity and beauty, such as passing from gentle illness at a beautiful natural vista; warrior elves wish for deaths that bring victory and honor to their allies; close families hope to pass away surrounded by their loved ones. It is not uncommon for elves to make choices that would create such a situation if they sense danger or illness, and elves have developed the term xillren to express this kind of death, which is neither a purely accidental death nor a suicide. 

When an elf does die, the traditional method of tending to the body is to mummify it. Using long passed-down methods and tools, elven embalmers remove any organ or part of the body that cannot be preserved (keeping as much of the body intact as possible--ancient methods removed most organs, but current methods only remove the eyes), then submerge the body in a fluid that toughens and preserves the tissue. When the body has absorbed this fluid for several days, it is dried for one week, resulting in a preserved body that will not deteriorate for millennia. This process was originally devised as a way to keep elven bodies around for elven generations to continue visiting them, and embalming remains a healthy industry in elven communities. The body of the deceased elf, which at this point looks quite identical to the elf in their later years, is usually displayed in the home of their nearest relative for one year's time. This custom has become more flexible over time, allowing close friends to adopt the body, after a rise in grudge-holding relatives posing the deceased bodies in indecent positions. After the year of display, the body is generally placed in a family mausoleum for wealthier elves or in a public cemetery in a display case above ground. 

Ironically, while elves spend considerable time and energy ensuring that they have the ability to pay their respects to the dead through their physical bodies, in practice, they rarely do. That is largely because respect to the familial dead (or close friends who have passed) is built into several other parts of elven society. Here are a few notable examples: when an elf welcomes a guest into their home to use the community welparin space, they traditionally invoke the names of their ancestors stretching back three generations with a special title (hirien) for the deceased; prayers to Corellon Larethian, the god of the elves are structured to begin and end on invocations of one's most recently passed relative; even elven small talk commonly involves asking when the last time one's home hosted a deceased relative's preserved body among other things. As a result, formal mourning really only lasts during the year display period, and elven culture guides further mourning. 

Half-Elves

Half-elves are known in Evanoch for a few related things: they are artistically-driven, they are cultural innovators inspired by their elven and Faninite ancestors, and their innovations tend to guide modern fashions. This is true with funeral arrangements as well. From their Faninite parents, they adopt the custom of placing the body where the deceased would want it, adding a dash of inspiration from the Daltoners and burying the body (but without a coffin to connect it to the earth) at the preferred site--these steps reconnect it with nature along the Faninite's ideals. At the same time, a sort of proxy body, an artist's tribute to the deceased, is displayed in the home of relatives or friends with a suggested time of one year, but this timespan tends to adjust according to the host's personal beliefs. Today, Evanine funerals are typically referred to as "burials" even when a different funeral method is employed--the vocabulary across the land has generalized the word to refer to any funeral rite. 

The actual process of burying the deceased is deliberately kept vague in terms of custom. The standard elements are digging the shallow grave (a special role is conferred on the person doing the most digging--they are referred to as "the guide"), laying down the body (being "the steward"), and covering the body (being "the pilgrim"). Most groups regard this type of funeral as a smaller affair--most would add no more than three people, one for each role. In fact, there is a special honor in a funeral entirely administrated by one person, as this marks a special and meaningful commitment to the deceased. Sometimes, words are spoken during the covering of the body, often parts of religious texts (Daltoners and dwarves) or personal remembrances (Faninites and halflings), but just as often, silence (gnomes) or music (elves and orcs) is considered a superior accompaniment. 

Practically speaking, visiting a burial site made in the half-elf tradition is not ideal in the weeks that follow the burial, as the body's decomposition tends to be overwhelming in terms of odor. This makes the element of an in-home display a practical necessity. Most commonly, a home will lack a display for the deceased for at least several days until a sufficient work of tribute to the dead can be crafted; with the rise in popularity of half-elven burials, a small industry has arisen for artists who can quickly create these sorts of funeral displays. The increasingly popular model for displays of this sort involve some manner of depiction of the deceased (wood carvings, paintings, and metalwork are all common media) as a foundation for the display--typically, visitors are expected to contribute additional tokens that commemorate the life of the deceased or try to bless the dead through religious items. There is a growing social phenomenon of judging a deceased person's social status by the quality and quantity of tokens in their funeral display. 

Gnomes

Most outsiders would describe gnomes as a people of great silliness, joy, and irreverence. While that description may be generally true of some elements of gnomish society, gnomes are especially solemn when it comes to death. For gnomes, who spend so much of their time building and REbuilding devices, the very permanent end of death is difficult to deal with. Gnomes, who live longer than most groups but certainly not as long as the dwarves or elves, feel vulnerable in many ways when it comes to their mortality. More than any other culture, gnomes have sought to use science and magic alike to stretch their lifespans out and treat preventable deaths. All of this has translated into a general sense that death is an overwhelming foe to be struggled against with full force, meaning that when death does occur in a gnomish community, it devastates. Even an expected death of an elder with no additional dramatic stakes generally leaves a whole neighborhood in deep mourning. 

When a gnome passes, their body is collected and examined by a medical expert of some sort to detect illnesses that might have spread and to study the body for anything that may benefit the scientific community. When the body is deemed safe to be around, the next of kin is offered the body as is or processed through various options (gnomes are not particular about the physical body after death)--the most popular method today is a form of incineration that produces a burning fluid, which is dropped into cold water to cast it into a small, almost metallic chunk of matter. A gnomish funeral is an elaborate affair that involves serving the favorite meal of the deceased and opening their home to be inspected and explored by the attendees, and throughout the funeral, no one speaks a single word. Guests are expected to leave when they feel they have mourned enough to begin to move on, and gnomes have been known to stay wordlessly in their passed loved ones' homes for as much as a week before leaving. 

When the gnome's funeral is over, their property is taxed and passed to those in the will in a complex legal procedure. Gnomes have something of a disdain for physical reminders of a deceased person--they believe that attempting to memorialize a full humanoid being is futile and disrespectful to the dead--but they embrace memorializing the dead in more intellectual ways. Most gnomes write a personal book (not quite a diary) throughout their lives that chronicles all the most important and meaningful discoveries and ideas they encounter, and this book is generally published after a gnome's death, often with a foreword (or a few forewords) from friends, colleagues, and relatives. The books range from personal philosophical musings and crystallized ideas about life to proprietary formulas, blueprints, and other discoveries that can change industries. In fact, these funeral books, or lyfbuk, are some of the most sought-after publications in gnomish society, and it is not uncommon to hear a gnome say of someone they admire that "I'm dying to know what's in her lyfbuk." Sales from lyfbuks go toward government programs, but a new law in Vestry proposes that that money should be attributable in the will. 

Halflings

To a halfling, death is paradoxical. They are small and fragile creatures without real strength, and they live in a rainforest where the deadliest of plants and animals are found; death is something that they are highly vulnerable to and surrounded by. And yet, halflings face death more directly than perhaps any group in Evanoch--perhaps their being so used to it has worn off on them over time. Halflings don't so much fear death as make practical decisions to avoid it. There are elven and dwarven sayings that both say that bravery comes naturally to halflings because they are short-lived enough to laugh in death's face but also long-lived enough to have something to fight for. But none of this is to say that halflings don't view the loss of life as a tragedy--after all, they were the first kingdom to forego warfare out of respect of life. Halflings face death with bravery, but they also mourn the fact that the bravery needed to be summoned. Unlike gnomes, halflings don't see death as unspeakable--only unavoidable.

When a halfling passes away, the traditional method of marking their death is to burn the body and mingle the ashes with the wood that was used to build the fire; the ashes are then collected and mixed with wild animal manure or manure from the departed's pet(s) and occasionally a favorite meal of the departed; this mixture is added as fertilizer to a farmer's land who has been chosen by the departed. (Selecting a farmer to receive one's remains mixture, called a yurjin, is a coming of age rite. The receiving farmer, the yurjill, is considered an important figure in one's life, and sharing a yurjill with a new acquaintance is considered excellent luck.) The yurjin is added to the soil at the next time it would be beneficial to the crops. When multiple people in a town die during an off-season for the farmer, they are darkly referred to as yurj-mates, as they have mingled together in the farmer's fertilizer stores.  There is no ceremony held to include the family or friends in an official mourning. While other groups see this practice as uncomfortable or disrespectful of the dead, halflings regard being useful to both the natural world and one's community as the highest honor one can hope for. 

While halflings do not hold a funeral immediately after a death, they are actually one of the most committed in terms of consistently remembering their deceased family and friends. Halflings have a triad of beliefs which are all enacted through practical means meant to honor the deceased. The first is physical: the deceased's body is used to create sustenance, and so that sustenance is connected to the deceased. The crop grown by the deceased's yurjin (not the specific yield from that crop, but any crop of the type that was grown, such as eggplant or plantains) is a special dish to those left behind by the deceased, and eating it honors them. The second method is mental: in halfling society, when one remembers a loved one who has passed on, it is suggested that they mark the occasion by saying one positive thing about the deceased, even if one is alone. (This can cause a whole chain of positive remembrances as one person sets off another.) Finally, the third method is spiritual: a halfling saying tells people that when you feel like a loved one's death was not ideal, appropriate, or befitting them, you should imagine them happier than you ever saw them in life. This is not to say that they have achieved some sublime afterlife--only that imagining them happy is better for us than being dissatisfied. Thus, halflings are almost always actively or passively creating positive memories about the deceased. 

There you have it--a complete guide to the funeral rites, memorial styles, and views on death in my homebrew setting. I will admit that part of what drove me to write this was spending a lot of time visiting cemeteries on a recent vacation. (I'm just generally kind of weird that way, but I also think seeing cemeteries is very life-affirming.) As I walked through acres of sprawling gravestones with several different cultures represented, my mind was on what it means to live and be alive, but I soon started thinking about my world, too. Writing about who believes what and why has been very good for me and my understanding of my world--I know each group much better now than I did before writing. As always, writing about my homebrew setting opens new doors of creativity and storytelling--I hope you take the time to think about these things, or things like them, too. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: how to write a one-shot, public views of a historical event in my homebrew setting, and transportation in my homebrew setting. Until next time, happy gaming!

City Geography and Planning in My Homebrew Setting

As a perpetual GM, I rarely get a chance to be a player. And that's a shame--one of the best ways to refine your GMing skills and style is to play with other people. Seeing other GMs in the act often inspires us to think about out own games and worlds in new ways. That's something that's happened recently for me--after years of GMing without playing, I got the chance to play a character I've been dreaming of for a long time, and I've ended up learning a lot more than I expected to. One such way that's been expressed is worldbuilding in terms of city layout--my GM puts a lot of effort into creating interesting and distinct locations that really characterize the places we go, and I've realized that I want to do similar work on my world. [Disclaimer: the person whose GMing led to this revelation tells me that my mystery campaign, which they played in, featured a distinct and interesting place that inspired them in terms of worldbuilding; this is a great example of the way players and GMs can inspire each other in turn.]

And so this guide explores the physical locations in my homebrew setting. I'm focusing on the ten most major cities in my world (the nine biggest cities and the smaller orcish capital); I've previously addressed the political worlds, diplomatic situations, and architecture styles of each location, but the physical space of each place matters a great deal too. In the campaign I'm playing in now, getting to explore these colorful places is a thrill of its own, and I aim to create details that not only express information I have in my head but have never expressed, but also to create details that inspire my players to want to learn more as I do with my GM's world. So, with that in mind, let's explore the physical spaces that make up Evanoch's most important places--I hope you discover something that piques your curiosity. 

Mishara: 

Mishara, the elven capital, is a city at the center of the biggest island in the Lathien Island chain. The Lathien Islands are partially submerged under water; the land that emerges above the water is mostly plant life that grows up and out of the shallow waters. Thus, building stable housing is dependent upon using the plants, especially the mangrove trees, that grow here as foundations for construction. The most wealthy elves who live here tend to carve homes from the larger of the mangrove trees, while less wealthy elves will construct homes in their branches or simply on top of solid moss growth or piled soil. The precariousness of elven building and the need to have exceptionally long-lived buildings has meant that construction has become an increasingly specialized field--while other groups build structures without expertise, only the most talented builders are trusted to create lasting buildings on the Lathien Islands. 

Within Mishara specifically, the city does not follow strict divisions in terms of sections of the city; there are not distinct business quarters or areas designated for specific groups. The longevity of elves and the tendency for elves to leave their families to start over on their own has meant that elves from various family lines have spread across the islands, and Mishara specifically is home almost exclusively to the oldest (as well as wealthiest and most prestigious) elves. An average area of Mishara might contain a cross-section of expert businesses, a group of elder elves' fine homes, a few historic temples, and a selection of cultural sites such as playhouses and museums. Most sections of Mishara are fairly comparable, but the center of the city is especially known for a concentration of the very wealthiest homes as well as the government's seat. 

Navigating the Lathien Islands is less a matter of walking along roads as it would be elsewhere and more a matter of traveling via small boats, something like moving through a Venice-like city, but where the buildings are all composed of nature. As a result, a few industries have arisen here that don't exist elsewhere: boatmaking is an important field in Mishara that supplies average people with the means to travel around the island system, and slightly larger boats that ferry people along common routes charge modest amounts to offer public transportation. Swimming these routes is both dangerous (there are deadly creatures in the water) and looked down upon (only the very poor and the socially disenfranchised don't employ boats for travel). Mishara, then, is a city whose historical and impressive buildings are essentially their own islands within the city, and this conceptual isolation is an expression of elves' tendency to live highly individualized lives. 

Kruush:

Kruush, the orcish capital, is a relatively small city on the orcish island of Grob, but it is the largest city on the island. Since an orcish-elven war five hundred years ago (the War of Kraal), the orcish population on Grob has greatly diminished, leaving its once-thriving capital only partially populated. The ground is too rocky to farm in, so homes and businesses, which are generally built with at least two stories, tend to be anchored to the ground by driving stakes into the ground where a split in the stones can be found. Ladders are the most common way to scale a multi-business tower, while homes tend to have interior stairs. Kruush itself is a dense collection of stacked homes and businesses nestled against the middle of the Groknog mountain range. The buildings of Kruush are mostly built in a small grouping that is slightly spread across the bottom of the mountains' bottom slopes, so the buildings are all on slightly different elevations, distorting the height of the buildings. 

Kruush's first buildings were built initially as forts where the southern clans of orcs could defend their holdings further up the mountain, but by two thousand years ago, new buildings made the city as much a capital of commerce as a site of military intelligence. Many orcs argue that the safety available at Kruush made it an ideal location for merchants. As a result, the buildings along the first real incline of the mountain range are fortresses and barracks-style buildings, and the buildings further up the mountain tend to be pricier homes and businesses, while more affordable homes and businesses are constructed out into the flatter land. In terms of districts within town, most businesses tend to locate themselves close to other related merchants, so Kruush is very much divided along the lines of the purpose served. Kruush is noted for its smithing district, its eatery district, and its arts district (which includes everything from physical handicrafts to theaters and art galleries). 

One orcish custom involving death that impacts Kruush's appearance as a city is the practice of horroscan, or "spirit marking," wherein an orc is memorialized by loved ones or allies by driving a spike into stone (easy to find on Grob Island, which is mostly stone and rocky soil) and removing the spike--the hole left behind represents the hole left behind by the orc's death. Because so many orcs who called Kruush home served in the deadly War of Kraal, there are thousands and thousands of such holes in the ground in Kruush, and their anonymity creates the effect that thousands of nameless orcs are represented and memorialized in every part of the city. Kruush is, as a result, a quite somber place for those who understand the significance of the horroscan surrounding them, and many orcs from smaller settlements undertake visits to Kruush to witness the scale of their loss. 

Underhar: 

At the southernmost tip of the Kallett Mountains, ancient dwarves dug deep into the stone and created an underground city that is one continuous piece of rock, the same stone that forms the mountain range. The city itself follows a surprising lack of explicit order; having been carefully mined away bit by bit, many outsiders assume that Underhar is a carefully-planned community. However, the city is in reality quite chaotically constructed, as new buildings simply need to be carved away, only ensuring that the mountain's structure itself is stable enough to not bring the peaks crumbling down. There is a saying among dwarves that "The only thing keeping you from a mansion is lack of ambition," meaning both that for dwarves in Underhar, a home is exactly what one makes of it, and also that ambition opens the door to most any pursuit. The city stretches from the base of the mountains, where a ramp downward leads from the surface down into the city, to a great way under the rising peaks in the distance; the deeper the building is under the mountains, the more prestige it carries for the owner. 

Underhar was not built with specific districts in mind--the dwarves who lived there simply built where seemed best at the time, usually with accessibility to other developed areas in mind. As a result, it is fairly easy to determine how old a part of Underhar is given how easily-connected it is to other areas of the city. For instance, there is a long, snaking part of Underhar that goes from its deepest points at the former palace to the entry to the city from above ground--this section, called "The Spine," is by far the most developed, busy, and well-known section of Underhar, where long-standing businesses and families call home. On the other hand, newer excavations on the eastern and western edges of the city are more out of the way for average dwarves, and these neighborhoods tend to be home to non-dwarves who live in the city and more niche or unproven businesses. Thus, Underhar's prevalent class system is expressed geographically by distance from The Spine, and businesses denote a similar class system by which neighborhoods they serve (it is frowned upon for people to visit businesses they don't share a social class with). 

Because Underhar is entirely underground, agriculture is separated from the city, as all but a few more fungal crops cannot be grown there. As a result, over time, farmers have slowly developed a distinct identity in Underhar. Farmers are considered outsiders because they have to live outside of the city proper, but they are also seen as vital caretakers since Underhar would starve without them. As a result, farming is considered among the most selfless acts a dwarf can undertake, especially since the social prestige is limited. [For readers in the United States, think of the role of teachers--many respect it, but few would commit to it with its limited rewards and lack of proper status.] This has in turn led to a strange turn in the economic world of Underhar; while dwarves are committed to free markets, farmers have followed the gnomish model and developed a powerful union that protects them from passing political phases, and modern dwarven farmers are more prosperous than any of their predecessors. 

Vestry: 

The sprawling gnomish capital was built on a large expanse that was once rolling forested hills; the construction of the city involved clearing the trees (and using the lumber to begin building) while levelling the area for a literally equal foundation for everyone in the city. Vestry is the only truly planned community in the major cities of Evanoch--it is a large square on the map which is built along regular and geometric lines, and it is generally agreed to be the most easy-to-navigate city of note since it was designed with such simple navigation in mind. Each area of Vestry is dictated by square shapes of descending sizes: the overall city, four smaller quarters, and four still-smaller quarters within each of those (forming sixteen districts total). These districts are further divided by function, as will be explored in the paragraph below, and the gnomish leadership that designed the city created those spaces with as much equality as possible; each of the sixteen districts and four quarters are meant to be not interchangeable but equivalent. 

The quarters and districts of Vestry tend to keep a certain formula: it was originally assumed by the city planners that between 60% and 70% of citizens would need a physical space to run a business, and so most of any given area is a bit more neighborhood homes than local businesses. Legally, a set number of sustenance-related businesses are reserved--30% of all business spaces are set aside for grocers, food markets, and restaurants (though most districts actually dedicate more space to these). Vestry charges a higher tax rate on businesses than homes, and this is largely the source of most of the Vestry government's income (which it uses on public education, public housing, and other public services). As a result, merchants who can dispense with a physical space make use of the public market spaces located in each district, and these spaces are considered second in quality compared to businesses with their own locations, but they are preferred for price. The further details of Vestry's districts involve local government's role, which is unique to each district's political leanings, but according to law, all of them include public arts spaces, schools and academies, and a variety of government outreach centers. 

Gnomes traditionally build their houses in hexagonal shapes, which allows them to maximize space inside the home while still fitting tightly in with neighboring homes. This is a practice that existed before Vestry's construction, but the shape became standardized among gnomes following the building of the capital. At the same time, gnomes delight in things that make them unique among their peers, and so there is a tension between creating these standardized homes and expressing themselves through their homes. The result has merged the two competing ideas: gnomes keep a standardized hexagonal home as a mark of social responsibility and equality while expressing their individuality through a decorative marker at the top of their home. This is a somewhat popular practice outside of Vestry, but in Vestry, essentially every building has some manner of decoration. Common decorative markers include devices created or used by the building owner, animals admired by the owner, and geometric shapes that mimic or contrast with the house's hexagonal shape. Buildings are commonly described by the decorative markers on them--"Turn left at the house with the oak tree on top, and it will be on the right past the cascading triangles." 

Curagon: 

Curagon is located in the heart of the Heronal Forest, and it has been constructed in a way that essentially hides the settlement from view for any stranger. Halfling homes are built as burrows underground, which serves several purposes at once: they are hidden from potentially predatory people, they do not interfere with the beautiful and lively rainforest around them, and they require almost no building supplies and only simple tools to construct. These advantages are especially important to halflings culturally. As the smallest and slightest of Evanoch's residents, being hidden away is sometimes a matter of survival. The Heronal Forest is of basically spiritual significance, and not felling any of its precious and mighty trees is a cultural value. And because halflings wish to preserve nature and lack physical strength, a building method like burrowing which keeps resources alive and takes only persistence is ideal. As a result, outsiders usually don't even notice Curagon as they pass through it, as buildings seem only to be slight depressions in the ground which are usually kept hidden. Curagon is sometimes called "The Hidden City" thanks to this. 

While gnomes' city planning is ordered and driven by law, halflings embrace the opposite. Halflings have no central government to determine property rights, and there is no effort to keep halfling settlements organized in a clear way. Halflings tend to argue that the best organization comes naturally, and the only real consideration made before constructing a burrow is to search for and then consult with neighbors to ensure that a prospective burrow won't intersect or interfere with construction. But this is not to say that no organization exists at all--halflings tend to locate their homes near their work sites, near their friends and family, or near other important locations (a chosen temple, a favorite business, a specific part of nature). As a result, neighborhoods tend to emerge along lines of commonality: it is highly common for neighbors to share jobs, value systems, hobbies, and/or friends, which further strengthens the bond between neighbors. In fact, the term "neighbor" in halfling carries a heavier connotation than it does in other languages--it communicates something more along the lines of "chosen ally" than "person who shares proximity." 

Because halfling buildings in Curagon are dug out between the massive trees of the Heronal Forest, it is highly common for homes and businesses to include root systems. This is viewed by outsiders as very undesirable, since the roots seem to either require removal or relocation. However, halflings adapt to the root systems instead, carefully digging around the roots and diverting them to other directions back out of the burrow; some especially nature-loving halflings preserve the roots and feed them with nutrients and water to keep them growing inside the building. Thus, an average halfling home might include visible tree and other plant roots that are tended to as a living part of the home. This carries some social prestige among halflings, but it is acknowledged by most to be a serious undertaking. Ironically, elves are known for their in-tree homes on the Lathien Islands, but because halflings tend to remain secretive about life in halfling society, few outsiders realize that halflings too tend to the lives of the trees that form their homes; in any case, most halflings find the carving out of elven homes from trees to be barbaric. 

New Dalton: 

The plains on which New Dalton now exists were once rolling plains and the home of dozens of small and interconnected townships of mixed communities, largely gnomes, dwarves, and halflings. When Daltoners from the island of Dalton to the east arrived about 650 years ago, they swallowed up these cities, ransacking and dismantling them and leaving only what could not be looted burning. When it became clear from dwarven and gnomish military opposition that Daltoners could not imperialize the entire continent of Evanoch, the Daltoner forces retreated to the point on the eastern Haenok Plains where the Volluul River met the ocean back to Dalton. It was here that they began to build their megacity, which was initially meant to be an outpost which would send resources back to Dalton, but which eventually eclipsed the home island entirely. Today, the massive city sprawls across the plains, a multitude of buildings rising from the grassland, the physically largest and most populous city city on the continent, reaching far out across the plains and towering high over the coast. 

To those unfamiliar with Daltoner society, New Dalton does not appear to be organized in any particular fashion--its districts are not defined by class or by function like in most cities. However, Daltoners and those in the know can recognize that there are specific markers of status among Daltoners built into the city. It is true that the size or grandiosity of a building indicates an element of its status, but the building material used in construction is a better clue. In Daltoner society, rarity is associated with quality, as is similarity to the home island of Dalton, where almost all resources are rare. This means that some types of stone, especially granite and marble, are highly regarded for  their durability, their difficulty in obtaining (relative something like felling a tree), and their use on Dalton. For similar reasons, the hardwoods of the central grasslands where New Dalton lies (hickory and elm) are considered especially important. Thus, a trained eye will notice that entire sections of New Dalton are built from the same types of materials, elevating those parts of the city into upper class areas even if the construction itself remains unremarkable (aside from religious buildings, Daltoners eschew decorations in buildings). 

One other marker of status and position in society that is invisible to outsiders is that the distance a Daltoner's home is from the nearest church is considered highly important. Travelers to New Dalton may notice that the homes built immediately around temples tend to be larger; in fact, temples in New Dalton have generally been constructed with "donations" from people in neighborhoods deemed too far from a church who wish to increase their apparent piety. As a result of this secondary market for temple construction, there are an above average number of churches in New Dalton, which further creates individual churches which become highly insulated, which means that most churches in New Dalton have fairly specific interpretations of religious teachings. Because the dominant faith in New Dalton is the Dalton Church of Pelor, there are effectively hundreds of sects of Pelor worship scattered across the city. This means that socially, Daltoners are strongly united in terms of dedication to Pelor, but they are also extremely divided in terms of how to interpret their religious faith. 

Finiel: 

In Evanoch's history, there are generally two periods which divide discussion of politics: the kingdom era, a period that stretched from pre-recorded history until only five hundred years ago, and the post-kingdom age, in which new settlements have risen to importance. Finiel had classically been under the domain of Mishara, not least due to the large population of elves and half-elves living there and especially in its government. It always prospered because of its place on the northern coast, but when Mishara lost its legal grip on Finiel, it faced a choice: compete with Mishara or retain its protection. Finiel's leadership chose to compromise--it remained deferential to Mishara but expanded its port operations to the world beyond Mishara. In the five centuries since, Finiel has leveraged its geography into economic power. Finiel is the most notable of the cities along Evanoch's northern coast, and while the lumber industry remains small (out of respect to the Cosetta Forest, which is a spiritual place for its residents), Finiel has also used its position as a travel hub in the north and western parts of Evanoch to capitalize on its arts industries in ways that rival Mishara. Finiel does not generally create buildings inside of living trees, instead adopting more conventionally-constructed homes which more resemble Faninite longhouses than the elven L-shaped model. 

Finiel's layout is not guided by an intentional pattern; as a fishing village initially, it grew along the coast. Today, Finiel still hugs the waterline more than it pushes into the forests away from the shore. This means that the divisions in the city that do exist tend to be along what type of water exists along the specific part of the coast--whether the tide's receding or rising affects embarking or landing, for instance, or what kind of sea creatures can be found there. This means that it is incredibly hard to gauge how much a coastal property in Finiel is worth--buying a home or business space in the city usually involves speaking to as many neighbors as possible and hoping they're being honest, or even requesting permission to investigate the waters before sale. And as a further extension of this, visitors to Finiel often don't recognize that any properties are worth more or carry more status--the buildings are all fairly humble, aside from a few of the city's theaters and galleries (and even these businesses vie for waterfront property despite not needing it for business; such is the culture of Finiel). 

Because Finiel is currently regarded as a cultural capital of Evanoch--its high artistic aspirations are rivaled only by Mishara's, and Finiel's half-elves tend toward more universal and broad work than the insular elves--Finiel has something of a reputation as a haven for artists. It is true that Finiel is a great place for artists on the rise, but for those still struggling to make a name for themselves (which is most who flock here) discover crowds of hopeful artists just like themselves. Finiel has taken to constructing hostel-like housing for the displaced, and these have been constructed in land not desired by others: inland into the forest. This means that while most of Finiel proper lies along the shore of the Empira Sea, there is a mass of temporary housing further inland. Some of Finiel's citizens have complained that this creates an improper first impression of the city for travelers; what is clear, though, is that Finiel's citizens have no real issue with the residents of the temporary housing, who are noted by most as eager to contribute to the community--they simply don't like the look of the housing itself. A few artists have begun painting the housing, which seems to be a solution most everyone agrees to. 

Talon Gorge: 

Finiel clings to the western coast of the Empira Sea; Talon Gorge rests on the towering cliff face on the eastern coast of the Empira Sea. Because the city sits at the highest point on the ridge that borders the Empira Sea, it was extremely difficult to construct--hauling building materials up the ridge was difficult. But Talon Gorge, which was built only as kingdoms' rule over cities in their domain ended, was something of a modern marvel: in the space of only one generation, a wide expanse of forest was cleared, stones in the area were mined, and almost all of Talon Gorge was constructed, including its impressive royal compound. Because Talon Gorge was built in one large project rather than developing naturally, it is the most planned of all Evanoch's cities. At the center of the city, which is roughly the highest point on the ridge, is the royal compound, and seven triangular sections stretch out from that center, creating a roughly circular city whose western edge butts up against the cliff face. As one walks further from the royal compound, the elevation of the city lowers, and all but the most expensively-crafted buildings are made from the same wood that was cut from the original site of construction. 

Talon Gorge's seven sections are each further divided into three sub-sections. The smallest of these sub-sections (those closest to the center of the city) hold municipal and public buildings--government offices, banks, guardhouses, and other places where citizens can tend to public life, including some of the city's temples. In the center sub-section is a mixture of houses and marketplaces. The city design mandated that a certain number of marketplaces be included in various parts of the center so that no citizen have to walk more than a certain distance to get to necessities. In the outer sub-section are more houses and more permanent businesses. In general, the homes in the outer ring of the city are of higher quality than those in the center, and this is especially true of the homes in the two districts that face the cliff to the Empira Sea to the west--these are the most respected and expensive parts of the city, especially on the cliff face itself. These sections are known by a sort of grid-like naming pattern; "1C" would denote the innermost section of the third district, for instance, and citizens of Talon Gorge typically refer to different parts of the city by these coordinates rather than giving specific names to parts of town. Likewise, neighborhood pride is usually expressed via these coordinates--"You better not mess with 6B." 

In Talon Gorge exists a peculiar social dilemma that occurs due to its solution to the problem of reaching the Empira Sea nearly a thousand feet below: a series of pulley and scaffolding systems that lower and raise platforms from docks built at the base of the cliffs to the city at the top of the ridge. Because use of this transportation from bottom to top requires specific land in the city to access, this real estate is especially valuable. But at the same time, allowing public or business use of this space carries a price--what would be personal, private space in the form of a backyard and a beautiful view becomes a space heavily-trafficked by all manner of people. And in turn, there is a social price: choosing to sacrifice one's private life for profit is seen as unsavory by many in Talon Gorge, where revolutionary politics have recently toppled the self-proclaimed king of Talon Gorge and set the city alight about big political ideas. So in the city, certain types of wealth and status have begun to be viewed negatively among the general public. 

Ringsdale: 

Ringsdale is built where the eastern edge of the Kallett Mountains level out; it straddles the Oldoff River, which divides it into North Ringsdale and South Ringsdale. North Ringsdale is in the Liggen Forest of northeast Evanoch; South Ringsdale lies on the Haenok Plains. The halves of Ringsdale are built according to the materials available: North Ringsdale is built of a variety of woods, mostly oak, spruce, and cedar, and South Ringsdale has some wooden buildings (generally acacia but sometimes elm) but is largely built of stone from the mountains. North Ringsdale is also distinguished by the fact that the more fertile soil tends to sprout shrubs and wildflowers and even trees between buildings, and these are often left to grow; South Ringsdale has more of the Haenok Plains' typical burrowing animals living under their homes, and treatments for floors that the animals can't breach have become common. 

Within Ringsdale's northern and southern halves, there are further divisions which characterize individual parts of town. The city, known as the industrial capital of the continent, has distinct industrial sectors throughout the city. In eastern North Ringsdale is the metalwork district, and in the west is the lumber processing district; in eastern South Ringsdale is the stonework district, and in the west is the Ringsdale Public Guildhouse, where there is public space for guilds of all sorts to meet and do business. Housing, small businesses, and marketplaces have popped up around these industry centers, usually along the lines of what one does for a living, so most neighborhoods are collected by trade (most smiths live in the east of North Ringsdale, for instance). The court system of Ringsdale is housed in central North Ringsdale, and other government buildings such as the guardhouse and prison, are in central South Ringsdale. Thus, the city is organized almost entirely around function, and it is not uncommon for people to live in Ringsdale for years without seeing other parts of town since all they need is in their neighborhood. 

Ringsdale is, in some ways, the most modern of all of Evanoch's major cities. It arose as a powerhouse of commerce and industry over only a few hundred years; it eschews leadership in politics in favor of an experimental model; Ringsdale is at once just like every small town in Evanoch (built on practicality and hard work, and more concerned with day-to-day life than with the whole world around it) and nothing like them (with a swelling population larger than some former capitals and the economic power to have a say in global negotiations). Common business advice to up-and-coming entrepreneurs is to try one's business idea in Ringsdale since the masses there just want something that works well without any flash and pomp--indeed, the city's reputation as a place for honest businesspeople has resulted in many of the most successful and prevalent companies and services come from Ringsdale ventures, including Evanoch's renowned Lerpul's Premier Courier, which transmits messages quickly across the continent, and widely-distributed newspaper The Voice of Evanoch, the best known paper in the land. Because Ringsdale is so focused on commerce, business is the most common topic of conversation, and it's considered rude (and sometimes bad luck) there to change the subject away from business. 

Torga: 

As a port city, Torga mostly wraps around the coast of the Prockinor Ocean where it meets the southeast corner of Evanoch; only one of its districts isn't mostly along the water (its massive marketplace). It lies at the delta of the Decax River where it flows into the Ocean. It is also worth noting that Torga is a somewhat modern city built to combine three smaller cities into one larger community--the divided cities that became Torga (an orcish city, a dwarven city, and a Daltoner city) were messily conglomerated (check out Listen Check, a podcast set in Torga, to find out just how messily) into one city that took better advantage of its natural setting. To accommodate different visions of the future of Torga, the groups that formed it constructed different constructions out into the Prockinor Ocean. The orcs built a wide platform out over the waters near the delta of the Decax; this fishing and shipping center (also known for welcoming sailors) became known as The Pier. The dwarves built a complex metal loch system (nicknamed The Docks) which allowed ships into a harbor safe from the turbulent waters outside, and the engineering required to construct them still attracts visitors. The Daltoners built a massive extended boardwalk that reaches two hundred feet out into the ocean at a considerable height, as the hill at the eastern edge of Torga meets its top; this construction, The Island, which required cooperation from all the city's builders and architects, houses the most upscale businesses in town. It can generally be observed that the higher up the hill one goes, the nicer part of Torga one is in. 

The three districts that project into the water serve distinct purposes--so do the seven on land. From west to east: The Gap is a broad area that was meant to be developing housing for people moving into town, and that purpose was served for a few hundred years, but many have left the area in favor of better neighborhoods further up the hill as the projected immigration never materialized. Next is The Commons, an area set aside for affordable housing by Torga's government during incorporation; it is more populated than the Gap but still isn't entirely full, and its businesses tend to offer the city's lowest prices. Further east is The Grounds, an average neighborhood that's full and fairly safe, which is largely because The Grounds lies directly between the Docks, where goods enter the city, and The Hub, where they are sold. The Hub is the only district not on the coast--it is a large, roughly round space dedicated to open air markets and businesses, most of which rely on the shipping coming into or going out of the Docks. To the east of The Grounds is a small district called The Arm, which is entirely government buildings, including the port authority, the governor's residence, and the city's legislative chambers. Up the hill to the east is The Jute, so named for the guard force that polices the notoriously criminal city (who are in turn named for the fabric of their coarse uniforms)--here lie the massive guardhouse, the prison, and other governmental buildings involving oversight of the public. And finally, to the east, and adjoining The Island as it extends from Torga's hill, is The Field, an area featuring the finest of Torga's homes to match The Island's fine businesses. 

Because Torga is so notorious for its criminal population, a number of social effects result. Torga is especially heavy-handed with criminal justice issues (or was until recently, when the three most powerful in Torga's government stepped down)--this has generally meant both a high number of law enforcers and a lack of restraint in prosecuting. At the same time, the abundance of crimes being committed, from petty to extreme, disempowers law enforcement threats, so Torgans experience crime as a given part of life in a way that people elsewhere do not. Further, the city's culture is so influenced by its criminal population that few citizens are even aware of the extent of the influence. Once such example is in the naming of the districts: The Field is so named because it is where a criminal works (where the money is the best), and The Jute district (which is also known for hosting the city museum, the city's university, and dozens of prominent businesses) is so-named because that's the only thing about it that matters to a criminal. Torga is the most prominent city along the southern coast of Evanoch and second only to New Dalton on the eastern coast; it links New Dalton, Underhar, and Kruush in terms of trade, which has led to its prominence, and many attribute the mingled populations of orcs, dwarves, and Daltoners there to its ability to trade so widely. 

There you have it: a guide to the major cities in my homebrew setting and the ways they are formed. This has been a really great resource to get to write for me--I've run major campaigns in several of these cities (you may be able to tell which from the details I've provided), but not knowing this information now seems ridiculous. Some of these cities, which would be household names in my setting, were basically just spots on a map to me. Now, I can enjoy more fully picturing these cities as real places. I hope that writing about the places you game in helps you in the same way. Of course, the only way to find out if it does is to try, so as I always encourage my reader: take the time to get creative about this stuff--really cool stuff will come out of it. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: funeral rites and views on death in my homebrew setting, how to write a one-shot, and public views of a historical event in my homebrew setting. Until next time, happy gaming!

Hourton City: A Dark Time Loop Adventure One-Shot

I had a lot of fun creating this time loop one-shot adventure from a while back, so I thought that for this site's 200th post, I would share another iteration of it. Where Standstill Cove was a 1970s New England town, Hourton City--the setting of this game--is a grungy city in a New York-like setting in the 1980s. This adventure deals with some relatively adult material, so please play responsibly. 

So, throw your players into this game. Every time they exhaust the day's time, the game will reset. They'll have to explore the setting, experiment with different strategies, and eventually put it all together to escape the time loop. This system uses no formal rules or dice, and this means that you as the GM will be called upon to improvise a lot of the material. But also, you'll need to make it so that things happen in generally the same way to sell the time loop effect, so there will be a need for balance between the two extremes. 

If environmental storytelling and sci-fi are more your thing, consider the Distant Star Space Station Time Loop.

Please have fun with this game! 

Religious Beliefs by Culture in My Homebrew Setting

When I was first starting to seriously write on this site several years ago, I realized that a lot of the material I'd made for games could supply important illustrations of the kind of worldbuilding I talk about here. One of the first of my homebrew experiments to appear here was my guide to my variant of gods in D&D. In brief, the idea is that any significant event in the existence of a god causes a variation of them but defined by that event. In the guide, I explained what each deity and all of their iterations actually do. 

But like everything we do, it seems incomplete after we've grown and learned more about our craft. Now when I read that list, I think, "This is interesting, sure--but how does it affect the world? Is this something that just exists without affecting anything?" But a good GM is resourceful--it's possible to salvage almost anything with enough creativity. So today, we're going to look at the specific religious beliefs of the cultural groups in my homebrew D&D setting and how those beliefs impact day-to-day life. Let's get started. 

Daltoners: 

Beliefs: The vast majority of Daltoners believe in a version of Pelor the sun god which is unique to them. While other interpretations of Pelor depict him as kindly and paternal, helping support healing and growth for all. Daltoners, on the other hand, imagine Pelor as a ravenous, consuming figure who demands sacrifice or will refuse to rise again. These beliefs (collected in the Dalton Church of Pelor) are the binding force in Daltoner society--the Dalton Church of Pelor's rules are many and inviolable for its followers. Even their sayings invoke Pelor more often than not. [Note: This version of Pelor does not exist.]

There is a technical rule in Daltoner Pelor worship that Pelor can be one's only god, but because worship of Pelor is essentially mandatory, many Daltoners (especially younger generations) treat Pelor as a given and pick another to be their chosen god. The most popular include Fharlanghn--specifically his iteration Redrin, who supports Daltoner imperialism--as well as Hextor, whose political beliefs align with most Daltoners. Kord commands a good number of followers among Daltoners worship both Kord and the iteration Khorda, both for their immense strength and power. And a not negligible amount of Daltoner worship Nerull, the god of death--this is especially true of sailors, as Nerull's domain is the sea. 

Impact on Society: Daltoners tend to worship gods with demands. This is reflective of a broader belief that powerful beings are unwilling to help with getting something in return, itself a reflection of the power structure of Daltoner society. As a result, a great deal of work to please gods is performed--committed Daltoner worshippers of the Dalton Church of Pelor perform animal sacrifices daily, and less orthodox Daltoners still give large amounts of their resources to supporting their temples. And finally, because there is a belief that punishment is heavy and surely waiting, Daltoners tend to ignore immoral behavior as something that will be dealt with later by the appropriate authorities--this means that to most outsiders, Daltoner society looks chaotic and a complete free-for-all. 

Faninites: 

Beliefs: Faninites tend to have fairly diverse religious beliefs. Their introduction to the continent of Evanoch meant an introduction to the gods of the land, and many Faninites have enjoyed discovering the different powers that be. Perhaps the most dominant faith is following Fharlanghn--Faninites are still considered by many as newcomers to the continent, and the remembrance of travelling to arrive here (and having a safe journey despite the treacherous seas) remains an important origin story for Faninites. 

Other faiths are popular as well--Faninites culturally tend to goodness, community, and perseverance with an emphasis on nature, and this expresses itself through their most favored deities. In terms of nature, more reserved Faninites opt for Obad-Hai, the neutral god of nature; more outward Faninites tend to choose Ehlonna, the goddess of protection of the woodlands and nature in general. Both faiths allow Faninites to be close to nature as their ancestors have been, and Faninite clerics of these deities are known as some of the most devoted. More good- and healing-oriented Faninites choose Pelor, whose universal appeal as a kind-hearted healer makes him a stalwart for those who wish to help; especially devout Faninites choose Heironeous, whose strict code of good can be a challenge to the faint of heart. 

Impact on Society: Because so many Faninites are driven by positive values and deities who favor good, their societies tend to be very supportive and connected. It is observed in Evanoch that Faninite neighbors are often as close as Faninite parents and children are--this does, however, make for a community that is intimidating for outsiders, though this isn't to say that Faninites are unwelcoming to newcomers. It's simply a function of the intimidating nature of the close-knit communities they build. Outside of Faninite society, Faninites are generally perceived as being helpful, and it is not uncommon for a traveler in need to look for a Faninite for help. 

Dwarves:

Beliefs: Essentially every dwarf worships Moradin as a source of life and direct protector. Many dwarves (particularly hammer-wielding warriors and smiths) devote themselves to the iteration Moradon, but most of the population treats Moradin as a combination religious figure/cultural leader at the center of their lives. At the same time, dwarven religion not only approves of but encourages the worship of as many deities as the individual cares to. Most dwarves worship between two and four deities in addition to Moradin--culturally speaking, learning the other deities a dwarf worships is considered meaningfully getting to know them. 

In terms of other deities, selections can be diverse. It is said by some dwarves that choosing a strange or esoteric god is fashionable, but most dwarves agree that such a choice is a serious commitment and not a matter of style. Dwarves tend to simple and clear-cut ideas and practical solutions, and their deities tend to embody that. Some dwarves worship Kord, often the iteration Korrin, who bested Moradin in a wrestling match, because strength is a respected trait in dwarven society. Good-inclined dwarves worship Pelor or Heironeous to aid them in their fights to do good. And dwarves tend to appreciate the practical and no-nonsense approach of St. Cuthbert--despite the deity being a human, dwarves get along well with his directness. 

Impact on Society: One common thread between the deities commonly chosen by dwarves is that they are gods of duty. Each of these deities demands a strict code of behavior. It's worth noting, though, that living within all five of these deities' codes would not be impossible. Thus, an explanation emerges for the popularity of these gods from a practical perspective--these are the deities one could worship without conflicts. Practically speaking, because duty is so important, it is a commonly accepted excuse for a dwarf to explain that a religious task is involved--dwarves understand the demands of faith, and so they tend to be forgiving about such things. 

Orcs: 

Beliefs: Orcs' relationship with religion is very complicated, and outsiders tend to misunderstand it. Traditionally, orcs do not worship deities directly--instead, they strive to be spiritually close to nature while serving their clans, which often choose specific plants and animals to act as totem figures to connect to nature. When orcish society began to include newcomers and departures to larger society, a transformation in religion took place. The orcs discovered that the elves had been warring with them for millennia over religious conflicts that the orcs did not know about. Eager to learn about how religion impacted their interactions with other groups, orcs began to learn (and internalize) the outer world's religious ideas. 

When orcs discovered the gods as the rest of Evanoch knew them, many latched onto the official god of the orcs, Gruumsh. His eternal fight with Corellon Larethian, the god of the elves, struck a chord with many orcs, and his emphasis on protecting the orcish homeland resonated as well. But many orcs disapproved of Gruumsh's evil leanings and adopted gods with values closer to orcish clan values. This meant the popularity of both Kord (whose raw strength inspired many orcs and reminded them of clan hierarchy) and Pelor (whose ability to turn strength into good and healing was both spiritually and tactically valuable). Still, some orcs lacked contextual history and fell prey to more dangerous gods without cultural warnings in place. Many orcish warriors fueled their battle prowess with pacts with Erythnul, the god of slaughter, which earned orcs their early reputation as bloodthirsty. And others still gravitated towards Wee Jas, the dark goddess of magic and death--the practice among Wee Jas followers of connecting with otherworldly forces is very similar to the nature communing of orcs, and the common practice makes many orcs feel at home. 

Impact on Society: Orcish society scarcely looks the same as it did before religion arrived. Factions have begun to arise around religious lines, which has weakened the power of clans. This in turn has led to the creation of organized religion as a function of class in a way similar to the Daltoners' and dwarves' forms of religion. Further, the choice of an orc's deity has become something of a social symbol as well. Some orcs choose a deity based on which faction they want to join, which has led many churches and factions to demand regular religious attendance for several months before allowing an orc to join. There is a notable presence in the orcish world, particularly on the home island of Grob, of orcs who refuse to join the world of organized religion and try to keep the tradition of nature communing alive. 

Elves: 

Beliefs: Elves are unique among the groups in Evanoch in that they do not believe in having a primary chosen deity. Rather, elves believe that when the domain of a specific deity becomes involved in the elf's life, it is time to call upon that deity. No specific bond needs to be formed--it is simply a transactional act of service to that deity. Elves tend to keep personal altars in their homes, and these serve as the service site for all deities; at the same time, especially big requests of the gods usually result in an elf going to the specific temple of that deity. Elves consider it inappropriate to wear any religious symbol at any time unless the wearer is a religious official. 

Though elves invoke any god they feel appropriate, there are a handful who are the most commonly addressed. Corellon Larethian, god of the elves, is an important figure--when an elf is making a general request that does not fall under a specific deity, they will usually attribute it to Corellon Larethian as a protector of elves. Elves are very attached to the nature around them, and elven communities have traditionally relied on the health of that nature--to that end, Obad-Hai and Ehlonna are both invoked as ways to tend to and protect nature. Because elves see gods as masters of domains and not masters to be served, they also have less trepidation about invoking the more dangerous of the gods. Curious elves often ask Vecna, god of secrets, for information; elves seeking information on the dead and on magic appeal to Wee Jas. 

Impact on Society: Since elves don't have chosen deities, their interactions with the various gods are far more casual than other groups. Where some groups like Daltoners and dwarves are fanatical about showing respect to deities, elves speak plainly in prayer and treat gods as common people. This has led other groups to regard elves as haughty and selfish. And since this impression has become popular, and because interacting with dangerous deities is socially frowned-upon, elves tend to keep their religious work totally private whenever possible. This in turn has led many outsiders to speculate the elves are hiding something in terms of religion, further driving the elves to privacy. 

Half-elves:

Beliefs: From their elven parents, half-elves inherited a sense that all gods are available for worship; from their Faninite parents, half-elves learned to lean on their faith as a way to serve the community. As a result, half-elves tend to invoke gods based on what they can do to help their community. This means that half-elves have reinvented the way public shrines work--rather than being a communal but ultimately private spot, half-elven shrines are places to partake in shared worship as appropriate, something of a compromise between the private worship of elves and the mandatory public worship of Daltoners and dwarves. These shrines have designated spaces for public and private worship, and they are becoming popular across Evanoch in all manner of communities. 

Both elves and Faninites revere nature, so it's natural that half-elves would follow the god of nature, Obad-Hai. Half-elven followers of Obad-Hai are known for their efforts to keep Evanoch's nature healthy and in balance. But just as balance is in the domain of life, it is also the domain of death. Many half-elves have developed religious relationships with Nerull as a force that balances life and is a natural part of the cycle of life. As constant travelers and explorers, half-elves often pray to Fharlanghn, who grants safe passage and happy travels. And because half-elves are among the best creatives in the land, they also invoke the gods who represent artistic endeavors--visual artists call upon Corellon Larethian, and performers and writers work with Olidammara

Impact on Society: Half-elves are generally the most dominant social force on the continent of Evanoch--their clothing and music, for instance, are the most popular and inclusive around. Because of the popularity of half-elven innovation, their religious practices have also begun to catch on. Around Evanoch, public shrines have popped up; more and more people are adding situational prayers to other deities on top of their devotion to another main god; and the popularity of Fharlanghn and Olidammara have skyrocketed. All of these forces have loosened the boundaries between cultural approaches to religion, which has in turn led to a large-scale reworking of public faith communities to be more approachable and accepting of difference. This has meant a major boom of religious faith and activity in recent years. 

Gnomes: 

Beliefs: Gnomish faith practices are not centrally defined as standardized practices--rather, these descriptions represent an average of what gnomes tend to do. That said, most gnomes tend to pick two deities with one in a position of superiority to the other (some choose three in a similarly hierarchical system). The primary deity is the default go-to for matters of faith, and the secondary deity is considered a boost to the first when necessary (or a boost to the first two, if three). Gnomes are known for creating elaborate homes for their pets; they similar create elaborate altars which are hidden in plain sight in the home. For instance, a gnome might have a painting of a holy symbol of a deity next to a lamp whose frame is shaped as the secondary deity's holy symbol. 

Garl Glittergold is a common deity among gnomes--as the god of gnomes, and a particularly active one, Glittergold is a powerful deity to have on one's side. Glittergold, and particularly the iteration Loremin, a patron god of inventors, is the most commonly chosen deity among gnomes. Gnomes also appreciate practical goodness (their economic system is designed to eliminate income disparity and create public works, for instance), so gods like Pelor and St. Cuthbert, both of whom stand for common sense goodness and helping one's fellow gnome, are highly popular. And because gnomes are so often fixated on discovering hidden knowledge, they are known to pursue that knowledge via the gods--the hopeful and cautious approach Boccob, the detached god of magic and knowledge, and the desperate go to Vecna, the treacherous god of secrets. 

Impact on Society: When a gnome chooses deities, the choice is considered to be fairly unchangeable. Switching deities is seen as ruthless and sneaky, and the social toll of this is heavy. As a result, gnomes retain their gods unless in an absolute emergency and seek public religious officials in other deities' domains. This has led to a massive market for religious experts in less-common religions. In many of the bigger gnomish settlements, marketplaces have a special place set aside for itinerant priests and clerics who can administer to the masses. Many outsiders to the practice view this is commodifying religion and entirely inappropriate, but gnomes are quick to point out that everyone benefits from the practice. Some outsiders have adopted the traveling religious official business model outside of gnomish society, particularly with Daltoners and orcs. 

Halflings: 

Beliefs: Halflings have the least structured relationships with their deities of any of the groups in Evanoch. Halflings acknowledge that the gods have direct effects on their lives and the world around them, but they generally believe that the gods are too inscrutable to fully understand or bargain with. As a result, halflings tend to pray or invoke a god only when things are fairly desperate and there are no other practical options. This leads other groups to look at halflings as opportunistic and devoid of real faith, though the reality is more that the halflings simply respect the gods as being fully outside of their understanding to meddle with supernatural forces. 

When halflings do get involved with deities, they tend to do so for specific purposes. Yondalla, goddess of the halflings and the mother symbol of the pantheon, is a common deity for halflings to invoke when a general problem presents itself. Yondalla is commonly called upon for good luck, family happiness, and childrearing help, among other more general concerns. When halflings travel, they ask for help from Fharlanghn, notably the iteration Eramsin, who protects honest travelers and grants them excellent journeys. Halflings traditionally come from a dense rainforest system in the center of Evanoch, and they often invoke the gods Obad-Hai and Ehlonna to alternately preserve or protect the environment. Finally, halflings are not powerful beings, and their survival in dangerous situations often comes down to agility--for this reason, halflings who want safety often appeal to Olidammara for quick reflexes. 

Impact on Society: Halflings' detached relationship from deities seems to be no less powerful than other groups', which has led many observers to acknowledge that direct devotion does not necessarily mean much to the gods. As a result, a number of more open-minded Evanines have decided to embrace the halfling focus on practical reality. At the same time, halflings are essentially the only followers of Yondalla (aside from parents' prayers for serenity), which means that there are only a few true devotees of her faith. Due to this, seeing a cleric of Yondalla is especially rare, and it has become something of a sign of good luck to witness one of these clerics. Finally, halflings who assimilate into common society tend to obscure their religious beliefs by pretending to be more religiously committed than they are--"I worship Pelor" has become a common way for halflings to dismiss a conversation about religion. 

There you have it--a guide to the religious beliefs of each group in my homebrew setting. I was pleased to find that each of the nineteen deities had a place in one group or another's beliefs, which means I have a much clearer picture of how religious practice actually breaks down in my world. As always, exploring these ideas in detail has helped me to better understand my world as well as given me lots of jumping-off points for adding fun details in-game. Remember, literally any detail you worldbuild could be the cool detail that inspires your players to connect to the world or the cool detail that inspires you to create something incredible for your players. It all comes down to doing the work beforehand so that you can just be creative in the moment. 

That's all for now. Coming soon: a dark time loop adventure one-shot, profiles on the major cities in my homebrew setting, and funeral rites and views on death in my homebrew setting. Until next time, happy gaming!