Ectography

Ectography is an arcane technique used in capturing images of non-physical or trans-physical objects, items or entities. It originated with the ancient, crude  camera obscuras and skrying boxes used by phantasmagorists, mediums and evocationaries, but developed into its own thing fairly quickly as alchemists and others sought to replicate the results gained by some of the more successful mediums. Trial and error led to myriad breakthroughs and dead ends alike, but the conventional configuration of lenses, fluid condensers, mirrors, and heavily lacquered black boxes was arrived at more than seven hundred years ago, perhaps more than a thousand years ago if the claims of Archimbaldo and Lange are to be taken seriously. But since they also are the main proponents of some of the wilder paleo-astronomy theories currently in vogue among the more lurid publications, their claim as to the pedigree of ectography is somewhat in doubt.

Ectography makes use of a bitumen-based solution on glass plates, as with heliotropes, but it also relies upon a formulation of silver nitrate, as per daguerreotypes, and in addition it only works in conditions of darkness and in the presence of ectoplasm. The first models could only be worked by a physical medium, or with the assistance of one or more practising mediums, making it difficult to use and unwieldy in general. The use of certain salts in the formulation of the primary solution made the ectographic cameras usable by non-mediums. There is rigorous debate to this day over what formulation or solution is the best or most effective. Some ectographers prefer a preliminary bath of colloidal silver to prime their glass plates, others insist on necrocineris, black saltes, or even a derivative of White Powder, while still others will only work with a paste made from ground-up old mummies and certain 'secret ingredients' they insist must be compounded during certain phases of the moon. Certain schools teach their students to always use specific grades of incense for best results, others avoid smoke of all sorts and instead make use of pans of fresh-drawn blood, or even less wholesome methods. There are hundreds of different, competing formulations and techniques in use and each one has its merits; those methods that did not produce effective results were cast aside long ago. A direct predecessor of Haemotypes (see here for an example), the images produced by ectography are derived from ectoplasm, not blood. At least not directly.

Modern ectography combines a sort of psychometry with ectoplasmic senstivity, but now the camera-mechanism is at least as much the active medium as any sitter or ectopath that the ectographer might be employ. The cameras often become extremely sensitive due to long exposure to the various volatile compounds used in the process. Some cameras are reputed to have become haunted. Other have been confiscated for use as spirit-traps or worse. It is a volatile and complicated field, rife with competing adepts, (literally) cut-throat experts and not a few incautious dabblers or unscrupulous charlatans who often stir up a great deal of trouble, especially wherever there might be Horlas or Fantomists involved.

Ectography was originally established as a viable artistic method and technique well before the Midwives' Rebellion and has continued to grow, evolve and fragment into dozens of specializations, unique sub-disciplines and spin-off techniques that in some cases threaten to eclipse the old approaches with their newfangled ways of producing evocative images, whether they are capturing the impressions of dreams, showing the true face of those who are not what they seem, revealing otherwise invisible things, a dying man's last memories, the last thing seen by a murder victim, or some bizarre montage of disjointed impressions taken across planar membranes, through time, or even more outlandish and outrageous things. Ectographers are a strange lot, always pushing back the boundaries of what can be seen, often with a total disregard for whether or not these things should be seen, or the consequences of making such things visible.

Recent experiments in time-lapse ectography near some of the more stable Weak Points have revealed what may be a dangerous new approach to transplanar exploration...if the glass plates that survived the carnage that has left three ectographers dead and seven missing are any indication...

Spring in Wermspittle (IV)

School of Hard Knocks

For the first few weeks of Spring, professors and other scholars and academics tend to stay off the streets unless accompanied by bodyguards. Lots of bodyguards. Preferably big, scary ones. Wherever they go, the scholars and instructors are mobbed by scores of arrogant, earnest, precious, desperate applicants seeking entry into the Academy, the Colleges, the Schools or Clinics. Every expert, adept and master has their pick of the surfeit of fresh young things vying for some sort of a chance to prove themselves, any kind of opportunity to better themselves. Apothecaries and academics, surgeons and sorcerers all post their requirements and conditions for acceptance as an apprentice only to face an onslaught of applicants. Many hire extra staff just to handle all the eager young would-be apprentices. The majority of the legitimate opportunities are filled and spoken for within the first two weeks. Then the scammers, frauds, and agents of the Corruption Trade descend upon the disappointed and desperate remnants and left-overs before they fully realize that the parties are all over.

There are scholarships, of course, but qualifying for those is even more difficult than fighting one's way through the bureaucratic gauntlet and the impromptu extracurricular arenas. Those who fail the admissions tests, get passed-over or drop-out in the midst of the mad rush of would-be new students entering academia still have a shot at becoming an apprentice, intern or unpaid assistant. Not all professions require a degree or a diploma. Many can only be entered, legitimately, via an apprenticeship or period of scholastic indenturement. In some cases this is a real fast-track to power or fame, in others it is as much a dead end as delivering questionable meat to the Goules of Latterkamp in Winter.

A Bitter After-Taste

Quite a number of young people wake up to a harsh reality come the last two weeks of April. Those who have been admitted to the colleges, institutes and learning clinics have left them behind. The dancers have gone back to their regular jobs, the liquor is no longer flowing quite so freely and the landlords want to be paid. All those wagon-loads of provisions sent along with young Johan or Elsbeth by their parents are empty, picked clean by revelers. The teamsters have already headed out of town carrying loads of salvage or handicrafts to the trading camps of the few merchant caravans worth rendezvousing with before the onset of Summer.

Piper's Wages

For many young people it is a harsh way to wake-up. Dunners and debt-collectors seem to come out of the wood-work. Doors get locked and windows barred. The Patrols start making the rounds again. Things that were tolerated, even gleefully encouraged during the Revels get punished, often summarily and harshly. Vices that were freely catered to before are hard to find and expensive when the once-friendly peddlers are finally found. All that was free now comes at a stiff price. Loud noises attract unwanted attention. Even a smile can start a fight among strangers. But few such scuffles last for very long before the Patrol descends upon them and sorts it all out. Those with money can walk, those who are destitute can either take their chances in the pits or ask for the Low Court to assign them some municipal service. Most just get auctioned off to debt-collectors and usurers who like to invest in the futures of trouble-makers who show promise as fighters, gladiators, or other types of servants. The Dusk Bells ring once more and the old contraband water clocks start to keep track of the hours again. Order is to be restored. Time matters again. There is much work to do and only a short time left in which to get it all done before the frost comes back and the hard times descend like a shroud over the city.

Dust Collectors

Dust Collector
No. Enc.: 1
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 60' (20')
Armor Class: 7
Hit Dice: 3
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1d6 or by weapon
Save: MU 6
Morale: 11

Tall, gaunt inhuman savants, the Dust Collectors lurk in the shadows surrounding the Dry Rot in Wermspittle, the Mallannax Appendix in Jumio, or the Tower of Xallameo within the Red Wastes, and similar such places and spaces  to be found beyond the Kalaramar Drifts. They travel far and wide, always seeking after specimens dust and gathering trace amounts of cast-off matter or skin-cells that they absorb directly into their tissues, encysting this stuff into tiny internalized nodules that they somehow use to store, sort, analyze, and manipulate it, even use it in their sorcery or art. Dust Collectors extract information from even the tiniest speck of otherwise unnoticeable, inconsequential matter. The littlest fragments often reveal the most incredible secrets.

Their flesh is filled with a lambent, sickly pulsing light that seems to be seeping out from their diseased brains, which are lodged deep in their torsos and wrapped within a cage of cartilage. Lacking any sort of a real, proper head, they completely eschew sight and rely upon a range of other senses that allow them to discern trace amounts of rare elements, detect the chemical composition of anything and everything within 120 feet (or more if they exert themselves), and to observe the esoteric functions of matter deep down on the smallest scales. The member that juts forth from between their shoulders resembles a bloated and dead, vestigial organ used more to frighten the superstitious and the gullible than anything else, though it may in fact be some sort of sensory appendage. Dust Collectors are also gifted with a form of ESP that further enhances their ability to perceive extraordinarily minute things.

Not From Around Here
The Quadratic Codex ascribes the third planar layer of Baltong as the point of origin of these strange visitants. That may well be true. Certainly there is something of a bond between these cadaverous-looking beings and that dessicated wasteland beyond the Notorious Blue Box. But they are as likely to be denizens of some devastated world behind broken skies--if the account set down by Sarmandrio of Kalrion has any basis in truth. A debatable thing.

There are those who think that these beings are transplanar undertakers, after a fashion, but there are no conformed accounts of their ever having disturbed a crypt, sepulchre or tomb. Indeed, these creatures seem to be a bit too fastidious to ever delve into such hallowed precincts. Instead they prefer to collect samples of dust from libraries, studios, and lecture halls. They will go to great lengths to gather-up samples of dust that they feel is most potent or that has the most potential. They scrape these samples into small piles, expectorate a horrid mucous-like substance upon it and then absorb it through the mouth-like sucker-rings on their hands in order to carry it all away with them to their shabby lairs, often a dismal attic garret or some cramped cubicle walled-off within the dank cellar of some tavern or other place where the proprietor is unlikely to ask too many questions or to get too nosy.

What Are They Really Doing?
What are they looking for in the dust that they gather? The Dust Collectors are rumored to be skilled in the reformulation of what once were living things from the essential fragments left behind in cast off cells and flakes of skin--the primary component of dust. They seek nothing less than to dredge life back up from the dust itself, to revive things that have passed away from the world and to restore those beings, creatures or persons whom they choose from the cold shores of oblivion. Dust Collectors may be responsible for the resurgence and return of otherwise extinct species. They may also have played a role in the revivification of various notorious individuals who were reliably reported as being dead or destroyed. It is only a rumor, but many believe that the Dust Collectors can be bribed to restore the dead from only a few grains of dust, but no one is sure exactly how that works, or if those so returned are in fact really the people originally bargained for...

Why?
Nature may abhor a vacuum, but these strange beings abhor entropy and seek to subvert it by their little efforts, one small step at a time. They are nothing if not patient, methodical, persistent. Some say that they themselves are immortal. Perhaps they are. Maybe they make a practice of revivifying one another on a regular basis, possibly on some pre-arranged schedule. There are rumors that there may only really be one of these beings, that all the others are actually replicas, simulacra, copies of the one, actual connoisseur.

Shady Dealings
It might be possible to negotiate terms with a Dust Collector for the revivification of some friend, relative or other being or creature, so long as you can meet their steep price and have a suitable sample of their dust to provide to them for the process. It is also said that it is possible to purchase specimens of extinct species from the Dust Collectors, but only a few demented curators or eccentric sorcerers have ever pursued such an arrangement, mostly due to the exorbitant expense. Long ago, it is told in certain quarters, the Queen of ancient Xylaam is said to have struck a bargain with a cabal of Dust Collectors in order to resurrect a peculiar bird called the Dodo. Flocks of the ungainly, ugly birds now roost in the ruins of her once proud estates. To this day there are reports of the supposedly long dead Queen being sighted in yet another far away land, as young and beautiful as ever, but lost and wandering as though she no longer knew quite whom she really was or might have been. Everywhere she goes, Dodoes are soon to be found making clumsy, smelly nests.

Spring in Wermspittle III: Revels

Reckless Revels
The Spring Revels of Wermspittle are notorious, infamous, and outrageous. The bizarre competes with the exceptional and the unusual in an intoxicating and frenzied festival of marvels, wonders and miracles. The Patrols turn a blind eye to the crowded streets and alleys within the areas designated 'safe enough for now,' by the Privy Council. The crowds grow wanton, wild and reckless. The parties explode into wandering riotous mobs and the night is filled with music, laughter and all manner of phantasm, both fair and foul. The Revels are a free-for-all, a no holds barred blow-out that brings a much-needed influx of fresh enthusiasm, malleable young minds, and new blood into the city.

Spring is in the air and for a brief shining moment Wermspittle is filled with hopes, dreams, ambitions and opportunities. Hundreds of children flood into the city. Youthful optimism temporarily drives out the lingering shadows of the dark times. Banners wave, liquor flows, inhibitions evaporate and everyone gets caught-up in the giddy carnival-like atmosphere. Money is no good in the rathskellars and beer halls. Everything is run on credit. Landlords, bar-tenders and merchants all keep track of things, as per tradition. Aside from the wagon-loads of provisions sent along with the children of the Low Lander farms (those who still vainly hope such bribery will help their children's chances), there isn't a lot of food available (mostly duck, geese and other migratory water-fowl), but there is plenty of liquor. Lots of liquor and strange new and exotic vices to stimulate the senses and intoxicate, then snare the gullible and vulnerable.

Mobs, Parties and Other Encounters

1. (1d4) Green-mantled and masked Wardens are ejecting (2d4) would-be guests from an inn that is filled past capacity. The ejectees are extremely upset and quite drunk. At least one of them is suffering from the effects of Dim Ichor. The other one wants to set fire to the place out of revenge.
2. A novice goat-legged sorcerer stumbles out of an Abandoned Property with a Stranglemass choking him to death. So far no one has noticed anything out of the ordinary.
3. The street just shuddered. There's a Type IV Gobbling Grout having a fit, thrashing about, and shifting the entire over-packed tavern off of its foundations.
4. BOOM! Someone just found a pocket of explosive gas that had been building-up in one of the near-by cellar cess-pits. Foul debris rains down over a 300' radius, but the only damage is the smell and the mess.
5. (4d6) Unchaperoned children are playing games and having a great time enjoying the fireworks and Special Candies that the Candyman is handing out freely to any who'll try some. The candies come in a wide variety of shapes, but all are oily, white marzipan-like confections liberally coated with a White Powder.
6. A Soulless Scholar escorted by (2d4) burly Morlocks in full chain-mail wielding halberds and truncheons. He is late for an appointment and losing patience with the riff-raff in the street. Unfortunately, he is on notice for having authorized his guards to use unnecessary force upon the wrong bunch of students three days ago and he is being monitored by an invisible member of the Board of Review.
7. Some Prodigy has just cast a Processions of the Damned spell in the next alley and there's not enough room for the Procession to all fit properly, causing the spell to fluctuate and sputter as it tries to settle into place. The Prodigy will collapse in 2d4 minutes from exhaustion. If no one retrieves the kid, she'll be trampled to death in the street.
8. (2d4) Wagons driven by Teamsters are being escorted through the crowded street by (4d20) children from the Low Lands. Three Revelers have already been beaten severely for trying to loot the wagons. People are taking bets as to how far the kids will get with their wagons before all hell breaks loose.
9. A Jaladari is selling talismans, amulets, charms and tokens to anyone who'll come near. They warn of the dangers of Red Shadows, Gloomswallows and worse, but few are paying any attention.
10. A Medium screams pitifully as a group of bullies let a small Ordrang strip them of their ectoplasm. The bullies were paid to torment the bloody and bruised fellow by the agent of a group of Fantomists who want to send a message to the other mediums and their ilk. This is their town now. Or so they claim.
11. (1d6) Eloi and/or (1d4) Blue Angels are leading a drunken mob towards their mistresses' brothel. People either join the mob, or get out of the way. More than half the members of this mob are clueless children caught-up in the whore's sorcerous glamer. A Vigilante has already been left bleeding in the gutter after unsuccessfully attempting to break the spell they've placed upon the children.
12. A riot is breaking out. Some fool let one of the few surviving Puritans into a tavern and she got stabbed within the first two minutes of trying to bust-up some gambling. The thieves were dicing for who got to keep the Puritan's nice black cloak. So far she has only killed six customers and they've all been driven out into the street by a Pallid sorceress who is being paid to keep things under control by the landlord.
13. Screams! Chaos! The cobblestones shift. People are running away. (10d10) Revelers all begin to move in the same general direction; away from a collapsed section of street out of which hordes of skittering, panicking rats are pouring forth.
14. (2d6) Sorcerers are fighting a spell-duel in the street. One of them is an Almas in red robes, another is  clad in filthy manticore-hides and reeks of charnel-clay. The Almas seems to be winning, but the necro-eremite intends to cheat, if necessary.
15. (1d6) Lurm are haggling with a teamster about securing passage out of here. They want to reach a particular Low Lander hamlet before plowing begins. You overhear something about seeds and something else about the phase of the Moon. One of them is carrying a richly inlaid volley-gonne. The rest are scholars, sorcerers or surgeons. Before they can complete their transaction (6d6) children swarm through the place shouting, laughing and throwing rotten produce. For many of them this is their first time away from home and many of them are already feeling the effects of the long walk, the spectacle, the liquor; their antics have a 40% chance to ignite a violent street fight at any moment.
16. (1d6) Drunken Steppes-Nomad Revelers are orchestrating an impromptu moist bodice competition that seems to be going over very well with the increasingly drunk and rowdy crowd.
17. An old pit-fighter with more than half his visible skin replaced with patches of wermhide is handing out flyers and passes to an underground fight if you're interested in that sort of thing.
18. A very large Cyclopes has passed out in the middle of the street. The Wardens are trying to find out who summoned it in order to get them to remove the damned thing since it's blocking traffic.
19. A group of (2d4) Refugees from Yudrabak are pushing their way through the mobs looking for one of their people who seems to have gotten separated from the rest. She has been abducted by (2d4) Hunchbacked Grim-Clowns who are running off with her across the rooftops.
20. (2d6) Members of the Patrol are pointedly ignoring the festivities while keeping a watch on the most notorious cellars, Abandoned Properties, known nests, marked lairs and so on. They will not interfere with the Revels, nor will they participate; they know that far too many unpleasant things are getting stirred up, riled up or driven out from their dens to relax their vigil.

Foragers in Wermspittle (I)

Foragers

Unlike the usual gangs of looters and scavengers, the Foragers either enter into the Corruption Trade or they get a lucky break and get the opportunity to join the ranks of the highly specialized hunters and urban-gatherers working the ruins of Wermspittle such as the sporemongers, dung-bundlers, worm wranglers, ordureists and vermin-trappers. 


Most Foragers aren't so lucky. They either become intimately familiar with the spoor, sign and traces of Loathsome Masses and their attendant by-products, or else they get dropped and have to try to eke out some sort of life among the cast-offs and refugees of the shanty-camps. A few, if they are still young enough, attempt to join the roving bands of Feral Children. No one is quite sure what happens to the rest. Some things are best left unexamined. Especially in the Winter.


Many would-be apprentices who've been brought into the Corruption Trade don't survive their first year. The competition among apprentice candidates seeking to escape from being a rank and file Forager is fierce and rife with sabotage, betrayal, and worse. It can make a real difference down the road if one has some friends in low places or if they have a few secrets up their sleeves -- the kind of secrets that can only come from real world experience and not just book-learning. They are a hardscrabble lot, ragged, oppressed and ruthlessly exploited by the Corruption Trade, but they still manage to survive. Somehow.

A Few Foragers You Might Meet

1. Jindru is a cute young girl, except for the livid scar across her left cheek that curls down her neck--the mark of an Eave-Leech that nearly killed her when she was still just getting started out as a Forager. That was two winters ago. She wears a ragged soldier's coat that has been roughly cut to be short enough for her to still walk in the thing. Her feet are bare, even in Winter, and she dreams of being able to take a bath someday.
2. Kusha is a hermaphrodite who was turned out from the Pinglassi Refugee camps clustered around the burned-out shell of Praetorius Asylum. They have found an old arsenal left-behind by one the old airship-crews. That's where they found the three pistols and curved dagger. Kusha flagrantly taunts the elders of the Pinglassi, deliberately violates their edicts and flaunts their authority any chance they get. It seems to be an obsession with them. With all of them.
3. Lemuel doesn't talk much, not since his tongue was bitten in half by a Gore-Worm when he tried to lick one on a dare. He soaks his fists in brine in order to not feel things that he hits and hits and hits.
4. Teish has long, black hair that would make an Eloi envious. Her mother tried to sell her into a brothel, but she ran away. Now she runs along the rooftops and manages to not be noticed by the bad things down below. Usually.
5. Barg is shorter than most, with heavily scarred hands missing their fingernails. They tend to stick to the shadows and never comes in from the cold, no matter what. No one knows for sure if they're even human, but they are very good at locating and gathering-up Wet Spots.
6. Gleemer always smiles, especially when she's pounding the brains out of someone's skull with the pair of hammers she always carries. She'll fight anyone. Anytime. People tend to just toss her some food or a skin of wine and hope she'll go away.
7. Tookinom is tall, gangly, exceptionally pale and can barely manage to speak anything that anyone else can recognize or understand. They have the most disturbing curdled-violet eyes and they stink of sorcery, but no one's ever seen them cast even a small cantrip.
8. Bozga is stout, heavily-built and olive-complected. She claims to be the daughter of some great warrior-queen from another world that everyone else is pretty sure she made up. She carries a two-handed sword that's at least twice too big for her, but she won't abandon it no matter what. Bozga never forgets a friend, and makes a point of killing her enemies at the first opportunity.
9. Shreem talks too much and has a nervous twitch. Some say he's Odd, others just think that he was touched by one of the Low Land plagues. Maybe his mother was exposed or infected while she was still carrying him. No one is sure. He talks to himself in three different voices and wields a small but wicked scalpel he salvaged from an old clinic. He won't go back there. Not for anything.
10. Trinda wears a makeshift mask and wraps herself in strips of old, musty tapestries and curtains. She moves quietly, discretely through whatever space she finds herself in, and leaves before anyone really registers that she was even there. The rats whisper her name in dread, as though it were a curse upon their kind.

Purple Forest (Paraversal Planes)

The Purple Forest is mentioned in numerous sources available to the majority of scholars, students or sorcerers. Indeed it is one of the most well-documented and often visited Planar Realms known to nearly all reputable modern practitioners of those transgressive arts that delve into the mysteries of the Paraversal Planes and all such strange spaces.

Getting There
One could attempt to warp a free-floating Weak Point into temporary alignment with other spaces, including the Purple Forest, but the abuse of Violet Polyhedrae in such a manner is frowned upon by the authorities as it can lead to spill-overs, leaks and energetic bleeds that can often prove quite problematic. Attempting such a stunt is an offense leading to almost certain expulsion from the Academy. So, of course, those inclined to dabble in such proscribed things tend to go out into one of the Abandoned Properties and do it in secret. Black Trapezoids are also rumored to be useful in this context, but useful details are scant.

There is also Jakub's Door, a static portal anchored within a lop-sided door-frame on the third floor of a half-collapsed tenement deep within the Burned Over District. The location of Jakub's Door is only shared via word of mouth among those who have worked their way up the ranks as a Forager. It is a secret only revealed to those who have proven themselves to one who already knows the secret.

The most common way to get to the Purple Forest is to make use of the Triple Circle spell. It is not at all uncommon for mentors, patrons or employers to cast this spell and send parties of expendable cheap gullible  dedicated explorers through to collect purple amber, various exotic herbs, peculiar pollen, and other such things that have numerous uses and applications, especially to Fantomists, Oneirists, Somnambulists and some of the more obscure Teratosophists.

What's It Like?
Purple. Very, very purple. As far as anyone has ever explored or claimed to have gone, this whole realm is one vast, multi-continental lushly overgrown old-growth forest that seemingly extends onward and outward forever. There are few roads, and what trails there are tend to get overgrown by thorns and other brush fairly quick. The skies are perpetually overcast, gloomy and drizzle cold rain far too often. There are parts of the Purple Forest that do experience a type of winter, but overall the place seems to remain fairly even and stable when it comes to temperature.

A Dozen Fairly Common Encounters

1. (2d4) Deer or (1) really big porcupine with an attitude (30% chance of distemper or rabies).
2. (1d4) Koponu (Non-Union, and with a 40% chance of being drunk on fermented sap).
3. (1d4) Horned Bear (anything over the first one is a cub), they have 1d6 horns & the horns are worth a fair bit to a carver or horn-worker.
4. (1d2) Two-headed Boar or (1d4) Harpies scouting-out a potential new nest-site for their Tormenter Mistress.
5. (3d6) Woodsfolk or (1d4) dwarf-Molg.
6. (1d4) Hunters (Either Bows or spears; not many carry gonnes over here--the noise tends to rile-up and attract Big Nasty Things, like Huge Unseen Beasts or worse.)
7. (1d2) Gloomswallow
8. (1d4) Arborial Centipedes; these things have a distressing tendency to drop down from overhanging limbs and then curl tightly around their victim's heads/necks like living nooses. Maybe there is something to the old wives' tales about some renegade Midwives who ran off to the Purple Forest to avoid getting tossed into the asylum camps back during the Rebellion...
9. (1d4) Amber-Gatherers.
10. (2d6) Brigands who've managed to get themselves lost or (1) Midwife gathering herbs.
11. (1d20) Blue Zoogs or (1d4) Grikflits.
12. (1d4) Crudiv lurking in the thickets, scanning for opportunities.

There are rumors of peryton, man-sized bats, giant owls, and tribes of barbaric blue jay theriocephs out past the perimeter of the established enclaves.

Why Go There?
Foragers, foreigners and mercenaries are hired to go scrounge-up various things from the Purple Forest, as noted above, but the main attraction of this place is as a source of game during the harsh winters in Wermspittle; this is one of the ways that the Academy manages to feed its people during the worst of times. There are also several camps of lumberjacks and woodsfolk who have set themselves up to harvest, process and deliver a wide selection of choice woods especially useful in the creation of cabinets, ritual furniture, and other such applications, wood that is unique to this place. The huge bees that buzz across the scattered glades and hidden meadows are famous for the honey they produce, and that honey is greedily gathered for use in making mead that can go for three times the going rate of Dim Ichor or any of the mid-range brands of Black Liquors, especially in the Winter, when this mead is said to unlock even the deepest dreams. Then there is the trade in purple amber, which is used in the crafting of potent magical incenses, inks, oils and unguents and is an essential component in the concoction of the salves and fumigants used in the prosecution of the Four Great Seasonal Mysteries. The sap of certain trees in the Purple Forest is also used in the preparation of the Autumnal Carnifex in particular.

What Are People Saying About This Place?

1. Gloomswallows seem to drift across to the Purple Forest at-will, leading some oneirically-inclined scholars to assert that this might well be the birth-place of these things.
2. A shipment of (2d6) 'Sleeping Cabinets' were recently lost when the cart transporting them disappeared during a recent drizzle.
3. Solemn Nils of Paldramont has apparently found a way to bring over several dozen of his brigands and they have begun raiding some of the farther-out lumber camps and woodsfolk enclaves. Nils is notorious for his brutal methods and the enclaves closer to the more common points of entry are starting to hire-on ruffians, louts and mercenaries in order to protect them from further raids.
4. The Dalgaztri Camp hired-on some Urglun mercenaries only to have the things take over the place and enslave their employers. They seem to be building a fortress. The only reason anyone knows about this turn of events is that a small group of hunters escaped and are trying to raise a group of volunteers to go back and liberate their people.
5. A cache of high-grade purple amber is said to be stashed within the upper stories of the mostly burned-out Black Tambourine Inn.
6. A small group of Refugees is trying to hire someone to cast the Triple Circle spell for them. They have a goodly amount of coinage to offer, but something just doesn't sound right about the arrangement.
7. Midwives tell of any number of beautiful pools out past the queen-hives. These pools have special properties and effects. Sometimes the water retains this quality, other time not. One might be able to restore a fractured mind, or mend a tattered soul at the right pool, were one to know which one to seek out...
8. A small clique of brewers have decided to break free of the Corruption Trade, stop producing Black Liquors, and focus on making several varieties of mead and blended metheglins from the honey gathered from the Purple Forest. They'll need some protection, and a few good Foragers who'll work for them as they try to get set-up and running...

Why Doesn't Everyone Just Go There?

• Anyone with a CON lower than 15 must make a Save every 4 hours or else come down with the Restless Slumbers. This is an illness that makes it increasingly difficult for those affected to recover hit points or spells while in the Purple Forest. Those who contract this condition also receive a permanent -2 on all Saves versus Oneiric and Somnambulistic spell effects. Leaving the Purple Forest will allow those affected to shrug off the effect over 1d4 months (Make a Save at -4 first month, -3 the next, -2 next, -1 after that).
• Anyone who dies (or whose body is dumped) out in the Deep Woods has a tendency to get colonized by weird fungi. Some of these shambling things come back, others just decompose into the soil, and some allow the fungi to develop strange new hybrid forms.
• Dreamers who spend overlong in the Purple Forest tend to attract Gloomswallows, especially when they are asleep or in trance.

Silas Gromff and the Midwives' Rebellion (Wermspittle)

One of three surviving certified-authentic Haemotypes
depicting Silas Gromff (right)
and an unidentified Medium (left)
captured during the early days of the Rebellion. 

First they hung all the lawyers. Technically, the Blue Tuques did the hanging. The Midwives just took advantage of it. It still hasn't been conclusively proven that they were the ones orchestrating things, but most suspect them and the rest blame them.

Hanging went out of style in Wermspittle after the nooses started to take on a grim unlife of their own and the Alraunes and Mandrakes cultivated and unleashed by the Midwives who harvested the spilt-seed of the hanged men became numerous enough, powerful enough to stake-out sections of the Burned Over District as off-limits to those not of their kind. And make it stick.

What was done to the bodies of the few women hanged to death upon the gallows doesn't bear mentioning. It was the last-straw, even moreso than anything ever done to a bunch of lawyers. That one revelation proved too much, even for the folk of a place so steeped in misery and the macabre as Wermspittle.

A firestorm tore through Wermspittle. Overnight mobs stoned, tore to pieces, crucified and impaled scores of Gibbet-Men, Blue Tuques and Midwives. Bodies and pieces of bodies were strewn through the streets and across the walls like grotesque garlands conceived in the feverish mind of a pig-eyed butcher. It was horrific. It was also the start of a war. A terrible war of ever escalating atrocities that has never quite gone away nor fully ended. Echoes of it still reverberate through the corridors of asylums turned torture-parlors, shadows of forgotten massacres slither across nondescript garden walls, and the dead still mutter darkly in their graves of dreadful wrongs and worse revenge. The Midwive's Rebellion has left an indelible mark upon Wermspittle. A deep, livid scar that will never heal, but always seep a little blood like some lingering stigmata.

Ruthless Retribution
Not even three weeks into his new job as the non-appointed Grand Marshall of the Sewer Militia, Silas Gromff found himself up to his hips in angry mobs and a full-blown rebellion. Already facing an impossible task in coordinating the defense of the city from threats his spelunker-scouts had discovered mustering in the Deep Below, Silas Gromff acted decisively and ruthlessly to end the Midwives' Rebellion before it could jeopardize everything. After the negotiations broke down and his representatives were disemboweled to make Gutworms, it was abundantly clear that there was no way to negotiate with the possessed and mad cackling hags who led the rebels. Drastic steps were called for. So Silas Gromff took incredibly drastic steps, as only he could.

Gromff sent crews of Sewer Militia sergeants into the internment-camps established by the previous Military Governor's administration and deputized over two hundred homeless and desperate Refugees, gave them all their pick of whatever clubs, hatchets or other weapons could be gathered or collected quickly, and set them to killing every other Midwife they encountered. It was a horrific tactic, despicable and under-handed, and exactly the sort of thing that worked where nothing else had shown any positive results. The mobs didn't stop until nearly all of the forces loyal to or under the control of the Midwives were exterminated. To this day, it is considered a bad omen to wear a blue tuque in the open.

Recriminations & Redemption
What Silas Gromff did was heinous and terrible. He freely admitted it himself. Frequently and often in public; but he also made it scathingly clear that the Midwives had forced his hand. Two days after the massacres swept through the streets, Gromff's deputized mobs were conscripted and marched down the cellar ramparts to confront a full-blown underground invasion by Fetidian wormsoldiers from some previously unsuspected underworld empire. Heavy losses accrued. The city was in dire peril of falling to the would-be  conqueror worms. But then Gromff received a message from the surviving Midwives who had been sealed within an asylum converted into a prisoner of war camp. The contents of the message have never been revealed, but shortly afterward the Midwives were released from their cells and the invasion was ended.

Whatever happened, the Midwives were pardoned on the condition that they never utter a word concerning what was done in the Deep Below. The Fetidians were defeated and driven out of the tunnels, shafts and warrens as far as the Sewer Militia dared to pursue them. Eventually, a sort of underground  Détente was established. Silas Gromff never fully trusted the Midwives, despite relying upon their help to defeat the first menace from down below. And for their part,  the Midwives never forgave Gromff for his harsh treatment of them. Every December Midwives still burn little effigies of Silas Gromff, as long as they keep out of the sight of the Sewer Militia. For their part, the Sewer Militia do not revile the Midwives. They do not trust them, but they respect them, especially those veterans who've seen the lingering traces of the old wise women's eldritch handiwork in the Deep Below. And those deputized and then conscripted Refugees? They formed the hardcore of a Nameless Brigade that has fought alongside, yet separately from, the Sewer Militia. They still only accept recruits from the shanty-camps, or criminals who'd otherwise make a trip to the Oubliette. And they wear rusty red tuques knit by Midwives and dipped in the blood of their fallen.

Winter In Wermspittle

Dark Nights
By Law and long-established custom, the Bells that used to ring-in the Dusk and dawn are muffled, packed with sand bags or dismounted by the first day of Winter. The old clocks are allowed to run down and no one bothers keeping track of time any more, not during the long, dark Winter nights. There's no point. One either makes good use of what little light there is during the too-short days, or else they barricade their doors, ward their windows and try to endure the night like everyone else.

Lean Times
Sleet turns to snow and ice. Dark clouds curdle the ominous iron-gray skies more often than not. Roads grow treacherous and bridges creak and groan under the weight of the heavy ice accumulating upon them. Those that weren't built slip-shod allow for some to travel, but the rest collapse and will need to be rebuilt in the Spring. Again. The only ones who travel fast and well in the deepening snows and bitter winds are the dead and the deadly. Wolves prowl the streets while other things howl forlornly out in the dark woods. Even the bandits withdraw from the major roads and focus their attentions upon the trails and passes where skies, sleds and snowshoes replace carts and wheels. But there are few who travel this way towards Wermspittle. Only a fool or a dead man looking for a hot bath in a stew-pot goes to Wermspittle in the Winter. Only the most desperate and those seeking to start over somewhere else brave the dangers of the mountain passes in Winter. Many are fooled by the smiling 'native guides' and the 'guaranteed accurate maps' that promise to lead those gullible enough to rely upon them along the poorly marked trails they think might lead to a better place. Almost all of them end up in the camps of bandits, hillfolk, or worse. But as they say in certain dark places; meat is meat--shut up and eat.

Cold, Hard Cache
Armor and weapons come cheap in Winter. You can't eat them. Merchants, those few still open for business, demand payment in salt, meat or goods such as candles or blankets. Coins and tokens mean little to the starving. A sack of turnips can make a man rich, if he can manage to survive until the Summer Markets re-open. Promissory notes tend to get used as tinder; there are no promises in Winter and such debts are unlikely to be honored by the dead or the departed. Though there are those who do hold onto these sorts of things in order to sell them by the pound-bale to Debt-Collectors. But few such debts left to linger past the first snows of Winter ever get collected. Those that have been through this all before set aside supplies, they attempt to plan ahead, to store-up what they think they'll need to get by, to survive through the dark times. But not all such hordes or caches of provisions survive or stay hidden. There are those who seek such things out, scavengers who dowse for stockpiles and canned goods so that they can remove them from one supposedly safe place to another. Competing bands criss-cross the Abandoned Sections of Wermspittle all through the Winter months, following any and every lead, hunting down rumors, and laying in wait for their rivals. Sometimes the confrontations and ambushes between looter-crews and scavenger-bands get messy, bloody, deadly. Only the toughest or the luckiest survive to see the first thaws.

Commodities Trading
Pickles, hard tack, dried things, salted things, canned and bottled, jugged and preserved food is the highest form of currency and its value only grows over the course of the Winter. Scavengers and looting-crews pick their way through the old warehouses and trade-houses that used to be serve the airships or might still be used by some of the Summer Caravans. Things tend to get overlooked or lost, especially when the teamsters and freight-handlers know damn well that they had best see to their own survival first. The old Longshoremen whose ancestors claimed to have worked beneath the great zeppelins handling cargoes from exotic locales still carry the notched hooks and curved knives of their forefathers. They tell the timeless tales of better times even as they loot the looters and plunder the secret hiding places of the teamsters. A single can of peaches might switch hands a dozen or more times before it is finally opened and eaten by the person who finally learns if it was properly sealed or tampered with -- it can be hard to tell with all the blood and other stuff caked on the thing.

No Trespassers
Storms and blizzards sweep the lands surrounding Wermspittle. The Low Lander villages and farmsteads barricade themselves in and huddle close to their fireplaces, praying for the return of the sun. Rural Guards monitor the forests and near ranges from freezing perches atop swaying watch towers while make-shift patrols make their way from check-point to check-point, ducking into snow forts to escape the blistering winds, if only for a little while. Most of the woodland beasts are asleep, hibernating in their dens and cavern lairs. There is precious little game to hunt and almost nothing that can be gathered. Even fishing through holes chopped into the lake-ice provides sparse results. Only the mad, the possessed or those driven by starvation and desperation wander across the frozen landscape. Or those who hunt such things either for bounty or sport. That's what the house-holders and farmers tell themselves behind their wickedly spiked walls and ward-etched windows. It isn't true. Not by a long shot. But the farmers and hunters of the Low Land villages and enclaves have learned the hard way not to tolerate trespassers in Winter. One act of kindness, one misplaced gesture of mercy and everything they built and bled for could go up in smoke from a raider's torch, their families devoured by terrible inhuman things, or their community infected with some grievous plague or foul pox that even death would not release them from. Winter is a harsh time. It forces people to make tough decisions. It is a time of attrition and siege as horror and madness surrounds everything and relentlessly tries to wear down all defenses, all protections.

Bleak Passage
Refugees still pour into the region from the Three Empires and every petty principality that has fallen in the wake of plague, war, and the destruction of their homelands. Naked or bundled in all the clothes they own, rich or poor, still they come dragging their meager possessions, carrying their few salvaged treasures, leading their children, pets and what livestock they could save through the wilderness, through the snow and ice and all the dangers of the woods and roads to reach Wermspittle.

Some do not believe the terrible things that are muttered about this place. All that anyone really remembers or admits to knowing is that it is an old, old place outside the boundaries of all the known powers. Whether it truly is accursed or a nest of outcasts doesn't matter any more, not to the refugees who've been driven from their farms, towns and estates. When you've already lost everything you ever held precious or dear in life, there's not much to fear from a place not shown on any maps and only ever heard about in vague whispers. In the depths of darkness and despair, strange seeds begin to germinate.

Gloom-Leather (Wermspittle)

Gloom-Leather
Going Price: Three times cow-leather, triple in Autumn, multiplied by 1d10 in Winter.
Availability: Hard to come by, even in the Spring, when Gloomswallows tend to be torpid.
Effect(s): Gloom-Leather can be crafted into various forms of armor (typically +1 or better),

Some examples...

1. Gloves crafted from Gloomswallow hide that is tanned using a portion of the beast's own ichor in the process come out mottled in lavender and violet, with pearlescent undertones, and grant those who wear them a +4 bonus on Saves versus Gloomswallow attacks. Unfortunately, there is a tendency for many who wear these thing for prolonged periods to become increasingly rational and uncomfortable/unable to use their intuition (Make a Save or shift 1 point from WIS to INT for every month of use, limit to a total of 3 points so transferred).
2. Boots fashioned from Gloom-Leather tend to be silent in darkness and easily shifted into the various recorded oneiric regions and zones, enabling apprentices to get their first experiences in dreamwalking and related oneiric practices.
3. Supple, thin and elegant gloves crafted for a surgeon's delicate touch. When properly prepped with Gloomswallow ichor or Dim Ichor in a pinch, these gloves will allow a Surgeon to perform operations on the subtle bodies of their patients, including the removal of oneiric cysts and ectoplasmic parasites. The gloves can also be used to by-pass the patient's physical body just enough to allow the surgeon to perform internal procedures without having to make an entry incision, however this form of usage costs the medical practitioner 1 CON per ten minutes use. There are Outlaw Oneirists who seem to have adapted these types of gloves to use them for violent, transgressive applications best left unmentioned.
4. Books and journals bound in Gloom-Leather have a tendency to bleed across into dreamspaces and are favored by Oneirists for this very reason. There are rumored to be special tomes manufactured from this material that, with a special ink derived from the fluids of Gloomswallows and having been consecrated in the light of the so-called 'Secret Second Moon,' are used by various dream-adepts to capture spells and secret knowledge from the unprotected minds of dreamers from any number of Adjacent Worlds or Parallel Realms.
5. Wine-skins formed from Gloom-Leather are popular among some sorcerers as they can be easily enchanted to preserve the vintage and efficacy of various elixirs and concoctions, or to slowly convert even the meanest, sourest wine into something delicate and exceptional, even if it does sometimes cost them a slight loss in their sanity or senses. (Wine left in such a skin requires a Save to avoid losing 1 point of WIS or INT. The Save receives a -1 penalty for every month the wine remains untapped inside the skin. The loss is not serious and recovery is normal...however those who imbibe this stuff do report some really intense, strange dreams and a few have disappeared for weeks with no memory or recollection of what exactly happened.)
6. The Goules of Latterkamp are known to create masks and other things from Gloom-Leather. The least disturbing of their masks allow the user to reshape their appearance to mimic that of things from their dreams, or to participate in the wild nightly Phantasmagorias and oneiric vistas that fill the streets, alleys and taverns of Wermspittle every Spring.

Plow Grubs (Wermspittle)

Plow Grubs
No. Enc.: 1d6
Alignment: Neutral
Movement: 30' (10')
Armor Class: 8
Hit Dice: 2
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1d4 + Poison
Save: as zero-level human
Morale: 0

Long a fixture on the farms and fields of the Low Lands, Plow Grubs are the preferred beasts of burden when it comes to plowing the fields after the first thaws and the Spring Floods have receded. Farmers can rarely afford a mule or work-horse, and few such animals survive the harsh Winters, when hungry bands of raiders pour across the areas surrounding Wermspittle seeking something, anything to eat.

But no one eats a Plow Grub in Winter. They are virulently toxic and completely inedible until after they have spent a few days burrowing through the wet, clumpy earth. Even a child knows not to eat a Plow Grub in Winter, and especially not ones that still have purplish spots. Only the pinkish-ones are edible, and they are only available after the fields have been plowed. Then there is plenty enough for everyone and the first feasts take place, for the flesh of ripened Plow Grubs does not keep, not in salt, nor in alcohol, not even pickled or smoked. It is a one-time bounty and one makes the most of it, before it is gone.

Rustling-Up the Grubs
Each Autumn, the farmers go rooting about in the woods with their hounds, trained pigs, goats and other helpers. Some gather mushrooms, a few dig-up truffles, but the majority spend the two weeks deemed most providential in the Rural Concordance or one of the lesser Almanacs searching after and collecting Plow Grubs. Hundreds are dug up from the wet, loamy soil and packed away in saw-dust or old rags and then safely, almost reverentially deposited in the attic, slid back into a crawlspace, hung from the rafters or otherwise stored away from the soil so they remain dormant until the plowing begins. Plow Grubs so stored can remain suspended and viable for generations. Some farmers keep a reserve stock on-hand that they claim is derived in-part from the first batch their parents or grandparents gave to them when they first started out. It is a folk tradition among the Low Landers to gift new farmers with a few 'choice' Plow Grubs at their barn raising, wedding or right before first-plowing.

Hammer Time
In the spring, the farmer pounds a nail into the head-section of the Plow Grub. If they do the job right, the Plow Grub will only burrow in a straight line and a small handful of the things can plow-up a typical field in under an hour. Botch the job and the grubs will go askew and will need to be dug-up and destroyed. It is not a good idea to let them burrow off into the woods. Grubs grow into beetles and other things. Not all Plow Grubs are necessarily the same species. Some grow into very troublesome beasts. Things that might prey upon livestock and ruin crops. Any farmer who lets a Plow Grub run off loose into the wild will be ostracized and shamed until they get out there, track it down, and kill it once and for all. Or else they hire would-be adventurers and grub-hunters to do it for them. In some communities the local militia uses such situations to train-in their newest recruits or conscripts.

A Simple Bounty
Plow Grubs are carefully handled. They make farming possible after the dark, cold winters and grant some of the first real fresh food of Spring. They also provide a bit of chitin that can be peeled back from the raw, pithed grubs freshly retrieved from the dirt. If one is skillful, the chitin can be harvested in two good-sized pieces. But even the small bits and pieces a child manages to rip free from the grubs as they are prepped for the kitchen can be useful. If boiled together with various substances (every family has their own recipe), the Plow Grub chitin can be reduced to a soft paste that is quite pliable and moldable. Farmers craft all manner of small odds-and-ends from this material, up to and including a form of 'plow man's leather' and the distinctive boots, slippers and shoes each particular region is noted for. It is a simple bounty, but a welcome respite from the soul-crushing horrors of Winter. Some even see the Plow Grubs as a humble reminder that not all hope is lost and that things can get better. In time.

Fantodic (Wermspittle)

Phantasmotype of a supposed Fantodic,
courtesy of The Low Street Asylum Guide & Almanack.

Fantodic
No. Enc.: 1
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 90' (Passwall/Planeshift)
Armor Class: 2
Hit Dice: 6+
Attacks: 1
Damage: (see below)
Save: F9
Morale: 8

Restless spirits are a well-documented aspect of life, death and what comes after in Wermspittle. They are, in some respects, very akin to the weather; one either does something about it, within their means and abilities, or else one endures. The one good thing about restless spirits is that they get bored easily, soon lose interest unless they are interacted with, and often collapse back into so much ectoplasmic debris that can then be collected or drained-away later. Some even go so far as to lure Ordrang or other ectovores into those areas subject to spirit-infestation, allowing these creatures to consume the vaguely albumin-esque pseudo-matter and thus denying the things the means to manifest any further.

Frantically Fatigued
Fantods are not simply restless spirits. They are not truly 'spirits' in the accepted, classical sense at all. If anything they appear to be some sort of ectospheric entities possessed of a crude intelligence and a propensity to arouse all the most intense negative emotions in those exposed to their subtle presence. Fantods seem to feed upon the energy that bleeds out from the unsealed souls of those exerting their willpower and intuition, whether it is a student attempting their first cantrips, a novitiate attempting to master the basic disciplines of their Order, or an actress fretting over her delivery of a particular passage of dialogue in a play. They particularly are drawn to mediums who indulge a bit too heavily in alcoholic beverages and those suffering from depression or anxiety. Fantods feed on anxiety like it is candy.

Clever Eaters of Wisdom
Never quite in-phase with the material world, Fantods loom in the dim-spaces and dank places, flitting through empty attics and damp cellars, always on the look-out for a suitable victim. Walls mean little to them, windows even less. They traverse thresholds freely and transgress any boundary not warded or protected against their intrusion. They also have a fairly long reach, able to drain WIS from their prey at a range of 5' per HD (6 HD Fantod has a range of 30', and so on). They most often attempt to feed upon their chosen morsels from non-adjacent spaces, making it more difficult to track them down, without the assistance of a Dowser or other such professional.

Unsubtle Traces
A Fantod that has located a suitable space from which to feed will settle in for the duration, wrapping itself in the wisps and smoky fragments of the ectoplasm that is drawn off of their victims as a side-effect of the way in which these creatures draw off and digest WIS. These ectoplasmic vestiges curl and writhe in agitation as they are pulled from the body of the victim, entering walls, ceilings or floors as they make their way to the Fantod. This will leave an impression on the surfaces through which the ectoplasm travels. Even a rank beginner of a Medium with only a modicum of any real talent can 'see' these traces as wet splotches and follow them back to the Fantod's lair.

More obvious than the subtle stains from the passage of stolen ectoplasm are the effects for which Fantods have become notorious and reviled. Fantods have no real ability to cause any direct harm, aside from the draining of WIS over time. (They generally can only drain 1 point of WIS every 1d4 hours, and thus tend to seek out prisoners, the bed-ridden, the wounded, etc. Even the largest specimen on record could only drain 2 points of WIS per hour.)

More of a Long Term Problem
What makes a Fantod a troublesome and most unwelcome guest is their tendency to stir up any and every spirit within range of their WIS draining ability, making these spirits restless, nervous, agitated and slowly driving them mad with a nameless, indefinable dread. A few days, a couple of weeks, even a month may go by with only the most typical and unremarkable effect. But eventually. Over time. The effect of the Fantod upon the surrounding spirits coupled with the traces of ectoplasm that continually leak from its very sloppy feeding process leads to full-blown hauntings, spirit incursions, and worse. If allowed to linger long enough a Fantod can raise whole graveyards, raise revenants, or inspire/attract poltergeists.

Exterminators have noted a number of instances recently where Fantods have been lured into spaces rife with Wet Spots. The use of Spectral Shackles in order to confine these particular Fantods has led some to suspect the involvement of Fantomists. But Why?

Spectral Brine (Wermspittle)

Dangerous Work
Working with the White Powder, and the sorts of things it leaves behind is a highly dangerous operation. Volatile chemicals and delicate processes involving heating and cooling and re-heating under precise conditions are just the start, after one has acquired the raw matter to work with, such as what an apprentice might recover from a Wet Spot or Sallow Stain. Or even a Loathsome Mass. Though that is often far too dangerous an undertaking for the average apprentice to attempt, no matter how badly they are beaten or cursed or compelled by spells. However such things are gathered, the work of the distiller is fraught with peril and frustration as they must process the raw materials into those compounds that their masters find useful and salable.

Sinfully Wasteful
Not all the salts and weird, tarry waste-products produced in the distillation of Black Liquors and other compounds are suited to the specialized needs of the Corruption Trade, nor the gonne-smiths and powder-grinders who work with Achromic Powder and Salt-Shot. Some of the residues left-over from the various processes are too dangerous to just dump, though some do that very thing, often to their short-lived regret. It is not a very regulated industry. No one bothers about 'best practices,' or wastes overmuch time cleaning-up behind themselves--there are plenty of empty places out in the Abandoned Sections and the Burned Over District. Often the clandestine distillers move from place to place, leaving behind worse things than Wet Spots or Loathsome Masses in their wake.

Hundreds of new compounds that might revolutionize industry have been discarded and poured down the drain in the pursuit of the terrible White Powder and the known, reliable derivatives that those who control the Corruption Trade demand. There is no interest in producing anything other than the White Powder or the Black Liquors. Anyone caught experimenting with their master's product gets disappeared. 

Spectral Brine
One of the things left behind by these operations is the so-called Spectral Brine. Blackly luminous in the way that most salt-water is not, Spectral Brine is the by-product of reducing the accumulated ectoplasmic debris caught within the cheap tin traps set-out around the distilleries and labs of those involved in the Corruption Trade. The creation of White Powder arouses restless spirits, draws poltergeists and attracts ectovores like Ordrang. No one  knows why. Those who work with these materials must take precautionary measures, or else find themselves caught up in a whole mess of trouble. Very few exorcists or karcists work for the Corruption Trade. Those that do are more than a little suspect and often not only deeply troubled, but of dubious merit or ability. So far the stamped-tin traps introduced into the markets by refugees from Surlonna and Dalbriz have been a godsend to the distillers.

But, as with all such things and doubly in Wermspittle, the tin traps that capture and accumulate the stray bits of ectoplasm that roll off of the fluids involved in the distillation process and keep the lesser spirits and minor dead out of the way also leave the distillers with a surfeit of contaminated ectoplasm to deal with, ectoplasmic filth that rivals the nasty stuff surrounding an Ungezeifer. No one is sure who started the practice, but the distillers drain their traps into the dregs of their rendering baths and the scraped-off green grit left behind from the way the fluids degrade and corrode copper and other metals. The rancid ectoplasmic matter is left to mingle and mix with the alchemical waste fluids and debris. Once the mixture fills a barrel or other container, it is sealed and rolled out to a dumping ground, such as one of the middens or cess-pits some landlords have established in order to avoid paying the so-called  'dung tax' imposed by the Sewer Militia.

Sometimes the barrels and tanks of strange chemicals sink quietly to the bottom of the muck and mire. More often they rupture, and vile, black slicks of Spectral Brine leak to the surface, giving impetus and pseudo-life to a host of quivering, jellid horrors, not the least of which are the Gobbling Grouts, Faecomentals and Noctisludge...and possibly dozens if not hundreds of other, lesser-known things that have been given some vestige of life and autonomy and allowed to go off to prey upon the refugees and Unfortunates in the Shanty Camps all because of the waste products of the Corruption Trade colliding with the cess-pits of greedy and irresponsible land lords. Sometimes people really are their own worst enemy...

The Sewer Militia in Wermspittle (I)

Hardbitten and haggard, the grizzled old veteran wobbles only a little as he makes his way to the back of the tavern. He doesn't spill a drop of his stout. Not even when he drops heavily into the booth across from the three new recruits. Fresh Meat. He examines each one in turn, fixing them with his one good eye, and the other one that no one likes to talk about. Most people find the glistening black compound eye of an Ungezeifer a difficult thing to confront, especially when it juts out from the distorted zygomatic arch of a hoary old sergeant's skull. He had left off his cup-shaped patch, the blotched and splotched fragment of hand-tooled worm-hide that he usually kept over the bug-eye graft when he was up top. He wanted to see how the recruits reacted. It was one of his first tests. Picking up the tab was another. Nothing came for free. These green kids were expecting him to tell them the secrets of how to survive, what to do when they faced the sorts of things that they were going to meet, eventually, down below.


It was a dirty job. A rotten, filthy business. But it was the only thing that kept the city alive, such as it was.

The Sewer Militia was founded during the heart of a particularly hard and cruel winter, during a siege by the imperial forces of Greater Herzovia, more than a thousand years ago. Or so goes the fairy-tale told to small children huddling around sputtering candles on the worst nights of the dark part of the year.

The Herzovians had decided that Wermspittle was of strategic interest in their campaign against the nomadic peoples of the Far Steppes and the scattered abhuman tribes of the Thousand Plateaus. They besieged the city and their Morlock sappers set-about tunneling into the deep places beneath the city. The fools.

Cheap treachery made the Herzovian generals over-confident. They had bribed someone within the Wall Guard who oversaw and manned the Great Gonnes that had been left behind by previous would-be conquerors. Sabotage rendered the ancient cannons and bombards silent, and this lured the Herzovians into a false sense of an easy victory. But few things are ever very easy in Wermspittle, least of all death and what comes after. They would have known this, had they bothered to consult the people of the low villages and hill towns down along the Cold Roads. Instead they pillaged, looted and burned everything between them and their goal. Locusts in shiny cuirasses and long green coats and polished brass buttons.

They use those buttons now as trade tokens in the Summer Markets and some of the less discriminating brothels.

People had been living, after a fashion, atop the mountain squatting between the rivers and plateaus, on the site of Wermspittle for a long, long time. Others had lived there even longer. Like the things that still moved around in the down below.

Rag-Tag and Unproud...But Unbowed
The hastily-formed Sewer Militia was composed primarily of wounded troops, conscripts, a few slaves and as many Unfortunates as were unable to escape from the press gangs. They were given whatever weapons were available, promised boots or jackets later, and herded into every cellar, basement and other opening that let unto the Near Below. Officers who'd served with seven different armies, often against one another, quickly took command of their rag-tag troops and led them down into the deep places below Wermspittle where they fought desperately against the Morlocks and others and sometimes each other.

It had been a very near thing. A last-ditch effort at the eleventh hour. But it had worked. The Herzovians were driven out, their sappers killed or captured, and the Sewer Militia found itself caught-up in a never-ending vigil against the things that crept, crawled or slithered along down below.

Pyrrhic Victories in the Dark
They had won a wondrous victory against impossible odds. But the damage had been done. The Deep Derricks had been toppled and cast down into the Black Harbor, many of the pump stations were damaged beyond anyone's ability to repair them, the old gas-lines had been compromised. An army of rabble and the walking wounded, clad only in rags and mismatching cast-offs needed to train itself to become engineers and mechanics. It was an impossible task. An exercise in futility. None of the established officers would even consider accepting the post of the dubiously titled 'Grand Marshall.' Many of the younger, more ambitious officers cashiered out and left the city as mercenaries instead of hanging around to be offered the onerous task of overseeing the Sewer Militia. Many believed it to be a doomed, even futile effort. A failed attempt to stave off the inevitable.

Sometimes One Gonne-Shot Can Make A Real Difference
The first Grand Marshall of the Sewer Militia wasn't a scion of any nobility, nor any sort of politician or theoretician. Dirty, disheveled, unschooled and barely literate himself, Silas Gromff took over the Sewer Militia without anyone's permission or invitation, mostly because no one else would step-up and claim the position. A hard-driving and harder-drinking man who'd seen far, far too much during the first war below, Silas Gromff knew what needed to happen, what had to be done. So he did it. And he didn't much care who he angered, upset or had to shoot to get things done.

For more than a thousand years the Sewer Militia has patrolled the Near Below and trained-up a corps of military engineers and miner-mechanics that would be the envy of the world...if anyone knew about them.