Chronicles of 'Team B' - Chapter 8 - The Virtuous City And Its Underside

The party heads toward a gate flanked by two square wooden towers. Two unsmiling mailed Kochmak spearmen, wicked sabres hanging at their sides, stand at the ready, their feet spread apart. Between them is an official with an abacus, calculating toll rates for all those who are waiting to enter. When their turn comes, the official informs Yuri that the toll for the four of them and their three animals will be 2 and a half dirhems - the local term for kopecks. While the companions search through their pockets, the official, who calls himself Zaman, instructs them in local etiquette and ordinances. As Gaalites, they may not ride horses or bear arms in the city. They may only stay in the Nart Quarter - set aside for Gaalites - which is located at the other end of the city. Finally, they must wear light blue armbands when they are about in the main part of the city. Unless they want to leave their weapons at the gate until they leave, they can pay a boy named Ahmed to carry their weapons to the Nart Quarter (for a nominal fee).

Grumbling at the regulations, and fearful that the staying in the city will result in one shakedown after another, the companions finally enter the city. Udyn is mostly built of wood, but with imposing stone structures - fortresses, public buildings, and temples towering over the residential buildings. The temples are crowned with the sign of the crescent, which the locals worship apparently. Though some of the domes and spires seem to belong to churches, none is topped with the sign of the cross. Strange, bad-smelling humped animals roam the streets and alleys of the city, and the scents of exotic spices and succulent meats hover over the markets and hostels. Alden, who has lived in the lands of the Garipy, is not overly impressed with the wooden structures, but Yuri, who has not traveled much in his life, is overwhelmed by the size and grandeur of the place: many tens of thousands of people must live here!

Udyn - a metropolis of wood and stone

After making their way to the eastern edge of the city, the party finally locates the gate to the Nart Quarter. Prior to turning their weapons back over to them, Ahmed suggests that once inside, they may want to consider going to a bathhouse and washing their clothes. All four are filthy, and Alden's clothes are stained with blood - a memento of his encounter with the rusalka's husband, who he killed for his cow. Most think this is a good idea. Fedor says that now that he has helped Yuri get to his destination, he will be heading back soon after his bath. Alden says he wants to run an errand to give his friend a proper sendoff, and heads back into the main part of the city.

The Nart Quarter, though much smaller than the main city, is still a sizable conurbation in its own right. Though the people who live here are supposedly Gaalites like them, most speak languages they don't understand. They head toward the main church with a tall spire, where they learn that it is the Irii church. From there locals direct them to a bathhouse frequented by the Noriki. Wary of losing their animals, Yuri and Fedor stay to watch them, while Lokan goes for a steaming. At the entrance, he pays the attendant, and receives a wooden bucket and some birch switches. As he heads inside, a young girl with a tangled mess of auburn braids follows him inside. A mean-looking grandmother instructs them that they need to head to different steam rooms - the men's or the women's, unless Lokan is interested in paying for a private room. Intrigued, and bewildered, Lokan opts for the later, and the girl follows him inside. She reveals her name to be Agapia, and says that she likes to hang around near the bathhouse in hopes of running into interesting people, though she is not sure why. When Lokan presses her for information about who she is, she answers each question after casting a colored die, and considering the facet that lands up.

In the meantime, Alden searches the district near the gate to the Nart Quarter for a fortune teller. He locates a Noriki-speaking adolescent, and gives him the equivalent of nearly two days' wages in exchange for information of leading to a good fortune teller. The kid, named Khariton, knows just the person, and says he will take Alden to her. The two go into the Nart Quarter, and proceed to the plaza just outside the bathhouse, where they find Yuri and Fedor impatiently waiting for Lokan to emerge. Khariton asks whether anyone has seen Agapia, and after learning that she went inside, enters the bathhouse with Yuri. Yuri knocks on the door to the private steam room, and is chased out by the mean grandmother. Lokan, in much cleaner (but wet) clothes, along with a dry Agapia, exit, while Yuri and Fedor take their turns, steaming and cleaning the grime from their clothes. After all have bathed, Agapia uses some sort of magical trick to instantly dry everyone's clothes, thus confirming her bona fides as a fortune teller. Khariton then conducts the rest of the group to a nearby tavern.

While they dine on bowls of cabbage soup and bread, Agapia uses her die to determine Fedor's fortune: he will return home, find amazing adventures, and die a true hero's death. In the meantime, Yuri has more mundane concerns - does Khariton know anyone who might be willing to buy their cow? Khariton says that he is a servant in at a nearby Noriki abbey, where Agapia's uncle happens to be the hegumen. Given how much money he has been plied with, Khariton goes to fetch the hegumen forthwith.

The Irii Church in the Nart Quarter

Khariton soon reappears with the hegumen, Father Mitrofan. Mitrofan is not entirely pleased with the cow, but when he learns of the party's travails and the reason they are here, he undertakes to help them, and buys the cow for slightly more than a ruble. He then invites them to the monastery, to relax, and cleanse themselves spiritually, now that they have bathed. The group follows Mitrofan and makes themselves at home in the monastery courtyard, while the pious Yuri proceeds inside to confess his sins. Aside from various youthful indiscretions, he reveals that the cow he has just sold was stolen, but does this so sincerely that Mitrofan's furrowed brow soon relaxes. As the hegumen grants absolution, he also informs Yuri that he thinks the actions of his cow-stealing companion have cursed the whole group, and that will be hard to overcome.

After he has confessed, Yuri and the rest consult the hegumen as to their next steps. They are especially concerned that any extended stay in Udyn will quickly drain their already meagre funds. Mitrofan recommends that they sell their horses as quickly as possible, because there is no other way they can earn sufficient funds to redeem even a few of Yuri's relatives. Yuri is reticent to part with Vera, and asks what sort of help they might find in releasing the prisoners in other ways. In response, Mitrofan warns Yuri that any altercation will reflect badly on the Gaalites in town, who are sheltering the party, and advises against it. There are occasionally princes that stay with local notables in the Gaalite quarter, and perhaps winning their support will allow the companions to freely carry weapons around town, but this is a project that they will have to pursue by themselves. Yuri inquires whether there is any sort of work the companions can do for the monastery to earn a little money. Mitrofan tells them that there have been sightings of unclean beings at the Gaalite cemetery at night - strange, because it is on hallowed ground. If the companions undertake to watch the cemetery, perhaps the churches can pass around a collection plate to support their efforts. Lokan, taking a different tack, asks if there are criminal organizations in Udyn that might help them get information about the prisoners, where they are kept, and how they are guarded. To this, a surprisingly businesslike Mitrofan says that although he has no contact with such people, he knows that the Banu Tabar - a criminal network that is spread throughout the Bahite world, does operate in the city. They have a gathering place right near the main souk - the market next to the central mosque. The place, operated by a man auspiciously named Kesha, is a gathering place where the Banu Tabar drink alcoholic beverages - a practice forbidden to Bahites, and yet one that is indulged by many of the recent converts, and aided by the town's brewers, who are all located in the Nart Quarter. In fact, Agapia has supplied the place with beer in the past, and can conduct the companions to the establishment.

Now that they have a few leads to follow up on, the companions decide to spend their first evening in Udyn productively. While Alden stays behind to say good-bye to Fedor, Yuri and Lokan follow Agapia to the main town. The sun has not set when they arrive at the souk, and Lokan toys with the idea of pickpocketing someone, in hopes that members of the Banu Tabar will notice someone poaching on their turf, and intervene. Yuri decides this is a bad way to start a relationship, and suggests that they simply follow Agapia to the tavern, which is what they do. Inside, they quickly locate seedy types seated on cushions, drinking beer and wine, and smoking shisha. While her companions order some fermented milk, Agapia heads over to a table where a big Kochmak named Berke is holding forth, surrounded by hangers on. Berke recognizes her, and asks her what she is doing there, to which she answers that she doesn't remember. Lokan, who is a man of the world, flashes some signs at Berke, which the latter appears to recognize. Berke suggests that the newcomers buy him and his friends a round of beer.  In response, Lokan pleads poverty, and says they could do that if Berke offers them a job. Berke lets him know in no uncertain terms that he is not a man to be trifled with, and then tells him he would like to have a private talk with him in the alley.

Berke - a man not to be disrespected

Once outside, the two men speak in an argot that Lokan mostly understands. Berke informs him that as a newcomer, he should behave with the proper deference, and if he wants information, he is going to have to pay, and not haggle. After a brief consult with Yuri, Lokan agrees to do so. After parting with nearly 40 dirhems, Berke divulges the following information. First, the slavers arrived in town 10 days ago, and are housing the captives in a caravanserai on an island in the middle of the Udena. The Banu Tabar can smuggle the party there, for a price. Second, shortly after their arrival, men working for Vasilii, the Grand Prince of Kliakva, arrived in town, and are staying at the house of a local boyar named Georgii, in the Nart Quarter. Vasilii, Lokan and Yuri know, is the rival of the Prince of Ladeisk, overlord of Vladykino, from whence the party has come. Third, a good number of the slaves have already been sold, some down the river, probably bound for the Khan's capital at Ak Karam. Some were sold to local notables, including the amir. However, a number of young women were separated from the rest, transported across the river. It is not clear where they were taken, but it seems unlikely that they were headed to Ak Karam, unless they were to walk the whole way there.

At the end, Berke tells Lokan that he must keep up appearances, though he would prefer not to do the deed himself. Lokan appears confused, but Yuri understands what the Kochmak means, and after Berke has gone back inside, he slugs his companion in the face, giving him a black eye. The party then briefly returns to the tavern, so Berke's henchmen can bear witness to their boss' prowess.

Can Fantasy World Religion Have Social Aspects?

To hear a lot of gamers tell it, no, it cannot. In part, this is a position expressed in response to any suggestion that classes (like priests, clerics, etc.) might actually be recognizable social groups, or professions. The idea is, divine spells are only for the truly elect, the pious, who are worthy before the gods. The worst possible imposition, from this perspective, is that access to spells and other priestly powers is actually regulated by members of the priestly establishment. The idea that NPCs can affect your access to certain powers, or impact your untrammeled progress through class levels is anathema to some, despite the fact that these features were fully present in early iterations of fantasy RPGs (clerics and paladins being stripped of powers due to changing alignment, druids, monks, and assassins having to fight for a limited number of spots at the higher levels, etc.).

There is a certain set of players who think that no constraint on player agency - being charmed, being incapacitated or killed, having an idea or proposal turn out to be unworkable - is ever justified. Leaving that aside as an extreme position, there is a fairly widespread feeling that in certain situations, gods may punish recalcitrant followers by stripping them of powers. But that cannot be done by the god's mortal followers. No religious magnate, and certainly, to religious concilium, gets to decide what my character can or cannot do.

The notion of divine powers implicit in this position can ultimately be characterized as either vulgar polytheism, or vulgar Protestantism. Those who incline to the former conceive of gods as being very powerful NPCs with lots of hit points and powers, who can come down and fight your character if they decide they dislike her. According to the latter conception, on the other hand, gods are remote, disembodied crystallizations of ethical positions (or alignments), and they will act against characters who are not living up to, or backsliding from, their religious commitments. In this case, the punishment can be effected by the god who truly does "embody" those commitments, but not by the god's imperfect followers.

There is no room in either position for gods who act in mysterious ways, incomprehensible to most followers most of the time. There is likewise no room for gods that act through communities of worshipers. It's one thing to send down blue bolts from heaven to let a straying cleric know that you don't approve of his actions. It's another thing entirely to cause his superiors cut him off from the body of the faithful for the same offense. NPC priests are obviously doing it for selfish, impious reasons, and it's not fair.

'But how can a good God allow an evil cleric to cast spells in his name?'

Historically, of course, divine beings were seen as acting through organized groups of worshipers all the time. In religions centered on God's interventions in and through history, action through communities of the faithful (and occasionally, even infidels) were taken as the most potent evidence of his existence. In both the Catholic and Orthodox Churches, ecclesiastical councils determined theological doctrine, what writings would be included in the scripture, and what roles priests ought to play with respect to laypeople. Translating this into FRPG terms, this meant that the councils, consisting largely of high Church officials, would get to decide what powers priests would possess. And for this reason, Church officers would be fully within their rights if they decided to excommunicate you - since your divine powers would be defined as such by the ecclesiastical community. This ecclesiastical community was no mere collection of self-interested NPCs, but the Bride of Christ - a material and social testament of the promise of eternal life. Naturally, theologically sophisticated attendees at ecclesiastical councils would not have dared claim that they were determining what God could or could not do. They claimed only that the best way available for forming a just community and living a good life was for the best-qualified people to make the best interpretation they could of truths revealed by a mysterious and all-powerful God.

Not everyone agreed with this interpretation. Millenarian sects tended to see the Bride of Christ as those 144,000 properly believing elect who would enter the Kingdom of Heaven during the coming Time of Tribulation. They saw the Church not as the Bride of Christ, but as the Whore of Babylon, run by self-serving prelates. But the point is, this was a decidedly marginal position in most Christian lands until the Reformation (and in many of them, after that as well). Until then, most thinking people would probably have agreed that while prelates could be corrupt and self-serving, on the whole, the ecclesiastical structure reflected divine will.

Much the same can be said about Islam. The key thing was the construction of the Umma - the community of believers, rather than (or on top of) the submission of the individual Muslim to the will of God. Until recently, students of conversion in Muslim lands spoke dismissively of surface conversions in e.g. Mongol khanates, where Sufi missionaries with heterodox beliefs nominally claimed lands for Islam, while allowing shamanistic practices to persist under an Islamic guise. As effectively argued by Devin Deweese, however,  the notion of "Actual Islam" as constituting a change of heart along the lines acceptable to Muslim jurists was a marginal position held by ibn Taimiyyah, who encouraged his followers to rise up against the Mongol overlords, (or an anachronistic, latter day vulgar Protestant position unwittingly internalized by scholars).   At the time, Muslim theologians regarded even nominal conversion by rulers, and the establishment of an Umma in distant lands, as already a proof that a divine miracle had taken place, because a solid basis for the expansion of Islam had been established.

In fact, even in polytheistic religions, which are ostensibly more represented in FRPG settings, a communal expression of the divine is highly evident. The Greek polis, often regarded as a secular community, was in its germ a religious community bound together by the worship of a genius loci (e.g. of Athena, the tutelary deity of Athens). The action of such a community as a community - e.g. an election of an arkhon by the body of citizens - was a quintessentially religious act: vox populi, vox dei, as the Romans recognized. The Chinese notion of tianming - the Mandate of Heaven - was of similar provenance. When All Under Heaven enter into open revolt, the rulers have lost the support of the celestial powers, who are using the popular uprising to reestablish order.

Ultimately, there are simply too many examples of gods acting through an imperfect society to dogmatically reject such a thing from happening in a game setting (as it is commonly done by those who insist that PCs must be socially rootless heroes who are completely insulated from society's actions). The refusal to entertain the notion that gods can act through imperfect vessels, and do so in the name of playing the long game, is rooted in a kind of vulgar Protestantism that mutated into the dominant mindset of modern scientism, suspicious as it was of the social aspects of knowledge-making. The key task for GMs is figuring out how to use these aspects creatively and fairly - which is the same imperative that ought to motivate good GMs in every aspect of world-building anyway.

Here are a few suggestions of ways in which gods can exhibit agency specifically through social groups. Existing game mechanics can make their actions easy to operationalize (and if necessary, to contest):

- When crowds gather, e.g. at public festivals or during crisis periods, they can become literally inspired and gain at least a modicum of magical power. This provides a handy in-game reason for people coming together in mob form, and it also allows GMs to break out of the sterile mentality that envisions commoners as inert fodder for heroes and villains.

- One specific aspect of this crowd magic could be a divine decision to punish mortals by first driving them mad. Call of Cthulhu is especially clever in describing the social impact of an Elder God's sudden appearance in a particular community. There is little reason why FRPGs can't also do this with various sorts of Dionysian cults.

- Campaigns can be organized around themes of pantheon formation. Gods select groups to effect or act through, and as these groups make alliances, gods form durable associations in the form of pantheons. Gods (and their followers) that get shut out of these alliances become defined as demons. The terms of the pantheon alliance define some gods (and followings) as being senior or junior partners. Later, these can be redefined as familial relationships (senior partners are parents, junior partners - children or younger siblings). As an interesting experiment, character classes can be defined as the followings of particular divine patrons. This seems aesthetically preferable to 'racial' gods, who would probably join such pantheons in an actually existing imperial polytheism of the type FRPGs usually assume: how many 'racial' gods were there in the Roman Empire (that did not quickly lose their racial status)?

- Gods can come together in partnership with communities, but these partnerships can also be dissolved. FRPGs often reproduce stories of deicide, but they often take the form of individual PCs slaying gods. What if the process was a truly social one, as whole groups, or at least factions within groups, cooperated in sidelining particular gods? There would be far more intrigue and far greater stakes to a deicide narrative than a simple boss fight on the 573rd level of the Abyss. A quick read through descriptions of ritual drownings, burnings, and demolition of gods in the historical literature demonstrates how evocative they would be for a game.

- As suggested above, gods could experiment with letting communities shape the nature of the divine magic that's accessible to them. Gods test mortals as to how they will make these decisions, whether they would grow ethically over time as a result of being able to make them, and whether they could correct mistakes about who can have access to such magic over the long term. Big debates about including arcane spells into the arsenal of religiously 'approved' magic could color whole campaigns and decisions about multi-classing. 

- A more 'monotheistic' version of the pantheon formation situation could be a case where a single god decides to set two sets of worshipers against one another, to see which one is more worthy. As a variant, a god might abandon worshipers for a group of barbarians seen thenceforth as a scourge. Perhaps it could come to the point where rival religious groups even convince the deity that it is in fact different people, and it develops multiple personality disorder.

Chronicles of 'Team B' - Chapter 7 - One Path Ends, The Other Continues

Before the rest of the group departs from Vladykino, Bjorg kills and roasts the second pig brought by Lokan, while Kesha takes the day to thoroughly search the village. He recalls that there was a wise woman with a somewhat unwholesome reputation that lived on the outskirts, and locates a few edibles, as well as a couple of crocks containing potions: one with a silver coin on the bottom - probably a holy water or healing potion, and another that's about a quarter full, containing a foul-smelling liquid with transmutative properties. Kesha creates a harness for the two crocks, to make sure they don't break along the way.

The following day, once it becomes clear that the weather will not improve, and once what remains of the pig is salvaged (Bjorg is no better a cook than Alden), Kesha and his big friend set out in pursuit of the four companions who left earlier in the day. Since they are on foot, they press on after dark, but find it tough going in the dense woods, and tire quickly. The following day, they run into the same scruffy characters their companions met earlier, but, not wishing to fall behind, they have the briefest of chats, and learn only that their companions proceeded south. The next day, the pair locate a giant turnip in the woods. Not seeing anyone around, Bjorg pulls it out of the ground, and brings it along, but Kesha worries that the turnip's owner will come after them. At night, he uses magic to raise the earth in an attempt to protect them from any trouble, as well as from the rain.

At the end of the third day, the two have still not caught up with their companions, but they do find the Kochmak campsite, left roughly 10 days ago. They proceed deeper into the woods, but have grown tired of maintaining their pace - even Bjorg finds the weight he is carrying oppressive. The rain has made the forest floor into a mud pit, and it is very slow going. The region seems devoid of people, though Kesha does see some lights off in the distance this night and the next. The second time around, he decides to investigate, and discovers a homestead in the midst of the woods. He knocks on the gate until someone answers. The man speaks an unfamiliar tongue, and Kesha attempts to communicate with him by creating an image of his companions on a piece of cowhide. The man is frightened, and runs off, but soon, an armed Kochmak rider appears from inside a building in the compound. Kesha attempts to charm the man, unsuccessfully, and then is fortunate to be able to flee and hide, until the Kochmak ceases his pursuit. After dawn breaks, the rider, along with another, appears with two others near Bjorg and Kesha's campsite. After Bjorg rouses himself, they seem to be a bit taken aback, but one rider fires warning shots at a tree, and orders the travelers to leave (in the Noriki tongue).

Left with no aid and no information, and beset by more bad weather, the two travelers make the best guess they can about which direction to head. There have been no signs of the Kochmak raiding party or of their companions for several days. Another Kochmak rider passes them, apparently wanting to know about the settlement they passed, so they send him on his way. The pig has been eaten, but there is still the turnip which should last for a while. Bjorg also succeeds in killing a deer in the old-fashioned way (rock to the head). The pair roast it on the fire, while trying to warm up from the rain (Kesha uses his magic toward this endeavor as well).

The deer, however, proves the pair's downfall. On the third day after leaving the Kochmak campsite, they attract a pack of wolves. The wolves follow them for a while, trying to snatch the roasted deer carcass from the volot. Four of the wolves come at the volot, and though he swats at a couple with his oslop, he does not manage to bring any down. One of the wolves bites him hard on the foot, and the big man falls, dropping his prey. A wolf snatches it, and takes off. Kesha, after healing the big man, uses magic to give chase, but his sling, and his attempts to shock the wolves prove ineffective - the road has taken its toll. Bjorg is having a hard time finding his feet after being healed, and Kesha has moved a ways away while chasing the pack. Two wolves confront the chud, and the lead wolf delivers a vicious bite to his abdomen, as the world fades to black...

You shoudda just let us go with that deer...

* * *

The main group takes a full-day's rest trying to recover from the harrowing encounter with the rusalka the previous night. The companions manage to fashion a canopy from the rain and to start a fire. Lokan and Fedor hunt down some hares, while the others catch several fish in the stream, giving the party sufficient food for the next several days. The following day, they set out, with horses and cow in tow, trying to push south. It's a slow slog through the mud and the rain, but two days later, Yuri discovers the Kochmak camp, indicating that the party has managed to find their way back to the raider's trail.

The following day, the bad weather finally ends, though the woods are thick here, there are no dwellings in sight, and the ground is still wet with mud. But hearts are lifted, as progress is made, and in three days time, the four sight a large river through the trees - presumably, the Udena. Soon, they see small fishing settlements along the bank. Curious as to who lives there, and interested in taking an opportunity in trying to sell their ill-gotten cow, Yuri and Lokan decide to investigate. Alden, on account of his recent escapades, is not invited, but left on a hilltop outside the village, with Fedor to watch over him, and keep him out of trouble.

The two companions enter through the main gate, and are immediately confronted with a gaggle of local children. They are clearly not Noriki, judging by their appearance and dress, and they are none too happy about seeing Noriki here. They say a few mean things about infidels in broken Noriki, and make fun of the companions' cow, saying it looks sickly and thin, and that no one will buy it. Yuri and Lokan make their way toward the village center, where the local shrine is located. Here, they meet the village headman, Erken, who seems happy to see them, and invites them in for a meal. He explains that the town of Udyn is actually very close by, and reveals that a large group of raiders, as well as captives, did pass by here about 10 days ago. Erken relates that his people belong to the Bahite faith, but says that those espousing different creeds live peacefully in Udyn - there is in fact a Gaalite quarter. Yuri offers that when he was young, a Bahite traveler named Hassan Abu Hakim came to Vladykino, and gifted him his oud, as well as fantastic stories about the wide world. Yuri takes the opportunity to regale his hosts with several songs from his homeland on the oud, while Lokan decides he likes koumiss - the local delicacy made of fermented mare's milk, and attempts to engage the hosts in a drinking contest. The host's friends drift into dinner, while Erken, gladdened by the atmosphere, offers the pair 30 altyn to buy their cow. Yuri recalls that this is less than a ruble, and Erken admits they can get a better price in town.

After the fourth toast, and Yuri's second song, the other guests politely take their leave, and Yuri and Lokan are offered places to sleep in the loft. After the lights go down, and the household falls asleep, Lokan slips out, and goes to find his companions on the hilltop, and sneaks them into the village. Inside Erken's house, the two uninvited guests manage to waken the hosts as they try to eat the remains of supper. Erken is a bit confused about the extra guests, and the following morning, begs off from breaking fast with the party. But the quartet leaves the village unmolested, and soon, sight Udyn - a city of tall stone spires and colorful domes rising before them on a hilltop overlooking the river...

Finally here! Hmmm... why only a wooden wall?

Do Not Marvel At This, For An Hour Is Coming: Resurrection And Society In Fantasy Settings

One strange but widespread conceit in fantasy RPGs is the existence of people, creatures and items that can return life to the dead, but the complete absence of any social impact of this truly earthshaking power. The ability of members of certain character classes to raise the dead has been with FRPGs from the very beginning, but in the fiction of specific settings, it is virtually ignored, or treated like an embarrassment. Characters in FRPGs die, just like queens in chess are taken by opposing pieces, and since FRPGs, like chess, are games, it is preferable that there exist a mechanic for counteracting character death, just like it's possible to recreate a queen by pushing your pawn to the eighth rank. But what makes good game sense seems to make bad fiction: everyone knows that people don't come back from the dead. Good fantasy writers know this, and when characters do return to life in fantasy, it is usually an occurrence of... well... Biblical proportions.

As a result, the power to raise the dead, though it is, according to a literal reading of the rules, a regular power possessed by high-level practitioners of certain professions, is commonly explained away as a simple game mechanic that makes the game "fun" for the players (characters remain in play), and yet persist an irregular feature that keeps the setting from becoming silly. Of course, it can be "fun" to have Billy Joe Cleric's Resurrection Parlor across the street from the pawn shop. But in more serious settings, resurrection, and other life-restorative magics, can simply pop up in the way of adventuring parties. Because, well, PCs are heroes, after all, exceptional in every way, and the gods, in their infinite wisdom, just happen to grant the power to attendant at the temple in the middle of Onehorseton. Because the gods have great plans in store for the PCs, who have a world to save.

An iconic image from Billy Joe's Parlor

People can have fun how they want, of course. For my part, the fun in this case lies in actually trying to extrapolate how a world that has practicable, magical ways of bringing people back from the dead would operate, as if you're trying to write a respectable piece of fantasy fiction in the brief pauses between taking a swig of your beer, or a bite of your pretzel. In what follows, I try to conceptualize several instances in the life of a realistic world in which resurrection is real, because I would find such a world more fun to run and play in than Billy Joe's world, or a world papered over with back issues of The PCs Are Heroes Magazine.

The Folk Epistemology of Resurrection

How many people in the fictional world know that it's possible for non-divine beings to come back from the dead as a regular feature, as opposed to a one-off at the End of History? A common assumption is, not many, because if people knew, everyone would be trying to come back to life all the time, and then what kind of world would we have? The permanence and irrevocability of death, like earthlike gravity, is a baseline postulate most GMs incorporate, because without them settings would be too outlandish, and too difficult to build.

But is the common-sense epistemology of modern physiology - that people live, and then die, never to return - the best and most realistic baseline for an FRPG setting? It seems to me that folk epistemologies of earlier times are a better fit as a blueprint. Anthropological research into vampire folklore suggests, for instance, that most people in the Balkans as late as the 18th century believed that decomposing bodies had agency, for the eminently common-sense reason that they continued to change, which meant that life and death were not as sharply differentiated as we moderns believe. This signified that coming back from the death was not a particularly unusual process, and sometimes, such returns even assumed epidemic proportions.

Coming back as a vampire or revenant may not have been particularly pleasant, or have the divine sanction within the prevailing religion, but the very possibility signaled that other forms of life after death were quite possible regardless of the official theological takes on the possibility. Consider the following account of the raising of the dead by Saint Sergius of Radonezh - the most popular and authoritative medieval Russian saint:

A certain devout Christian living close by the monastery, who believed in the sanctity of St. Sergius, had an only son, a child, who fell ill. The father brought the boy to the monastery, and entreated the saint to pray for him: but while the father was yet speaking the boy died. The man, with his last hope gone, wept and bemoaned, 'It would have been better had my son died in my own house.' While he went to prepare a grave, the dead child was laid in the saint's cell. The saint felt compassion for this man, and falling on his knees prayed over the dead child. Suddenly the boy came to life, and moved. His father, returning with preparations for the burial, found his son alive, whereupon, flinging himself at the feet of God's servant, gave him thanks. The saint said to him, 'You deceive yourself, man, and do not know what you say. While on your journey hither your son became frozen with cold, and you thought he had died. He has now thawed in the warm cell, and you think he bas come to life. No one can rise again from the dead before the Day of Resurrection.' The man however insisted, saying, 'Your prayers brought him to life again.' The saint forbade him to say this; 'If you noise this abroad you will lose your son altogether.' The man promised to tell no one and, taking his son, now restored to health, he went back to his own home. This miracle was made known through the saint's disciples.

The chronicler here has the unenviable task of simultaneously underlining St. Sergius' status as a miracle worker, but also concealing the fact of resurrection that seemed obvious to the fortunate father in the story by theological dogma, which declared that only God had the power to raise the dead, and only at the appointed time. Although the father is sworn to silence, and news of the miracle was only propagated through proper channels, it's pretty clear that the saint had to invoke his considerable power to shut the man's mouth. The Orthodox Church was as powerless to convince people that some saintly clerics couldn't raise the dead as it was, several centuries later, to stem the vampirism epidemic.

The question is, how would most people react when their belief that certain persons had the power to bring back the dead was confirmed?

Sites of Resurrection

The typical narration of bringing someone back to life in an FRPG setting leaves society entirely outside the process. When adventurers show up at the proverbial Resurrection Parlor, they are usually in an antiseptic setting that resembles a funeral home or therapist's office. The place is quiet, with minimalistic decor. Billy Joe, the agent of the higher powers, tastefully presents the bereaved party members with various service options, and asks them to select a payment plan. When an agreement has been reached, the deceased person is taken into a special chapel (or side room of the office), laid upon a specially blessed altar or bed. Incense is lit, the officiant utters the necessary words and makes the necessary signs with his or her digits, and soon, the departed begins to stir. Soon, the returnee is taken to the inn to rest in a room while faithful companions drink downstairs, and think about returning to the dungeon to make a disbursement into Billy Joe's payment plan. Billy Joe sees no reason to warn the companions to keep mum about what has just happened - not only does he lack the power as a representative of God's one true church, but there is no reason to worry, because there is no one who can know.

Not taking anything away from incense and quiet chapels, if knowledge of miracle-working saints permeates society, resurrection parlors are much more likely to be surrounded by a press of desperate humanity. In other words, the headquarters of a character who can bring back the dead will look more like a pilgrimage site than a lawyer's office in a sleepy provincial town. Except in addition to the paupers with crutches, covered with goiters or scabrous skin, and accompanied by wailing children, all waiting to touch the robe of the holy man, the relic, or to drink the miraculous water, you will also have people dragging little coffins, or corpses of dear ones cut down by marauders or thrown by horses. The authorities, or the saint's servitors, will certainly try to keep such people behind a certain perimeter: not only do they lack the means to satisfy all the supplicants, but they would also fear pollution (ritual and actual) that would result from contact with supplicants. Shrines would therefore be surrounded by fences and defended by a heavy contingent of armed guards; or the saint would flee to some out-of-the-way shrine (which desperate people would likely find anyway). However, any saint who wants to maintain her reputation would probably be savvy enough to maintain at least some demotic contact and not treat supplicants too harshly.

This scene from plague-striken Florence might be typical of what one may
expect outside a 'resurrection parlor'

The appearance of adventurers, who are much more likely to receive an audience with the saint because they are much more likely to have means at their disposal introduces an additional element into this desperate scene. The supplicants have probably been camped out at the site for a while, and despite the lack of any indication by the saint or the authorities that they will be received, they have likely formed a spontaneous waiting list. Now here come some grandees, or worse, parvenus, and, violating all sense of propriety and popular justice, cut to the front of the line. How many people are muttering curses under their breath, spitting at the new arrivals, or even rushing them to tear them apart? Sure, putting themselves in the way of murderhoboes might not be a good idea, but these are desperate people with nothing to lose. And is it a good idea to engage in mass murder on the doorstep of a saint's shrine?

And God forbid if any of the adventurers belong to minority races.

Resurrection and Social Hierarchy

Clearly, the limited availability of a saint's services would result not only in putting resurrection out of the reach of the vast majority of the population, it would also serve to divide the population into the (very small) elite who can afford to bring their loved ones back, and the huge majority, who cannot. Access to resurrection is even likely to be the determining factor differentiating these two social groups, because it would be tougher to point to mortality as a universal glue that connects lords and servants. If resurrection is affected by divine agency, those who are eligible for it are obviously favored by the gods, while those who do not are probably regarded as cursed. Elites looking for further legitimation of their status are wont at some point to broach the subject of blood. The blue bloods are the ones which the gods can bring back, while all the rest are essentially different in their constitution. GMs who are favorably disposed to the "PCs are special" trope can make this literally true. The question then becomes, to what special bloodlines do the PCs belong?

Of course, the separation between elites and masses defined along these lines is likely to be blurry, and open to challenge. One imagines that access to resurrection would probably be one of the major causes of peasant uprisings. Millenarian ideas about the restoration of some Golden Age universal immortality, or the punishment of those who monopolized resurrection (including, in a fantasy context, certain gods) would help attract mass followings to rebels. Even saints may be targeted, if they are instrumental in upholding the existing power structure. The wrath of popular justice may even assume the form of destroying the possibility of resurrection for anyone: as E. P. Thompson relates, even the modern campaign for universal suffrage was fueled by a popular misunderstanding of the term as denoting universal suffering: if one suffers, all must suffer. Where would PCs come down in such a conflict?

In the interests of stability and social peace, elites would probably offer the masses some access to resurrection, perhaps in the form of pro bono services. A more demotic turn in religious doctrine, such as what took place in late Pharaonic Egypt, when mummification and magical scrolls guaranteeing afterlife became available to people outside the royal family is likely to be in evidence. Of course, raising the people's hopes will probably be accompanied by a spread of charlatanism: instead of qualified priests or real saints, one is likely to encounter slippery folk who offer only symbolic tokens of salvation, or who use illusion or necromantic magic in place of the real deal. Taking a page from Doubting Thomas may be good business practice for PCs who have sold their steed and all their weapons to bring back a friend.

The Gem Trade

3rd Edition D&D introduced the idea that spells that raised the dead required diamonds of a certain value as material components. Aside from resonating with 'crystal power', particularly popular at that time, this innovation introduced an additional element into the economy of resurrection. It was no longer sufficient to have gold, or the will of the gods and their agents: now access to the restorative magic required the availability of gems.

How many Fourth Crusades would be required to keep this icon
encrusted with gems if they were actually used up in returning people to life?

The idea that gems have mystical power is of very ancient provenance, and the use of gems in everything from amulets made of precious stones that were inscribed with passages from the Book of the Dead, to gems set into Orthodox icons and royal crowns attests to deep-seated beliefs connecting gems to life after death and the world beyond. For this reason, gems and semi-precious stones were one of the first items of international trade. Lapis lazuli was a 'system-forming' good that played a key role in articulating the Ancient Near East, from the Nile Valley to Afghanistan, where the stone was mined. It was also a prestige good that stimulated the formation of elites throughout the whole region.

In a world where gems are literally capable of resurrecting the dead, their strategic value is hard to overestimate. The essence of civilization becomes putting your up-and-coming barbaric kingdom on the map of the Gem Route, through raiding existing treasuries, conquering countries that contain gem mines, rerouting caravans at crossbow-point, in short, by any means necessary. Having gems means that your elite is recognized as such by foreigners (now that they qualify for resurrection), and being able to better maintain social peace (the more gems, the more people can be raised). Having gems also means being able to attract the most able priests and the most prestigious saints, further raising the profile of your realm.

A model for a fantasy world's 'resurrection nexus

But there is no substitute to being located on one of the main branches of the Gem Route. Gems are probably the raison d'être for the existence of both commerce and religion. In fact, the two are almost certainly closely intertwined. Morris Silver, a specialist on the Bronze Age economy describes a trading system whose major nodes are located at places where routes intersect, which not coincidentally, are the locations of some of the largest temples. These temples are not only centers of gravity for some of the largest markets, they are also financial centers that loan money or other preciosities, presumably, in our case, for creating dependence on magical services.

This sort of gem trade puts the activity of the proverbial orcs and other marchers into perspective. The orcs are external counterparts to revolting peasants, who want access to gems, because that way lies access to resurrection, recognition, and at least a semblance of social equality. Orcish fecundity in this light is a strategy for longterm survival in the absence of access to resurrection. But orcs aside, a good many wars in our fantasy world are probably fought over access to gems. If raiding or having more children is ill-advised, perhaps import-substitution is the way to go. A lot of energy is bound to be expended on searching for Elixirs of Life or other material components, which would allow peripheral lands to escape dependence on kingdoms that control the Gem Route. The latter, one can be sure, frequently use sanctions and embargoes as tools in economic warfare. Triggering the flight of priests and associated brain drains would in turn increase pressures on non-compliant regimes on the frontier.

* * *

Hopefully, I've laid out ways to 'socialize' resurrection as a game feature. PCs might be made aware that their desire to bring a party member back to life may be an episode in a deeply-rooted class struggle. Much of the motivation for adventuring could be bound up with procuring material components for Raise Dead, Resurrection, and similar magics. Even those who are specifically partial to dungeon-delving may see such expeditions as desperate measures to steal gems from the hoards of ancient elites, who protect their burial sites with divine and demonic agents dedicated to limiting access to life-restorative components in the cosmic moral economy.