clanjos

Dark Sun campaign, anyone?

The Dark Sun of Athas is a campaign setting, like Greyhawk, Eberron, Forgotten Realms, or Ravenloft. It is, indeed, one of the bleakest settings in D&D, if not in all of fiction. The world is a desert, stripped clean of fertility by arcane magic- so your wizard's getting lynched. The civilized world is ruled by the Dragon-Kings, immortal wizards of vast power using arcane magic to kill the world faster and become dragons, which don't exist in Athas. EXCEPT the Dragon of Tyr, who is basically evil incarnate. Every bit of wildlife is psionic, and will kill you at the drop of a hat. The halflings are savage cannibals, the elves have no forests, the dwarves are a slave race, and gnomes, goblins, and orcs were wiped out in genocidal wars millenia ago. The art of forging metal is considered a lost art of a more advanced time.

Athas is a shithole. Such a shithole, in fact, that the average build for NPC's is "Third Level PC class." See that no-name beggar? Third level psion. See that slave? Third level Rogue. See that paladin? No you don't, Athas is such a shithole that the gods have abandoned it altogether. It's a blasted hellhole of a world, and there are no heroes- a Dark Sun game is about surviving.

Search For The Multiverse -- Sandbox Mega Crossover

The Ganma

Booregard sighed. He'd read through at least four chapters of a boring book on engine maintenance. He'd read through a newspaper with job opportunities, circa 1947 (one of the articles had actually said "ways to keep coloreds from your business."). And there was still no one in the records office yet. He might as well see about evolving to make the haunting more effective. He shoved the contents of the desk before him into a big pile, still invisible, and began going through them. He tossed the duds behind him into a garbage can, the bottom caked with chewing gum that was probably older than most people currently in the prison.

"Pencil? Junk. 1949 dirty mag? Junk. Adding machine? Junk. Dead Spider?"

He thought for a moment, placing it to the side. He wasn't sure if he could evolve using living things, even if they were dead. Everyone he knew used either a tool or weapon.

"...Keep in mind. Brick? Naaah. Lamp? Nope. Uh... Calendar? Paper? Chair? Desk?"

Booregard leaned back in his chair, sighing in frustration and giving it a light spin. These objects were all pretty lackluster. Shouldn't there have been a key or something? At least then he could do spooky stuff with doors. He clenched his fist in determination.

"I need something that'll bring my level of spookiness to new heights! I've got to be the best I can be! The boss says that's what being a Monster's all about- doing your very best for your friends! And damn it, they hired me because I'm spooky- I've got to be spookier than ever!"

He slammed his fist onto the desk, scattering papers. It was then he felt a prick and looked up- to see pooling blood. But... he was a ghost. He didn't bleed. He moved the papers hastily out of the way, to see an ancient fountain pen leaking blood-red ink. Booregard looked at it. This was a sign. A sign from the patrons of spookiness. From every vengeful spirit in this hellhole. It was his time. It was time... to get spooky. Raising the pen, he tossed it into the air, watching it form into a jacket for him- the sleeves and back made of rolling currents of blood-red ink, with sleeves formed from the wooden halves of the pen over his arms. Even the head of the pen joined in, forming a crown and mask facing downward. Looking over his new outfit in a dusty window, he nodded, and began writing in the air. When nothing happened, he looked disappointed, going through various hand motions. The hook'em horns, various religious handsigns, even going so far as to snap his fingers. But still, nothing happened. Eventually, he came upon the correct one- a simple wave- and the message appeared, seemingly bleeding through the wall.

GET OUT

Laughing with glee, he walked through the wall, using his invisibility to search for those still lost in the prison.

---

Chain Shadow, the Basement

"...That once you receive it you'll agree to being dead."

Chain Shadow had been taking guns he'd found around the basement and removing most of the ammo, putting it in his coffin. If he and his friends were going to be the monsters, they were pretty much immune to bullets- except his seniors, the Hominids. Well, at least Swamp Hominid, but he had regenerative healing. But just because the bullets were useless, that didn't mean the shot of the protagonist unloading a gun uselessly should go on for too long. He was interrupted by the sound of an explosion. He shrugged and got back to work.

"...Well, that's none of my business. I've brought this lovely coffin..."

---

The Hominids

Lightning Hominid stood atop the dockhouse, moving his arms around overhead, groaning. Translation is provided below.

"GRAAAAAGH, GRAOAAORARGROAAA! UNGAAOKAN, AOARAORAOOOOOAAAG, GOAOAAYAAAOA, AOROEAAAAAGH! ARGAOR, ORAR! GREAAAAONK! GROOAAOAD! GAAAAROOO-"
World, hear the cries of the Mu Empire, we who are born from the Earth! I, Lightning Hominid, born of the clouds, ask for a mighty storm! Lightning above, strike fear into the hearts of humans! Rains and wind, drench the earth in terror! And thunder-

It was then that he heard the explosion, staggering backwards and looking around in shock. Swamp Homind floated to the surface, stunned from the shockwave like a trout in a lake that just got a lit stick of dynamite shoved in. The Mummy Hominid, being the most experienced actor, did not break character as it sat in an electric chair within the prison, looking like a charred corpse.

Clearing his throat, Lightning Hominid returned to the ritual.

"...Greaog, araog?"
...T-Thunder, please tone it down a little.

The Desert's Pain: A Dark Sun 3.5e Campaign

Zabitan
Chaotic Good Human Necropolitan Educated Wilder, Level 3, Init 3, HP 36/36, Speed 30
AC 15, Touch 13, Flat-footed 12, Fort 3, Ref 4, Will 4, Base Attack Bonus 2 /19
Quabone (MW) 2 (1d6, x2)
Shield (made from a large jug) (+2 Shield, +3 Dex)
Abilities Str 8, Dex 16, Con -, Int 18, Wis 12, Cha 18
Condition None

Formerly a slave, his corpse got sold to an arena in Nibenay as a gladiatorial undead. A few years later, he ended up escaping, making his way to Tyr, and went into hiding. Even though most Athasians are indifferent to undead, since there are bigger problems, he disguises his nature by wearing full-body clothes that cover every inch of skin, allegedly to keep out of the sun.

The Desert's Pain: A Dark Sun 3.5e Campaign

So I guess the main question for us is why a Defiler (who really shouldn't read or dress like that unless he wants to die of heatstroke or lynch mob), a Thri-Kreen (who are carnivorous and get their fluids from eating animals and people), and an undead (HA, YOU PUNY MORTALS AND YOUR BIOLOGICAL NEEDS) are tagging along on a mission to find a hidden underground oasis. Athasians, particularly level 3 ones, don't have time for flights of fancy like an oasis only know of from rumors: they need to SURVIVE. As level 3 characters, we're the equivalent of the typical dirt-farming peasant from Greyhawk or Faerun.

Best I can figure for the undead is he knows if you bite it he can drag your stuff back to town and sell it, and he can body enough of the mind-affecting psionics from the wildlife to find his way back.

The Desert's Pain: A Dark Sun 3.5e Campaign

So, where's our merry band of stragglers starting out?

The Desert's Pain: A Dark Sun 3.5e Campaign

@coolbro
Use the Dark Sun of Athas 3e Player's Handbook.

The Desert's Pain: A Dark Sun 3.5e Campaign

Equipment's always the hardest part of a build.

Zabitan, Necropolitan Wilder

Search For The Multiverse -- Sandbox Mega Crossover

Chain Shadow, The Gloomy Basement

The sound of wood dragged over stone, combined with the clanking of heavy chains, echoed through the deepest, darkest parts of the prison. However, now and again, it was broken by a deep voice singing.

"I've brought a lovely coffin,"

Chain Shadow skulked through the darkness, admiring the spooky echo and the poor lighting.

"And it's one you'll look quite fine in,"

What little electrical light there was was snuffed out by the roiling cloud of black fog leaking from beneath the lid of the coffin.

"I don't need any money, but I do ask instead..."

Though no victims were present, he had to get psyched up. This was the bigtime. An actual film, and not one of Filmshadow's weird surrealist "Shadow Noveaux" films. He'd been recruited as a monster for a feature film, and it was his job to fulfill that role to the fullest.

"That once you've received it, you'll agree to being dead."

Chain Shadow sighed and shook his head, tapping his foot and leaning against the wall.

"...this would be more spooky if there were still inmates..."

---

The Hominids- Gearing Up

The three hominids, ancient warriors of Mu, readied themselves at the docks. Discounting multiversal travel, which the inmates didn't have, and the various orgs would be reluctant to hand out, escape from the island meant coming here. Mummy Hominid addressed his junior monsters. Though, really, someone who kept track of seniority after nearly 4000 years tended to be the best choice of leader.

"GROAOAAORGH! GYRAAAGOOO. GROOOGH. GRAAR?"

"GRAAAAGH!" Swamp and Lightning replied.

"GYAAAAOOOR. GRAAAYOGRAAGH. GROOOOORL!" Mummy Hominid groaned, raising his fist.

"UNGAAAAAAH!" The two younger monsters repeated the gesture.

Whatever the conversation was, it seemed to end favorably, with Swamp Hominid making his way to the water, and Lightning Hominid making his way to the top of the dockhouse, starting to summon his storms. Mummy Hominid, meanwhile, headed into the prison proper. Perhaps he could find a phone to tell his cousins from Florsheim that he was going to be in a movie... if they could understand him.

---

Booregard, The Ganma

Booregard sat in the prison's library bored out of his mind. He'd joined up with Shocker+ in the hopes of getting advice from veteran Monsters for when he inevitably got called to fight the new Kamen Rider. But he didn't think it'd involve so much sitting around and waiting. Well, it wasn't like he had anything better to do with his unlife right now. If he wanted more interesting work, he was going to have to excel as a monster. Looking around, he began waving his hands, as books flew off the shelves and began circling above the room. He phased through the present bookcases and sat in a chair at the reading table. Raising up his feet, the Ganma settled into his poltergeist act. He was a Monster, dangit, and he was going to be the spookiest foe that Ghost ever faced or his name wasn't Booregard Spooksworth! He was going to do his parents proud.

The Desert's Pain: A Dark Sun 3.5e Campaign

I repeat my comical understatements: Athas is a Shithole, trying to invade Russia during winter is a slightly less than optimal military strategy, Jesus was a pretty cool dude, and breathing in space is mildly unpleasant.

The Desert's Pain: A Dark Sun 3.5e Campaign

Honestly, it's an easy mistake to make, and those racial HD are called "Dead Levels" for a reason. You might want to talk to Croake about just starting at level 1, like the Kreen and Half-Giants did in 2e. Or go with a Pterran for that wonderful Claw/Claw/Bite routine.