Ancient City of Forbidden Gods
More forbidden gods for you!
More forbidden gods for you!
Still working away on my 10 microdungeon requests. I drew a couple more today. I'll scan them soon. Once they've all be drawn and published, I'll be sending them out to the lucky owners. Have a great weekend!
When death moved in, the villagers complained, but nobody did anything, because Death is a hard force to impose, and it kept the dragons away.
The Githyank build their cities near Ilithid outposts, the better to check the ambitions of their oldest foe.
The first of the Microdungeon 10: the Haunted Tower of Forbidden Gods. What makes a god forbidden? Is it enough that worship of the god is outlawed somewhere? Or must the god himself be somehow proscribed? And what manner of authority is required to achieve that feat? Or is there something ontologically significant about the state of being forbidden (at least where a god is involved)?
I need some fresh dungeon inspiration, so I'm trying a little experiment.
|Column A||Column B||Column C|
The neighborhood is 1d6 square blocks in size and...
It wouldn't be right to say that Capitol Hill is abandoned now, but it wouldn't be right to call it inhabited either. Now it's just a few souls hanging on to the ragged edge, living by scavenging or trade with one of the better established holds. Still, you can find a bit of hospitality if you know where to like. Like the smoking man. Everybody needs something to trade, and he trades smokes. Could be he cleared out the tobacco stores after the End. Or maybe he found a truckload, or even a warehouse, but this is the one place in Old Seattle where you can still get smokes, the way they were made back then. 12th and John, just past the wrecks.
In 1889, the City of Seattle suffered a great fire that destroyed the entire downtown. Resources to fight the disaster were inadequate, and in some cases made things worse. Attempts to halt the fire by using explosives to demolish buildings in its path failed and, when already-burning buildings were detonated, only served to spread burning debris further afield.
Last week I sent out a carefully constructed email to a curator at an art gallery where I occasionally drop in to look at art and chat. I included some samples of my work, a bit of information on who I am and what I'm doing with my art, and a request to come by and talk about having my work exhibited in the gallery. I received an enthusiastic response along with a price list for how much I'd need to pay to have my art hang there. Now the gallery is in a pretty sweet spot, right on the edge of downtown with plenty of foot traffic. But paying to have my art displayed is not where I want this whole thing to go, and seems a dubious way to start out.*
Today I happened across a piece of art that pretty much addresses the issues I was raving about yesterday, Ward Shelly's Autonomous Art.