bansheeconcoctions

[bansheeconcoctions]

One tradition I’d love to see more of in D&D is the concept of religious sanctuary. You know, like Esmeralda declaring sanctuary in Hunchback of Notre Dame. I don’t know that every faith would practice this, some of the gods range from ill-suited to directly opposed, but that’s to be expected.

A Lathandran cathedral was on the verge of closing on account of the priests getting to be too old for this sort of thing. That is, until some elf named Oswald Big Knife showed up at the gate pleading for sanctuary. The priests all agreed, sure that he wouldn’t stay more than a tenday. After all, they reckoned, he’s probably just waiting for the local lord to forget his misdeeds, or needs some time to gear up for a daring escape.

A year and a half later, he’s still there. Hasn’t converted or anything, but he’s such a fixture now that no one can imagine him leaving. All that’s really changed is a few of Oswald's street friends also taking sanctuary there. Flick, a twitchy tiefling tween, came around one month, and a voracious human called Roach another.

Some of the visitors slip in and out of cathedral grounds like sunlight through the stained glass windows, but enough choose to stay. Clair Lighthand made the order's first new Dawnbringer in nearly a century, with some of her mates following suit. Subprior Aurulent was skeptical at first, but made sure to suggest to the lord that perhaps clemency was in order before heading home. The day after her pardon, Clair led the dawn prayers outside for the very first time.

The cathedral, true to its god, was reborn, and the Scoundrel's Sanctuary, as it came to be known, was proud of its reputation as a place of redemption.

[bansheeconcoctions]

One thing I’ve never understood about D&D druids is how they’re so often imagined as stationary. They’re found ‘guarding sacred sites or watching over regions of unspoiled nature’. And, I know. This is mainly because of the imagery and popular imagination around sites like Stonehenge. But.

If I had the druid spell list? I would take Create Bonfire, and I would take Goodberry, and I would take Create or Destroy Water, and I would pack up a sleeping bag, and I would just start walking. Where? Everywhere! What’s down that road? What’s over that hill? What’s up this river? What’s past this forest? What’s over those dunes? Let’s go see! I can’t starve. I can’t parch. I can’t freeze. I can go forever. So I’m gonna.

Honestly, the druid should be the picture of the wandering vagabond. They have everything they need. You can just walk and keep walking, wherever the wanderlust takes you. You wanna go across an ocean? You can make drinking water. Ships should pay to carry you. You wanna go across a desert? A baby druid with one level and 2 measly spell slots under their belt can still make food and a gallon of water a day for 10 people. Druids should be the explorers, the navigators, the pathfinders. They can travel endlessly, without hurting that which they pass through, the very picture of ‘leave nothing but your footprints’. They can walk the earth, stopping here or there along the way to help where they need to help, and fight what they need to fight, and then they can move on again.

Yes, some druids get tired and settle down. Circles are formed, and that’s how baby druids get their starts, finding a circle. And some areas do need a permanent circle to defend or watch over them. But I do think there should be more of a picture, more of an image, more of an option, for the druid as the wanderer, the rover, the vagabond. A pocket full of berries and a wave of a hand for some rain. Just head out and follow your feet. What could stop you?

(Particularly the Stars druid, my beloved. Could there be a better picture of a navigator? That’s where a Stars druid belongs, at the prow of a ship, or guiding their people across trackless dunes, or carrying news across vast ice fields under an endless polar night to keep tiny isolated hamlets connected. Follow the stars, follow your feet. Yes, accomplish things in the process, but the journey itself is also enough. Just walk. Go. The stars will guide you).

Sorry. In real life, so often, I just really want to see what’s down that road, or over that hill. And, like. As a druid you could just go. You have all you need from a standing start. Well. You’ll have to get clothes and good boots and shit, but you can totally feed and water yourself for completely free and regardless of natural resources out there.

More druid wanderers, is my point here. Yes, still some druids guarding henges and forests, but more druids just walking about, poking their noses into things. There is no better spell list to indulge your wanderlust and curiosity. And that’s without getting into wildshape and the eventual ability to explore under the oceans and into the air. There’s a whole world full of nature. You don’t have to tie yourself to one little bit, unless you want to.

[bansheeconcoctions]

On Craftfolk/Sparkborn Parentage

There are three types of parents in traditional Sparkborn culture: mothers, fathers, and guardians.

Anyone who builds or helps build a Sparkborn’s body is typically considered their mother, regardless of gender. A mother’s role varies, with some only helping with the birth, collaborating on the design and construction of their child’s first body. Others play a larger role, teaching their child to maintain and care for their body, and helping them to build new or different parts of their body as desired.

By comparison, a father’s job seems much more simple: they’re the one who channels the Divine Spark to give the child life. Many a breathing spellcaster has had the honor of fathering a Sparkborn, but some fathers, Sparkborn themselves, have done so in their own way.

After the Spark’s battery has been built, the father will temporarily incorporate it into their own body. Once installed, the father will intentionally overcharge their own battery in order to funnel the surplus into the secondary battery. They will continue to do so over multiple charges in order to build up enough energy to create a proper Spark. Either way, once the infant battery is charged, the father has fulfilled their role.

Guardians, meanwhile, are any beings that help raise the Sparksborn. It’s not mutually exclusive with the other two roles; on the contrary, it’s entirely possible, albeit uncommon, for someone to be the mother, father, and guardian of a Sparksborn.

Most Sparksborn have multiple guardians, with at least a guardian-mother or guardian-father functioning as their main caretaker. There is no set way to determine who is or is not a Sparksborn’s guardian, instead it is up to whoever each child claims, when they are of age to do so.

[bansheeconcoctions]

Given that my take on them doesn’t involve them starting out as soldiers, I don’t find Warforged to be an appropriate name anymore. With that in mind, here are some others I’ve been considering:

Sparkborn: A solid, literal name. After all, any machine could, with the proper rituals and parts, become a Sparkborn. They weren’t dead before, just inert, a potential life. But simply by holding a Divine Spark, they’ve been “born” as an aware, conscious being.

Craftsmen, Craftswomen, or Craftfolk: Mostly for the double entendre. All Craftfolk start out with a body that’s been constructed for them, which they then begin to maintain and alter on their own. To do so, they’d need to learn at least a little of whatever craft they’re made of (usually smithing, I imagine). While this would make them a literal crafter in their own right, there’s also the poetry of being crafted. Your body is the ultimate expression of your skill and personhood; not only do you shape it daily in the small, ordinary manner of any creature, but you also can literally reform your limbs and add or remove whole appendages as it suits you. A Craftsman bard with instruments built in to his body, and he’s able to influence the reverb by moving some panels around. A fiery Craftswoman, famous for her street food because she’s essentially made herself part iron stove.

[bansheeconcoctions]

Warforged, as a concept, have long fascinated and saddened me. Machines specially made to kill and fight, that also became sentient somewhere along the way. What if they weren’t meant to be soldiers? And what is it, exactly, that separates a Warforged from automata?

I don’t know if there is an official answer to that second question, but I’ve made my own anyway: unlike machinery, Warforged have a version of a soul called a divine spark. The thing that powers them, be it a furnace, electric charge, or pure radiant/solar energy, are all different manifestations of the same thing. This would make them effectively subraces, but I haven’t gotten that far yet.

Like in any good creation story, someone- or probably multiple someones- makes a body for the Warforged. Once construction’s complete, someone channels divine energy into their body to give it life and sentience. Their divine spark is charged, kindled, or illuminated, and off they go.

[bansheeconcoctions]

One day, an urban temple of Chauntean nuns received a visitor. Perhaps they were an acolyte looking to join their number, or perhaps a scholar seeking insight from their green library, who can say?

But everyone remembered the plant they bore as a gift. A strange fruit from their homeland that none had seen before, with a manuscript on how to care for it, and how it would care for them. How appropriate!

A sister took the visitor around to see the fruit’s new home: the rooftop plot for the sun-drinkers. Like all of the other gardens, it had wonderful soil and was tended religiously. Of course, being on temple grounds, the very soil that it sprouted out of would be holy, and even the water it would drink was blessed for health, fertility, and a great harvest.

The visitor shifted nervously at that. In their homeland, this fruit was reknowned, infamous really, for its incredible vigor. Perhaps the sisters would consider taking a more conservative posture, just this once?

Scandalized, the sister refused. A plant, a gift no less, not being lovingly nurtured with all of the care that the temple could muster? Outrageous! Sacrilegious! After all, there was no way of knowing how this little fruit would do so far away from home. The visitor hastily apologized, terrified of causing offense, before quietly going about their business. And so the sister tended to the fruit, faithfully following the instructions the visitor had left.

While she did so, the cook marveled at the many attached recipes, keen to add them to her repertoire. And all the while, the plant thrived, bearing beautiful blossoms in the spring before fruiting in the summer. One night, the cook tested a few recipes, and found them very good indeed. Then came another crop. And another. And one after that. Soon she refused to take more of it, protesting that her storage was overfull of it already.

Three days later, all the needy of the city said the same. Beggars snatched up their bowls at a glimpse of forest green cloth, and every one of the temple’s compost piles swelled.

A month into the harvest, folk would lock their doors to avoid the sisters' blessing or perhaps curse of the squash, causing one novice to plead, nearly in tears, "Great Mother, have pity on us! Bless us no more, for I fear I shall die under the weight of all this zucchini!"

[bansheeconcoctions]

Hello, I’m Banshee, I like to think a lot about D&D, which includes coming up with a lot of concepts. Feel free to use them, as a few of my own are Tumblr-inspired in one way or another, but I would love to talk about any of them with you!