Session 0

I recently began a Dungeons and Dragons campaign using the PSYCHOPOMPS setting with several of my friends. While we have played prior to this, their grasp of the rules and general concepts of 5th edition is fraught and I felt it best that I supervised character creation. Furthermore, the nature of the setting I intended to use and the changes to the rules I would make meant that some degree of explanation was in order. So we arranged a Session 0 to get together and create characters, as well as establish a basic understanding of the world they are about to play in.

Firstly, when it came to establishing the world and giving them an idea of the kind of campaign I was to be running, I found that describing it using historical culture and time periods was the most useful. Especially since we were all Singaporean, it was a lot easier for them to imagine the sort of culture that would be commonplace in PSYCHOPOMPS. The early Twentieth Century was a little more difficult to picture and I had to place it in context for a little better understanding. As PSYCHOPOMPS draws a lot from several niche interests of mine, it was difficult for me to convey the tone and aesthetic of the setting without resorting to referencing these media and leaving them lost. We did eventually get to a common understanding which set the stage for character creation.

Character creation was done separately, using Zoom breakout rooms. This was an interview of sorts, a short discussion of the types of characters that they would ultimately be playing and me providing some advice on how to functionally implement it in the mechanics of the game.

DA wanted to create a stealth assassin damage-dealing character, perhaps drawing from his understanding of MOBAs and the specific team roles. He is one of the player that is most new to the game of Dungeons and Dragons so it was interesting to see how he viewed certain character archetypes and roles. He decided on an Asura Rogue in the end. (I'm actually quite shocked that there were as many of the party that wanted to play the custom races that I had devised. As one player had mentioned, "you can play a zombie, robot, bugman or human").

A is a returning player from my previous campaign and perhaps the most invested in the lore and history of their previous characters. I had mentioned earlier that their prior campaign was set in the same world, just a few centuries ago, way before the apocalypse. This meant that she wanted to create a character that had investigative abilities and could explore the world at large to see how it changed. She decided on a Ghoul Ranger. 

S is another returning player who might be the most experienced in the game, seeing as she had played in other campaigns as well. She was most excited to role play and mentioned wanting to play a Barbarian as she had been playing wizards all this time. She felt drawn to the Deva, particularly the specifically non biological physiology that would lead to roleplaying opportunities. She settled on a Deva Barbarian and specifically requested that it be a secret. (Unfortunately, during the very communal filling in of the character sheet I had accidentally let this secret slip. S if you ever read this, I'm really sorry).

DE comes from my previous campaign as well but is still a bit unfamiliar with the game in general. He came into this character discussion with a very strong concept however, and this allowed us a lot of fruitful characterisation. He specifically wanted a character that represented a certain type of asian parent, a disapproving father-in-law. He wanted to play a Bard and reflavour all its magical abilities as his minor manipulations and scoldings spurring the party to do better, basically making his version of the Bard a purely nonmagical motivational speaker. He also wanted to explore certain elements of nationality and citizenship, so he decided to play as a human who was born outside of Liurza and then raised within it. In the end. we finally settled on his Human Bard (whom I affectionately nicknamed "Gaslight Grandpa").

E came in late to the meeting and so I had to explain the setting to him privately. He was excited by the concept and was drawn to my drawing of the Deva. He asked about the needs of the group and I mentioned that they had all picked classes that were relatively easy to kill so another melee combatant would be great. To differentiate him from S, I suggested he play a Fighter, one that could wield guns in combat like the Terminator. He was very much agreeable to this and thus he decided on a Deva Fighter.

X had actually texted me before this session 0 with his character ideas so we did those beforehand. X was definitely the most knowledgeable of all my players and specifically was interested in optimising his character. He wanted to play a specific type of magic-user and we brainstormed for a bit before finally deciding. He was an interesting person to create a character with as he focused a lot on the mechanics of the game itself, so much of our discussion was based on characterisation and flavour. He settled on a Human Warlock and we finalised elements of his backstory on that same day.

We ended with character relationships and filling in the character sheets.

A few lessons I've learnt:

1- My player were much more willing to play the more monstrous races I had created which was a bit of a shock to me. They had been such a big fan of the Elves from standard DND that it seemed like they wouldn't have been interested in my less traditionally "pretty" races. I am quite grateful that they were willing to explore what I think are really interesting races.

2- There were fewer magic-users than I expected. Among a group of 6 players, only one wanted to play a magical class. This could have something to do with the fact that managing and choosing spells was a struggle for many of them in my previous campaign and the fact that only X, who studies dice probabilities and puts his spells in a spreadsheet, picked a magical character seems to confirm this. This works well for the gritty, horror setting that I had intended and the worries I had of magic breaking immersion and the setting are slightly lessened.

3- It was particularly frustrating to coordinate the process of mechanically creating 6 characters with people who had not refreshed themselves on the rules of the game. X was the only one I could trust to do it independent of my help and the rest of them definitely did not subvert my expectations. It will now be a policy at my table that all players must be familiar with the basics of the game, the standard terms and their character abilities. I was a bit disappointed, considering that I was only running 5e on their request and they had not even taken the effort to learn it.

4- Creating character relationships was a really fun exercise. An issue I had with the previous game was that the players started to have conflicts and issues with one another as their characters wanted to do drastically different things and had no incentives towards staying together as a party. This could be said to be an issue with the players involved but I felt that by doing this, we could mitigate some of those issues. Creating character relationships allowed all of them to start tangentially related and flesh out some elements of their backstory as a prompt. The party basically centers around two figures, A and DE's characters, with the rest a combination of stalkers and drinking acquaintances.

I am excited for our first session of actual play, where I can perhaps test the setting even more.

The blessed damned stalks the world, pity the Ghoul

The world is truly damned and death is all around. The divine mechanism is faulty but balance is still its sole purpose. Thus, the Ghouls are the most common type of sentient Resurrected, a blessing and a curse on the world. They are the altar cleaners and sin eaters, born to purify the dead. When man drops dead and his corpse is devoured, it will not rise again. They are the cycle's response to the restless dead and thus their suffering is as eternal as death itself. They are cursed with insatiable hunger for the flesh of man and food turns to dust in their mouths.

Artist's rendition of a hungry Ghoul

The Ghoul looks emaciated. From far, one may mistake them for an opium addict, helplessly gaunt. Their hollow, deep-set eyes don't help this, dark black sclera and pupils with golden irises. The combination of agelessness and endless starvation means that they are often withdrawn and moody; their diet of human flesh means that most people will never get a chance to find that out. On their blue-grey skin, most ghouls are heavily tattooed, lines and lines of names spanning their limbs and torso. It is a superstition and also penance, the Ghouls keep records of everyone they eat. It is in the act of eating where they especially horrify, their mouths open slightly too large and their teeth slightly too sharp. Most ghouls keep the bottoms of their faces covered with veils or muzzles to give some mild reassurance to the general public. They are viewed with suspicion and distrust, a necessary evil in society. They are the alternative that smaller villages turn to, as Grave Priests don't often travel to the most remote corners of Liurza.

No one likes seeing a Ghoul smile

Stories warn of Ghouls with kindly, plump faces and pink, unblemished skin.  Consider how many people would have to die to fatten a Ghoul to that extent, how much blood one has to drink to revitalised dead skin. The Unmarked are unrepentant, revelling in their status as a predator rather than scavenger. It is perhaps ironic that the Ghouls that most resemble a human are the most monstrous.

Saturn Devouring His Son by Goya

(The Ghouls is perhaps one of the more difficult races to adapt to 5th Edition DnD. You will have to use the Dhampir from the Gothic Lineages Unearthed Arcana but with some modifications. Remove Darkvision and Spider Climb. Then, the Ghoul gets Relentless Endurance [Half-Orc trait], Resistance to Necrotic Damage, as well as not needing to eat apart from one meal of human flesh a day.)

Hold your swords and spears, draw not the ire of the Asura

When you first see an Asura, what first strikes you is their commanding physique. They are long-limbed and powerfully-built, muscles rippling under translucent clay-brown skin. Upon their head is a mask of bone, which is shaped in the rough approximation of a  face, with a shock of thick, spiky hair. They speak calmly, with a smooth, deep cadence that echos in your bones. As any discussion with the Asura goes, it quickly becomes a heated debate, a battle of words and minds. Their "face" opens up into a vast maw of teeth and eyes as the asura gets progressively more impassioned. This bloom of fangs and flesh is the Asura's true face, the mask-like skeletal growth merely a keratinised growth of horn and scale in a roughly humanoid shape. These masks are often also shaped like animals or insects, and are unique identifiers of an Asura.

Mantis-head Asura

The Asura are are beings of passion and desire. They live life with a joie de vivre unlike any other, a product of a certain degree of impulsivity and trust in the sturdiness of their physiques. As mutable as their physical body, the Asura can be mercurial and erratic. Yet, this is tempered by an open-mindedness and willingness to experience new things. The Asura thrive in states of passion and conflict but fundamentally do not seek it with (much) malice. While they might delight in ridiculing a stubborn wizard in verbal warfare, for them any conflict is a chance to change, a chance to adapt. On first glance, they might be perceived as mere brutes but they have a passion for discovery and learning, and indeed many famed philosophers have been Asura. They are inclined towards chaos, repulsed by overtly restrictive laws and rules that restrict their freedoms and desires. Rather than evil, it is easier to call them self-possessed, wilful and unwilling to live as others would dictate. 

A brief sketch of the "blooming" of an Asura's face

Notably, they are also one of the few sentient Resurrected, usually arising from the deaths of great heroes or fighters. Most Asura currently living in Liurza originate from battlefield Resurrections, from the days of city-states and warlords. The Asura have formed a small (but vocal) minority in Liurza, successfully arguing for citizenship amongst the Exorcised Cities. They have integrated the best amongst human society, given their shared love for fine foods, fighting and alcohol. Famously, Yasa Vaisram founded the Epicures, an organisation devoted to the discovery of new and exciting cuisine.  

(For those wanting to play an Asura in DnD 5e, the Goliath is very easily reskinned into an Asura, simply by replacing Mountain Born's cold damage resistance to a resistance to poison).

Settle your souls, the Deva approaches

 The Deva are one of the mortal races, albeit ones that are shrouded in intense mystery. No one, including the Devas themselves, can remember what they were or where they came from. They fall to the human realm like comets, fiery and luminescent till they crash down into hard earth. They emerge as humanoid figures, wrapped in the cooled, cracked stone of their landing. They are stars imprisoned in rock and clay, roughly in the shape of an extremely tall human being. All they can recall is a single, distant sensation of lightness, unbearable to recollect under this new, weighty burden of a material body. Besides them, lies an immense shard of metal, perfectly shaped into a two-handed greatsword of significant width. 

Physically, the Deva share few similarities. This comes in part due to the very varied and individual manner in which they choose to decorate or shape their stone bodies. They are distinct from the masonry by the halo of magical flame that encircles their head, which also bleeds out of any cracks in the stone. The Deva's stone shell is both their armour and prison, presenting them a form of dysmorphia that causes immense discomfort and they alleviate this by altering them. The Deva often becomes a walking history, carved by the people they meet and shaped by the events of their lives. Most Deva have an instinct towards making themselves look and seem as human as possible, to blend in and assimilate, as much as a seven-foot living statue leaking fire may. They often reflect the culture and art of the place they reside, seeking artists and craftsman to recreate local beauty and style. Some Deva, chasing the ethereal memories that they can only catch the barest glimpses of, choose to reject humanity and the associated material baseness. They shape their forms into barely human physiques with alien geometries, denying any associations with man. They form a collective known as "Outsiders", believing that Devas are above the materiality of this realm and seeking to return to the now lost realm originally inhabited by the Deva.

The angels of Kill Six Billion Demons (The chokehold this webcomic has on me).

 Some theorise that the Deva were originally angels from the great heavens. This would explain the ethereal dreams of bright light and weightlessness that are characteristic of the Deva, as well as their inclination towards strict moral and behavioural codes. Others say that they are golems of a supreme wizard and realise halfway through their thought that it is exactly the same as the previous theory. It is true that in their initial state of amnesia, the Deva are susceptible to dishonesty or trickery, and are often seen as naive or robotic in their manner. The older Deva, well-versed in humanity, are far less gullible and punish attempts at manipulation with calculated violence. The Deva have trouble reading facial expressions and emotive language which makes them seem sociopathic and unsympathetic. Yet, they are often great champions of the poor and unfortunate, all of them inherently believing in the most basic of laws, that all men are equal and taking measures to ensure as such. 

Guts in Berserker Armour looks entirely the part.

(Playing the Deva in DnD 5e is as simple as giving the Warforged a halo of fire. The subraces can very easily be reskinned as different shells).

Two Stories about the Resurrection

 This city, built by men, sustained by their movements, creaks and groans under this vital transference of energy. It is a corpse, resurrected each day by work and the act of living. It is alive because we are alive, and it dies every day, during the little moment of stillness that happens when everything stops for just a moment. At this moment of the city-death, the silence I imagine lingers. The dead should be laid to rest. Resurrection is a terrible curse. It perpetuates work on a body unfit for work. It gives energy to a body that cannot hold it. I say this only because they finally exorcised my father today.

 I had called for the grave priest when my father first dropped dead. I tipped the sparrow boys, and they ran dutifully, bare feet on salted pavement. Most sparrow boys have thick soles after years of running, but the kid that ran my street was 10, a neophyte leaving bloody footprints on the barest hints of white salt that we had painstakingly scattered as best we could. He came back without one of the old men that hung around the local coffee shop, panting out the second of the three rules that were taught to every child that attends the compulsory five years of lessons: In the absence of a grave priest, burn and salt the body (or exorcise it yourself). Between the five streets that connect at the intersection next to the salt trader, we had about four spots to burn our loved ones. We had five, but all that remains of that barrel is the charred spot left when they removed it for maintenance three years ago. Most of us could barely afford the amount we pooled together for the salt necessary for the streets, let alone enough for one person to be purified. I knew that my donation was measly, but I was at least hoping for Uncle Jia, who would sometimes perform the funerary rites with half a silver piece, would think about it. He was the only one consistently drunk enough to attempt to halt the resurrection with just a sliver of silver. I had held out hope that I would be able to bury my father. I made the decision to risk the resurrection with thick ropes, and wooden stakes. We lived around the docks and could scrouge up these materials under the sympathetic unseeing of the dock workers, whom were often neighbours and childhood friends. I staked my father in the five organs and tied him up with the worn but salt-water-weathered ropes. He was a mild-mannered man, so we all knew his resurrection could be contained. 

The aunties that made up the invincible triumvirate ruling the five streets of the dockworker district, were unquestionable. They swept into the house when they heard the news and arranged and prepared the wake, all whilst chiding me for my ineptitude. While they had no training in the temple traditions, each of them was an encyclopaedia of traditional practices. Auntie Chin, for example, knew exactly how to banish a house spirit. The cleaver wrapped in blood-stained talismans she wore on her hip was a testament to that. She would be the one to exorcise my father when the resurrection came. She was born into the violence that erupted after the resurrections first began, the desperate attempts at fighting, or more realistically, escaping the spirits, demons and monsters that birthed from the corpses of the dead. When her brothers were enlisted into the ranks of grave priest initiates (dying in the trials as most of them do), she had to hunt minor spirits to harvest ghosts for a little cash. It was with that same viciousness that she cursed me out for not having enough rice in the house, in case of a hungry ghost. My father had not starved to death, but he had started skipping meals after he lost his job making ropes. The chance of him becoming a hungry ghost, while distant, had indeed been present. I had sold most of the belongings that were left, but my job as a salt miner paid little.

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The locals don’t talk about the black rain that falls during the thirteenth month. Everyone has a story about a great-uncle or third cousin that remarked with impunity about the drops of inky black, who were struck with terrible misfortune soon after. This superstition is ignored by what remains of a proud imperial guard, who coincidentally were subject to the most catastrophic decimation of a standing military force in history, oral and written. The county warlock assured that the rain was just water but given that he was eaten by a demon three days after, people err on the side of caution. So, as the Muo (or ink in Théan Trade Speech) pelts the salt-brick streets of Corphaksa, the locals wipe the liquid darkness off their faces, without once acknowledging that their faces are wet. This complex exploration of the ambiguity of the luck-bending attributes of the rain is lost on Rete, whose mastery of the topic extends to a vicious caning when he dared mention it as a child. It seemed funny, to him at least, that most of the stories involved the death of the offender at the hands of those nearby, fulfilling the promise of misfortune in a neat and gruesome little story to tell noisy children. 

Rete was sixteen and gainfully employed as a runner for the Grave Priests, colloquially known as a Sparrow. It paid decent money, but was full of terrible responsibility, which was why only the best of the best were selected. A crow had to be a fast runner, sharp of hearing and able to maintain perfect manners despite being out of breath and close to vomiting. He would run around the houses with just enough income to afford a real funeral, waiting for someone to die. When he heard the cries of despair and the wailing for a priest, he would quickly make himself known and have 34 minutes to run over to a temple and call a Grave Priest over. It was harder to start fires in the blackened metal barrels that were placed at every street corner when the rain poured like this, so business was booming. When the poor were unable to perform a salt and fire exorcism, they would have to find a way to afford a Grave Priest. Luckily, Uncle Chen offered a very reasonable loan for his grave rites, one that most could pay off within the second generation. It was this or risk vicious maiming, haunting and the occasional spree of abductions and murders. Every child knows, as soon as they’re old enough to speak, that the dead come back in 108 minutes, and they come back broken.

 Rete sprinted down Tobacco Lane, pushing past the lackadaisical Prince of the Road that governed that specific stretch of infrastructure. Prince Vatu, or the Smoky Sultan as he claims for his title, was an unimpressive man wearing the garments of a much larger man, whose shadow still lingers in Tobacco Lane. This is meant quite literally, as Vatu’s father’s death was the first instance where Rete had seen a resurrection. The attending crow had slipped on the slick pavements and broken his leg, which meant that the corpse was not exorcised in time. Luckily, Vatu’s father was as mild-mannered as his son, which meant that the resultant spirit of fire and shadow stalked the streets in a milquetoast manner, occasionally darkening the streetlamps or lightly singeing hair. The resurrection itself led to the destruction of three houses as well as two deaths, one of which was the crow that failed at his duty, as well as a tendency for Rete to wet the bed on bad nights. It also meant that Vatu was severely in debt, having incurred a hefty fine. He spends most of his time moping and whinging, surviving on the meagre stipend, which is all that’s left of the tax he collects after his monthly payments. From that experience Rete learned two things, namely that one/tenth of the total taxes paid by the cigarette peddlers in Tabacco Lane was enough to sustain a gloomy bachelor, and to wear spikes when running in the rain.

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