Kosmohedron: The Minstrel’s Guide to the Multiverse, hardback supplement for Fantasy World

£29.99

Kosmohedron: The Minstrel’s Guide to the Multiverse, hardback supplement for Fantasy World, by Alessandro Piroddi & Luca Maiorani

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Kosmohedron: The Minstrel’s Guide to the Multiverse, hardback supplement for Fantasy World, by Alessandro Piroddi & Luca Maiorani

“Fantasy World is the skeleton that gives shape and movement to your fantasy campaign so that, regardless of the outward appearance of the fantasy you play, the story is infused with a breath and soul that will be uniquely yours. To demonstrate this concept, we have created the…

Kosmohedron: the Minstrel’s Guide to the Multiverse.

This manual contains an entire collection of quicksettings, created by authors and guests who participated in the game’s Kickstarter, that probe the boundaries of what a fantasy setting can be!

List of the quicksettings in the Kosmohedron manual:

– Ananke by Chiara Listo & Giuseppe Vitale

The bivouac fire grew dimmer, cold, while the strumming
of the lute weaved a sad and distant melody. The bystanders
held their breath.
“This is a story of light and darkness; one lost, the other
everlasting,” the fabulist sang. With each chord, the fire in
front of her changed intensity and the flames, one could swear,
seemed to create images and shapes that followed the tale.
“I will sing to you the tragedy of a kingdom and the hunger
of a people. Heliopolis, drowned in darkness and by darkness
doomed. Trust not the false light that its sun dispenses with
avarice, for there is no warmth in its rays, nor salvation along
its path…”
The music had turned sinister, followed by the crackling
of flames that now showed fallen temples and ruined cities.
“I will sing to you of pride and anger, but also of hope, and
courage. Follow with me the deeds of the heroes who will save
or doom their world. It is written in their destiny, and it is not
for us to change it”.
The woman paused, and the music with her.
“There is no light powerful enough or darkness deep enough
to defeat destiny. It has always been, is and will be.
It is…ANANKE”

– Hail the Victorious Death by Nathan D. Paoletta

A sheet was stretched out to protect her from the rain,
and the audience sat under that cover in silent anticipation. At
first the fabulist’s strumming was hesitant, then rose in pitch,
then settled on low, deep notes, accompanied ominously by the
thunder that shook the sky. “I am sorry my dears, but today
I will not sing to you of dragons and knights, of wizards and
elves, but of war. Not the war that the books tell of, made up
of heroic deeds and great victories, but one made of suffering
and despair, cold and hunger … and of returns”.
“The return of the dead led by the Mummy Kings and the
return of the soldiers to a life that can never be the same again.”
And the children clung to their parents, and the lovers
embraced each other, and the old men nodded.
“The war was over for many, but for those returning it had
only changed. Because it stays with you, in ways we cannot even
imagine, it corrupts the spirit, frightens the soul and tears at
the flesh. Some lost pieces of their soul, some lost comrades,
some lost their whole family. Sometimes there is no home left
waiting for them, sometimes they can’t recognize it, and so the
struggle continues, until the day they can’t take it anymore.
I see many of you weeping, but I will tell you my friends,
we are not helpless in the face of this, just as the soldiers of
the Crescent Sea Compact were not, they fought to regain a
life worth living, many did not succeed, but for those few who
did, it is worth smiling again.”
There were then those who smiled, those who did not hold
back tears of hope, and those who embraced their comrades.
“And now if you wish, let us sing a prayer in remembrance
all together… Hail the Victorious Dead!”

– Ardutan by Claudio Serena

…And suddenly the fabulist rested her lute and
grabbed pots and plates and cups and began beating them
with a wooden ladle. The onlookers were surprised, but then,
keeping the beat, they launched into frenzied, even lascivious
dancing, their ears straining toward the fabulist’s words. The
song told of Dragons, elves, killer hares, but most of all Kobolds.
Kobolds? And the dancers burst into a cry of amazement,
“OOOHHH”. Kobolds! And all together they shouted “the
true children of dragons!” And once again, “Kobolds? Yes,
with a thousand colours!”
And then without anyone noticing, the rhythm became
slower and slower, her voice lower, almost a whisper, and the
audience danced getting closer to the fire. “For in the beginning
were the dragons, Erash and Arath in the Void.”
A cacophony of banging pots shook the stillness… “and
they struggled and struggled…” SBAAM SBAAM, and then
again the tempo became blander, the volume fainter, “… and
out of this struggle sprang an egg, emerging from Arash’s torn
belly,” and tears slid down the flame-lit faces as the fabulist
narrated of his death, “but that was not the end my devoted
audience,” and putting down the ladle she made a pause, long
and dramatic, as dozens of ears (and hundreds of red eyes too
to be fair) waited anxiously for the conclusion “. ..for from
that egg ARDUTAN was born”.

– Daturalia by Kyra Magrann

Standing near the crackling bonfire, the fabulist took
the wine flask in her right hand and began to run a vermilion
trickle of it over the open palm of her left hand. The liquid a
brilliant ruby red thanks to the firelight.
“Today’s story is one of abundance, of power, of noble
lineages … and of daring hunters.”
The fabulist stepped to the side, casting a shadow over the
wine that continued to flow in what was now a closed fist.
The liquid now dark and, impossible as it was, thick as blood
from a wound.
“Today’s story is one of greed, of power, of domination …
and of terrible monsters.”
A further step to the side returned the light from the bonfire
to the wine, the hand bathed by it now held at a slit, fingers
wide and moving as if caressing a veil. Light and movement
merged, making the liquid iridescent, now dark blood, now
brilliant ruby.
“Today’s story is one of blood mixed to blood, of families
broken and found, of the difference between being a monster
because of who you are and because of what you do. It is a story
of a savage and marvellous world. It is a story of DATURALIA.”

– Scourge by Grant Howitt

I have a story for you,” said the fabulist as she walked
away from the bivouac.
“It is a brutal story of wars and conflicts, of beasts and
destruction. A SCOURGE!”
As she said this she planted a stick
next to a caravan wagon and then spread a wide cloth across it.
“There are no words suitable to convey the events I am
going to narrate to you. Therefore, for tonight, I will not use
any words”. She placed an oil lamp behind the cloth, bowed
to the rest of the travellers watching her, and disappeared
behind the curtain she had erected.
Immediately there appeared on it the shadow of a branch,
which skilful hands bent so as to evoke the outline of a terrible
creature. The creature wandered, gargantuan, through a forest.
A second monster appeared and the two attacked each other.
Trees were uprooted and mountains destroyed. In the midst
of such chaos, literally at the foot of the conflict, was a small
village, a clump of leaves. No, of houses! Little houses, fragile
and trembling. Like leaves. And then a metallic crashing noise,
a flash of unnatural light, and the shadow of a huge mechanical hand
that first stood to shield the village, then joined the
struggle between titans.
Somewhere, a guard’s voice can be heard “Hey! Who kicked
my armour? And where’s the left glove?”
But the travellers pay it no attention, enraptured by the
terrible fight projected on the screen. Slowly the lamp fades
as the fabulist sings an old soldierly song, sad and melancholy.
The light went out chasing away the shadows, leaving an echo
of animalistic grunts and metal and wood. And the feeling in
travellers that the war will never end on SCOURGE!

– Star Spirits by Genitori di Ruolo

The hall, lit by torches and candles, welcomed the audience
who took their seats in silence, some on chairs prepared
for the occasion, some sitting on the floor on soft furs, some
standing leaning against marble columns. The fabulist made
her entrance accompanied by two handmaids, took a seat on
the small stage and cleared her throat.
“Have you ever heard of Gemkeepers?” she said, opening
her hand and showing a caterpillar the size of her palm, its
body glistening like a crystal.
“On Gaia they are precious beings, don’t be fooled by their
appearance,” she said, placing her lute on her lap and drawing
a simple melody from it.
“They guide the unwary traveller to the Star Fragments.”
“But where are they?” asked a little girl, “On Gaia,” she replied
softly, beginning to sing. First in the deep voice of a
dwarf, then in the dulcet voice of an elf, then in the ethereal
voice of a nephilim and the stanzas told stories of Gaia, of
the Green Scrub and Apollo, of Reclaimers and Shadows,
and STAR SPIRITS.

– Silika by Alessandro Piroddi & Luca Maiorani

“Sand,” said the fabulist as, with a long stick, she
moved the remains of the bonfire to form a circle of white ashes.
“Sand” she repeated, revealing small and large coals still
burning amid the expanse of ash, like irregular islands in a sea.
“Sand,” she continued, stirring the ashes with her stick so
as to reveal here a clump of grass previously buried, there the
glistening glass of a fallen goblet. Wonders.
“Sand,” she said again, scooping a sip of liquor into her
mouth and then spitting it with tight lips onto the ashen expanse.
Where the droplets touched an ember-island, sparks
flashed. Some sparks stayed on their own island, living, multiplying,
fading out. Others sizzled strongly enough to travel
far out into the open sea of ashen sands, at times getting
lost there, at times reaching other islands, clumps of grass,
glittering glass.
“Sand,” and with the stick the fabulist drew deep lines in
the ash, black furrows of dull, dead, deadly coal that extinguished
every spark that came in contact with them. Terrors.
“Sand” she intoned. With an abrupt gesture of her cloak, the
fabulist stirred the air near the bonfire, bringing movement to
the whole scene: a sea in constant flux, islands adrift, wonders
now buried and now revealed, tiny vital sparks scrambling for
new sustenance to keep burning, traveling, fading out, meeting,
departing, multiplying. And below it all the black abyss
beneath the surface, crawling with a life of its own, voracious.
“Sand… or as they call it in a distant, broken world, SILIKA!”

– Terrapolis by Marta Palvarini

There exist places that do not exist,” the fabulist
suddenly exclaimed. “Whole forgotten nations, composed
of the sediment of other civilizations too busy to notice the
pieces lost along the way”.
She took a cup and filled it with water.
“Like raindrops, which irrelate converge to form a pool,
so all that we believe lost, forgotten or discarded converges in
countries so distant and alien, yet so similar”.
The fabulist handed the cup to one of the children in the
caravan, shaking it slightly so that the little spectator could
hear a wet cling-clinging coming from within.
“This is yours now, you found it, you were given it, you took
it. What are you going to do with it?”
The little girl looked inside the water-filled cup, and her
eyes widened. She slipped a small hand into the liquid and
pulled out a richly decorated silver necklace.
“My necklace!” exclaimed a finely dressed lady, rising
abruptly from her seat by the fire. The woman took large
strides toward the little girl, now uncertain and somewhat
intimidated, one hand outstretched imperiously “Quick, give
it back, it’s not a toy!” but the little girl clutched the beautiful
pendant to her chest “I found it in the pool, it’s mine!”
“Give it back before I lose my temper, little girl, things
don’t work that way”.
“They don’t?” the fabulist interjected, soothing the child
with a caress as she exchanged the necklace for a fragrant
cookie with her other hand “Those who find a treasure do not
own it? Those who take do not possess? Those who discover
do not conquer?”
The finely dressed lady, placated by the return of the necklace,
returned to her seat as the fabulist continued her performance.
“Let me then tell you about the world of TERRAPOLI
of the wonders and iniquities generated by the capitalocene…”

 

Listen to the First Minstrel tell tales of distant worlds, bizarre lands and the even stranger peoples who inhabit them.”

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