Wushu Skidoo

Bad Lands: Enlightened Alchemy

A few years back, this fur trapper carried something into town, something he shoulda left in the wilderness. I didn't see it myself, but most folks say it was an animal with both scales and feathers, talons and claws. Some kinda chimera. At any rate, it was still alive when he knocked on the doc's door. Barely alive.

That night, a deafening howl issued from the Badlands. It rattled the windows like a tornado, but there wasn't any wind. The next day, blood rained down from a cloudless sky. Most of us fled, but even in the next town over, the sun didn't rise for thirty-six hours.

When we finally mustered the courage to return, we found the place deserted. There was no trace of those who had stayed: no bodies, no blood, no sign of violence inside any building. However, the ground outside each wall was torn up, as if something had burst out of the earth and sealed them up tight.

The streets were thick with footprints of every description: large and small, cloven and clawed, animal and human. None of them went in a straight line, but spiraled and weaved around in dizzying patterns. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were dancing.

This is the second article in a 4-part series describing a single, sprawling setting. Last month's installment provided an overview and introduced narrative structures for outlaws and law men. This time, we're focusing on Enlightened Alchemy. Though definitely inspired by Full Metal Alchemist, there are crucial differences in philosophy and method. Read carefully.

The Laws of Alchemy

Physical objects are just the shadows cast by a higher world of Ideal Forms. There's an Ideal Form for everything: rocks, chairs, water, snowflakes, every object and substance. Over centuries of painstaking research, alchemists have devised a language of "signs" that describe these Forms. By combining signs into equations, alchemists can transmute one thing into another.

Given enough time and the right reference material, an Alchemist can do just about anything. Of course, there are certain limits of complexity (humans and animals cannot be transmuted) and the law of conservation (you can't get more out of an equation than you put in). Beyond that, it's just a matter of how much effort you're willing to put in. It can take years to inscribe the equations necessary to transmute an entire building or sailing ship, but it's theoretically possible.

When an alchemist works a transmutation by creating an equation from scratch, it's called "longhand." Each alchemist has a specialty (devote a Trait to it) like "Clothing" or "Masonry;" they have learned hundreds of signs within this sphere and can inscribe new equations from memory. If the desired transmutation is outside their specialty, access to an alchemical library will be required.

Working longhand is time-consuming, but don't worry about rules. Dramatic license is all the yardstick you need. If time isn't pressing, anything that doesn't violate the complexity or conservation limits is fair game. If banditos are riding into town in a few hours, maybe you have time to create two or three alchemical booby traps. If things are down to mere minutes, you're probably out of luck.

If the players want to describe their equations in advance, let them earn a pool of Held Dice to use when the equation is activated or its effect comes into play. Otherwise, they can leave things vague and wait until the most dramatic moment to describe how their equation works, earning and rolling dice as normal.

Finally, anything you want to transmute must be in physical contact with the equation. You can't "shoot" alchemy at things. Equations must be written out and the reagents must be placed upon them.

(Whew! If any of that was unclear, and I'm sure it was, post your questions to the comment thread.)

Shorthand Equations

Needless to say, alchemists don't want to be working longhand when the bullets are flying. That's where shorthand equations come into play. They're exactly like longhand equations, but they're created in advance and then carried on clothing, weapons, amulets, etc. (The term "shorthand" refers to how quickly they can be used, not how long they take to create or how complex they are.)

To prevent shorthand equations from being active all the time, they are usually broken down into pieces. Only when those pieces are brought into the proper alignment does the transmutation take place. For example, a protective equation could be inscribed across the fingers of two gloves. When worn separately, each glove only contains broken fragments of the equation. When the alchemist laces their fingers together, the equation becomes whole.

An alchemist can carry up to six shorthand equations at one time. (No in-character reason. It's just a rule. Season to taste.) However, your players don't need to decide what each one does ahead of time. They can improvise on the spot, earning dice as normal, and their character is assumed to have been carrying that equation all along.

The only catch is that, once a shorthand equation has been used, it cannot be changed. If you use up all the "open slots" you're carrying, no more improvising for you. That's not to say you're out of juice. You can still reuse the equations you've already made up, you'll just have to be more creative in applying them to new situations. The best descriptions often come from having to make due with a transmutation that's not quite the one you need.

Walking around with a coat covered in signs makes it hard to be inconspicuous, even if you do something clever like sew them into the lining. When NPCs are giving you the once over, the GM can make a Scab Roll to see if they figure out that you're an alchemist. They get one die for each shorthand equation you're carrying. Look for the single highest number: 1-3 = none the wiser, 4-5 = suspicious, 6 = spotted!

Asylum

At its core, Asylum is a fraternal organization based on the relationship between mentor and student. No one enters its ranks except as an apprentice. There is no established curriculum or group instruction; each mentor is free to train their apprentice(s) as they see fit. No graduation ceremonies or trials by fire, just a hearty handshake and a signed statement releasing you from indentured servitude.

Beyond these "family ties," the Enlightened organize themselves into ad hoc task forces called committees. Most are assembled to tackle specific problems and disbanded when their work is done, but some have put down roots and become permanent. The most notable of these is the First Committee: the council of "scholars emeritus" who resolve all disputes between alchemists.

Other committees of note...

• The Unblinking Eye - Takes an almost militant stance against charlatans and con men. They debunk claims of supernatural phenomenon all across the New World.
• The Board of Ethics - Investigates allegations of wrong-doing by alchemists. This includes the practice of necrology (see below). They're basically Internal Affairs.
• Charitable Works - Runs soup kitchens, fixes farmers' wagons, treats the sick, etc. Rumor has it they also conspire with unionist revolutionaries.

When an alchemist is encountered on the wild frontier, it is most likely one of the wandering researchers known as "road scholars." Most are in search of undiscovered object or substance for which no signs exist. (Discovering a new sign is fairly prestigious.) Along the way, they get into all manner of trouble. They cross paths with snake oil salesmen and religious cults. Locals beg them to repair farm equipment, fend off bandits, and drive back the creeping horrors of the Badlands. Their notes and maps fill the libraries of the Enlightened, while tall tales of their exploits fill dime store bookshelves.

Asylum's real power players are called "executives." These skilled alchemists conduct covert operations, counter-intelligence, manhunts, property "reclamations," and pretty much any other dangerous thing that needs doin'. It's not a title that's used publicly, but executives are treated with deference by other alchemists, who usually know them by reputation. Every committee has its executives, whether they admit it or not.

The Necrological Committee

The last place one would expect to find alchemists is at the center of the spiritualism movement. Before it was driven underground, the Necrological Committee was home to some of the most talented and respected alchemists to ever practice the art. Their mission was nothing less than to define the soul itself. They developed whole new vocabularies to describe human beings in terms of their personalities and behavior, not their physical bodies. Most of their peers considered it a fool's quest.

Then, it worked. At least, it seemed to work. When the body of a deceased person is placed upon an equation written specifically for them, the corpse regains the ability to communicate. Through speech or writing, it can answer simple questions and even knows some things that only a close relative could know. At the time, the Necrologists proclaimed it the single greatest accomplishment in the history of mankind.

The First Committee disagreed. All the Necrologists had accomplished, they said, was a convincing parlour trick. They claimed that these equations were merely animating corpses like puppets, parroting the information that had been provided by family members. They disbanded the Necrological Committee and forbade any further research into their techniques.

Proof of life after death is too tempting a prize to be given up so easily. Many of the Necrologists chose exile and the public gave them a warm welcome. Their services are sought out every day by grieving widows who long to say their goodbyes, and vengeful sons desperate to learn the name of their fathers' killers. Animating a corpse is a long and difficult process, so Necrologists are able to demand a high price for their services... a fact that does little to polish their reputation.

Pick Me Ups

An alchemist has been murdered and the First Committee wants Asylum to conduct its own investigation. A team of executives is dispatched. They soon discover that the deceased was delving to necrology; his wife had been murdered several months earlier and he wanted revenge. Tracing his steps leads them to a vigilante called "Dead Tongue," who hunts down murderers for a living. Do the PCs turn him over to the Board of Ethics, or do they help him track down the alchemist's killer? What if his "witnesses" are pointing their skeletal fingers at innocent men?

After a strike gets broken by Patterson thugs, the Mogul responsible has dozens of unionists imprisoned without trial. Their friends ask the Charitable Works committee for help breaking them out. The "prison" is actually an old refinery, a labyrinth of tubes and chambers where the Mogul dumps anyone he never wants to see again. Inside is a no man's land of the desperate, brutal, and insane. Getting in will be the easy part. The hard parts will be 1) rounding up the unionists, 2) fighting off the criminal hordes, and 3) escaping with their lives. One more thing: if they don't want to become outlaws themselves, they'd better make it all look like some kind of industrial accident or natural disaster.

A group of alchemist explorers stops in a frontier town to pick up supplies before heading into the Badlands, but the place is a madhouse. Apparently, strange weather and other "omens" have been occurring for the last two days and the locals are blaming a mountain man who happened to arrive around the same time. To save him from a lynching, the PCs will have to do some fast talking and/or hold off a mob of panicked, heavily armed frontiersmen. One approach might be to debunk the omens, but how do they explain away the teeth and tentacles that erupt from the ground?! When the Terra Dentata strikes, it swallows towns whole and it's hideous children dance through the streets!

Next Up: Mountain Men, religious cults, & Savages for Halloween!