Meet the Iconics - Ry (Monk - Aetherist)

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Ry stood, marking his breath.

All around, the crowd murmured but Ry gave them no mind.

In the center of the sand, some foppish talker yelled through some manner of amplification cone, working up the onlookers. This was all parts of the fights here, in the arena; the money changing hands, the gambling, the big talk-talk, the anticipation & the lust for blood. Ry’s blood he assumed they preferred… though he supposed they’d settler for the reigning champion’s after the half-orc broke him apart.

Ry tried not to smile at the thought; it was unbecoming to the life of contemplation he’d devoted himself to. But his face flashed a brief smile all the same.

They’d taken Ry’s potions, his meager gear; leaving him only with his small clothes. But such trivialities hardly mattered; Ry had little need of the magic stored in his clanking phials & glass bottles, in his enchanted weapons, not when he knew and commanded the paths of aether within him and how each could be unlocked, shifted to fill himself with power. Intuiting that the time for bluster and talk was drawing to a close, he began to move, assuming the correct postures: crane takes fish, contented lion, lizard climbs- held each pose for a breath all the while ‘seeing’ the flows within himself change, glow, and he felt his flesh charge in response. He grew stronger, faster, his mouth filling with steam.

Finally, the announcer finished, bowed and the crowd roared in response. The thousands of spectators began to shouting a name like a mantra ‘CHANGA, CHANGA, CHANGA.’ The name of their champion.

The portcullis opposite Ry opened, and through the ten foot tall arch a grey skinned, rune inscribed humanoid crouched to get through. In answer to the crowds sounds of appreciation, the stone giant bellowed, raised his arm in anticipation of triumph.

Then he charged flat out towards Ry.

Ry idly thought the creature was bigger than he’d expected as he finished the last process. Not for the first time, he wondered how a seeker of knowledge like himself ended up in situations like this. And, despite countless hours of meditation to banish such base dross- he felt that flicker of a smile return, larger than before to split his lips and reveal his sharp teeth. As a young half-orc, he’d loved nothing more than fighting without weapons... always felt there was something unfair about swords, axes, and more. And even now, decades later, even now, after all his master’s lessons to empty his heart of desire he still loved a good fight, loved to test and push and thrill at battle on scales the child he had been could only dream at. Perhaps he always would love it. He allowed himself the grin for another breath, suppressed his desire to scream in joy-rage, and returned his face to a mask of calm.

Empowered by his final process, Ry leapt fifteen feet into the air to catch the charging stone giant right in the chin with a punch that would have done his master proud.

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Meet the Iconics: Mayvin (Sorceror, Primordial Bloodline)

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Mayvin ran, his footfalls splashing through the thick red-brown much that seemed to cling to every street in this district. He noted the racing of his heart – what fun! What a delight, to feel the thrum of life and vitality. And to imagine, all it took to know this cascade of sensation was being chased by some abominable horror burrowing below the paving stones.

One would think that a simple predator would have grown tired by now, dissuaded after its erstwhile meal had burned out five of its eyes and evaded it for so long. So perhaps it was sent by someone? Who exactly? Nearly tripping over the half rotted skeleton of a barrel, Mayvin decided that was a question for another time.

Everyone the sorcerer saw quickly fled into some twisting alleyway or through some doorway that was thereafter audibly barred from within: if not in reaction to the garishly dressed fop sprinting at full tilt than in response to the distended bulge of earthworks that betrayed the presence of something hungry-huge just below the surface. Mayvin noted his quickening breath, the distended street (and the thing beneath) seeming to gain on him, and thought, ‘I wonder how long I can keep this up…’

A quick left brought him face to face with a dead end.

“Well, that answers that…” he spoke aloud as he began to weave his protective magics about himself in anticipation of the creature’s jaws bursting up from below.

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Buy the primordial blood sorceror class customization as part of the Corruption of the Tarrasque.

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Meet the Salt in Wounds in Wounds Iconics: Toman (Rogue - Thug)

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Toman always enjoyed the feel of cracking a tender’s nose. A lot of places you hit a face and you can break your own knuckles if you ain’t careful. But catching them just right -unsuspecting like- in the snoz, you always got a satisfying crunch and the give of cartilage as you flatten that buldge below their eyes. And then it’s all blood and blurbing and disorientation; this time was no different. A hit like that, a smack just right, catches them off guard, makes them unsteady on their feet…. Which is doubly ‘portant if they’re properly salted and further persuading is called for. Toman didn’t think this scrap of a bully was the sort, but she hadn’t lasted this long by thinking nobody was nothing short of a killer in waiting.

She bent a bit and a smooth motion that happened before the broken nose drueger could react she drew one of her daggers -chastity- and let it sink past the coarse, bushy beard and nip into the soft flesh below his neck pear. Pushing gently, she used his natural inclination not to have his throat slit to drive his back against the filthy walls of the alley and up on his tiptoes in such a way that her body shielded the scene from onlookers; her steady and stable on her feet, him further offbalance.

“Now my friend,” she whispered. “We’re gonna have a nice, friendly chat about your dealings with 4^th House…”

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You can preview the Thug Rogue class customization included with the setting for 5th Edition here.

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Meet the Salt in Wounds Iconics: Narku the Marrow Miner (Commoner)

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Digging.

Narku knew digging.

He knew digging in slurry and mud and sand, digging pits to sleep in and digging traps to catch something to eat. He knew digging in every callous along the pads of his seven remaining fingers, knew in the ache of his back, knew it on his tongue and in his bones. He was slave caste, told by his tribe that he was half-born and good only to dig. So he’d dug, lived on scraps, and tried to avoid notice and the beatings that came with it. Until after the battle that had smashed his people, left him to wander, till he’d heard tale of a city that had a place for him; that would feed him for digging.

So he’d come to the city, this place called ‘Salt in Wounds.’

And then Narku had learned new things, about ‘money’ and ‘pay’ and ‘debt’ but also something new about digging; how to dig into the monster.

Now, when he wasn’t sleeping or drinking, when he was instead ‘working’ to ‘afford’ (novel concepts all) for his sleeping place and his drink, he dug. Here, once the big machines cracked open the armored scales the men would scream, urge him through the pulsing fissure and then Narku and those with him would dig through skin and flesh and even sometimes through bone. Racing to dig to some organ, grand or lesser before the body -ever resentful of holes and jealous to keep its secret wealth- would close up around men and equipment besides.

He knew that every time he dug he could die. Like slurried sand, the tunnel could collapse on you as you dug, the beast would groan and the spanner would buckle and snap, fail; and you would be caught breathless as a river of blood poured down or the meat of the thing grew back together, twisted to rejoin. It was a bad way to go; drowning in a red and throbbing darkness. With a crack of spade or pick, they’d find bodies and tools of the dead sometimes, fused into the flesh in which they dug. But Narku had to keep digging anyway. After, Narku tried not to think about it over drink, tried not to dream about it.

Sometimes he even succeeded.

Narku thought his whole life would be digging. Until he saw it, the secret wealth.

Shoveling back another scoop to the blind bucketeer behind him, there it was, nestled in the floor; a gray orb, waxy, just visible through the dancing shadows cast by his tallow lantern light. Ambregris, worth more than many miles of meat; a little perfect gem of it. He knew what it was because he’d watched an overseer shove many aside for a much smaller piece, watched the commotion outside as they’d argued over who it belonged to while work stopped. After, drinking in the hall, another miner had told him what it was worth.

He knew what he should do, call an overseer and then keep digging as he was told.

Almost as if his hands had a mind, a will of their own; Narku snatched the reagent from the tunnel floor, shoved it into his apron. Claimed a chance to know something beyond digging. In that moment he prayed to all the gods; they had never smiled upon him… not before in his life of hunger and fear and certainly not now in his life of toil and terror. But he prayed all the same, that none had noticed what he’d done. And it seemed, for once, that the gods were kind. No one said anything, so he kept working like everyday, letting himself be soaked by the creature’s blood and his own sweat.

Wealth beyond measure, sitting safe in his front pocket. Later, maybe he’d find a burke who knew some alchemist, their walls full of twisting glass, who would pay a tribe’s ransom in gold for it. Maybe he would learn new ways of being, something beyond digging; a life of water dens and vegetables and ease. But for now, he couldn’t betray a twinge of anything the matter, anything 

different. For now, all he could do was dig, and see what the morrow would bring.

But that was fine, because Narku knew digging.

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Meet the Iconics: Yurin Silvenei - Cleric of Macinfex, God of Butchers

Yurin Silvenei sat on the towertop. He greeted the morning by miming the ceremonial movements of his faith sharpening his pairing knives & cleaver. Below, beyond, the city stretched out in its leagues… waking now and just beginning to shake the sleep dust out of the corners of its eyes (not that the city, nor the bounty at its heart, ever truly slept). Merchants hauled out their wares to their stalls -many ritually counting their stacks- to ask for blessings upon their day.

The gates of the fortress Salzinwuun below him opened to allow for the changing of shifts, granting admittance to the next crew of God-Butchers who chose to sleep in the city at large rather than their order’s barracks. The rich copper smell of blood filled Yurin’s nostrils (they must have opened a vein he mused). Idly, he considered the dangers he might face before turning his mind to gratitude as was proper – he loved his city and said aloud the prayer of thankfullness for the bound Tarrasque, great bounty of Macinfex that had delivered so much to so many.

“Flea!” came the cry from below, echoing from near the beast’s flesh and ending several stories below Yurin. A two hundred pound insect landed on the ground. God-Butchers drew their weapons and approached cautiously while lesser laborers and a handful of merchants fled, scattering.

From atop his tower, Yurin raised the implements of his faith to the sky, calling on Macinfex to bless the mortal butchers below. He knew from long experience, from a hundred battles with the unclean carrion feeders that first and foremost he’d need to keep the men and women alive – only after securing them would he move to calling down aggressive, disruptive magic.

Besides, the day was only just beginning and he’d need to conserve his strength. 

Art by Jeffrey Chen.

January is your last chance to preorder the Salt in Wounds Campaign Setting - Place your preorder or learn more here.