The Dustlands ain’t a place
for the faint of heart.
It’s a stretch of dead earth, cracked and thirsty, where the sky holds its breath and the wind carries the dry, brittle echoes of prayers that God himself might’ve turned his ear from. Out here, there ain’t no savin’ grace, just folks clingin’ to what scraps of faith they can find—twisted faith, broken faith, faith that’s been forged into somethin’ cruel under the weight of chains and fire. The church calls it divine will, the Dust Riders call it a load o’ horse manure, and the False Angels don’t call it nothin’ at all—they just hunger and wander, fallin’ like broken stars from a Heaven that shut its gates too soon. This is God’s Saloon, where the only law is the iron on your hip and the only gospel’s writ in blood and sand.
The Reckoning: A Broken Prophecy
The Reckoning began as foretold: seas dried up, the skies darkened, and humanity witnessed the divine as the faithful were pulled toward the heavens. But something went wrong.The ascension halted abruptly, and those who had nearly crossed into the divine plane fell back to Earth, twisted into False Angels. The collapse of the prophecy left the world shattered—both physically and spiritually. This incomplete judgment reshaped existence, leaving behind a wasteland where God’s intentions remained forever unclear and faith became a dangerous tool used against the Lord's people.
The Era of Dust and Divinity
The term "Post-Reckoning" (P.R.) marks the era following the incomplete fulfillment of the Book of Revelations, the catastrophic event that left the world in ruin. Time is divided into two eras: Before Reckoning (B.R.), referring to the world before the calamity, and Post-Reckoning (P.R.), the fractured age of survival and warped faith that emerged in its aftermath.This new era is defined by divine horrors and the relentless struggle of humanity to navigate a world teetering on the edge of both salvation and damnation.
Power of the Dust
Magic, born from the remnants of divine intervention, is wild, dangerous, and inconsistent. Some humans can tap into it, bending the remnants of divine energy to their will, but this power comes at a cost. Overuse can cause grotesque mutations, turning the wielder into something disturbingly similar to a False Angel.To learn more of this wretched power taken from the bosom of the Lord Himself, venture here
From the Dust We Rise
Dust Riders are the nomadic wanderers, outlaws, and freedom-seekers of the Dustlands, a scattered brotherhood born out of the chaos of the Post-Reckoning world. Riding on scavenged horses or jury-rigged vehicles, they are the lifeblood of the wasteland, navigating its dangers with grit, cunning, and unshakable independence. A Dust Rider is neither bound by church nor chained by fear, living on their own terms and forging their destiny in the dust and ruin of the world.
From the Dust We Rise
The Dust Riders have, over the past century, created a unique set of traditions that most, if not all, riders share.
Blood Oaths: Bonds between riders are cemented through oaths sworn in blood, marking their loyalty as eternal. Breaking a blood oath is considered an unforgivable sin.
The Last Ride: When a Rider dies, their mount is adorned with their belongings and released into the wasteland to carry their spirit.
Carving the Badge: Riders often carve or paint personal insignias onto their gear, a representation of their identity or faction.
A Fractured Land
When the Dust Riders first emerged in the wake of the Reckoning, they were united by necessity. Survival in the Dustlands required cooperation, resourcefulness, and an unyielding spirit, and for a time, they roamed as a loose collective. They shared supplies, scouted safe routes, and stood together against threats from False Angels, bandits, and the church. But over time, the brutal realities of the wasteland and the competing ideals among their members caused the Dust Riders to splinter into distinct factions.To learn more about any of the Dust Rider Factions below, click on their logos!
The Aces ride to live and live to ride, striking fast and hard to claim our fortune and freedom. No gods, no chains, only the wind and the dust.
From the ashes of despair, we ride to burn away corruption and make the Dustlands pay for their sins.
We are the Dustlands’ scavengers, circling the wreckage of a broken world to take what others have left behind.
We ride unseen, carrying freedom in one hand and ruin in the other. The dust is our cloak, and the wasteland is our stage.
The Father Hath No Mercy
The Punished are the broken remnants of a faith gone cruel, shackled by chains that serve as both their sentence and their sin. Stripped of their memories by divine decree, they wander the Dustlands as living monuments to the church’s authority. Each chain tells a story of a crime they cannot recall—a liar bound by their tongue, a thief marked by their hands, an adulterer chained at the heart—its placement an eternal reminder of transgression.Redemption is a distant, fleeting hope, requiring a penitent appeal to the Five Divine Senses. Yet even that is no guarantee; failure darkens their chains to crimson, sealing their fate to endless suffering.For many, the Punished are a warning, a reminder of the church’s reach. But to the Punished themselves, life is an unending penance, a cycle of guilt without memory, pain without resolution, and a future weighed down by iron and judgment.
What Was Left
The term "Post-Reckoning" (P.R.) marks the era following the incomplete fulfillment of the Book of Revelations, the catastrophic event that left the world in ruin. Time is divided into two eras: Before Reckoning (B.R.), referring to the world before the calamity, and Post-Reckoning (P.R.), the fractured age of survival and warped faith that emerged in its aftermath.This new era is defined by divine horrors and the relentless struggle of humanity to navigate a world teetering on the edge of both salvation and damnation.
Saint of the Punished
They call her the Saint of the Punished, but her name has long since been lost to the dust. Some say she rode faster than the sun could rise, her shadow stretching across the Dustlands as a reminder that chains—no matter how heavy—could never bind the wind. She was a Dust Rider, a legend among legends, but she wasn’t born with her name whispered like a prayer. No, her story starts in the dust, same as everyone else’s. But where others found their end, she found her beginning.She’d been one of the Punished once. A sinner in the church’s eyes, though what crime they claimed she’d done is anyone’s guess. Her chains were wrapped around her throat like a leash on a dog, tight enough that breathing itself felt like an apology. She didn’t know what she’d done. Didn’t know if she deserved it. And that was the cruelest part, wasn’t it? But even as she stumbled through the wasteland, the dust filling her lungs and the heat boiling her blood, something in her refused to kneel. Something in her refused to stay silent.They say she found an old Dust Rider camp, long abandoned but still whispering with the ghosts of its former riders. She took what she needed—a battered pistol, a horse with a mane like storm clouds, and a hat that sat low enough to hide her burning eyes. And with that, she rode. Through the Shimmering Flats, through the Redwater Bluff, through storms that even the False Angels dared not cross. She rode faster than the church’s judgment, faster than her chains could hold her back, faster than death itself.The church hunted her, of course. Sent their enforcers, their bishops, even their Five Divine Senses. But none of them could catch her. Legend says the Eyes of God saw her coming but couldn’t see where she’d go. The Hands of God reached for her and came back grasping only dust. The Tongue of God tried to curse her, but her chains rattled louder than his words. And when her chains began to glow—not red, but gold—the church knew they had failed.In the end, they say she met God Himself in the heart of a divine storm, her chains rattling like thunder as she climbed a ridge higher than the heavens dared to go. What she said to Him, what bargain she struck, no one knows. But when she returned, the chains were gone, melted away like mist under the sun. She became a saint, not for the church, but for the Punished—proof that their suffering wasn’t eternal, that freedom could be stolen even from the grasp of divinity.She vanished after that, her horse leaving no tracks, her shadow no longer stretching across the Dustlands. Some say she rides still, watching over the Punished, whispering their names to the wind so they won’t be forgotten. Others say she became the dust itself, carried on the wind, rattling in the ears of those who still believe in freedom. Whatever the truth, the Punished call her the Saint of the Punished, and when they pray for mercy, they pray to her, the only one who ever took her freedom and rode.
"We fell from the light, neither divine nor mortal. By consuming the essence of man, we seek to rebuild what we were meant to become. We are the broken choir, hungering for the song we will never sing."
Neither Divine Nor Mortal
The False Angels are the Reckoning’s most visible failure: monstrous, misshapen creatures born of humanity’s half-finished ascension. Their forms are grotesque, with remnants of angelic beauty warped into horrors—half-formed wings, elongated limbs, and glowing, empty eyes. They devour humans whole, driven by an insatiable hunger to rebuild their lost humanity, but every bite only drives them further from their goal. To some, they are cursed souls deserving pity; to others, they are predators to be hunted. For the Celestial Council, they are proof that humanity must embrace the divine before it can ascend, a terrifying warning of what happens when one clings too tightly to mortal flesh.Their shadows loom long, and their wails echo endlessly across the cracked earth.
Self Righteous Sons of Bitches
The Celestial Council is the beating heart of the church’s power, a governing body composed of surviving high-ranking clergy and self-proclaimed divinely chosen leaders. Cloaked in opulence and ritual, the Council controls not just the church but the lives of all who live within its shadow. They enforce their will with the Legion of the Devout and the Five Divine Senses, ensuring no heresy goes unpunished. To their followers, they are shepherds of salvation; to their enemies, they are tyrants cloaked in sanctimony. Their words shape the Dustlands, and their chains hold its people captive in body and soul.The Celestial Council serves as the ultimate authority of the church, dictating doctrine, law, and policy across the Dustlands. They claim divine guidance and maintain control over the remnants of humanity by wielding fear, faith, and the promise of salvation. Their power sustains the church’s theocracy and fuels its relentless campaign to reshape the world in God’s image.
Freaks of God
The Legion of the Devout are the church’s most fanatical warriors, their bodies warped and reforged in the image of divine perfection. They are towering figures of steel and flesh, their armor fused with their skin, their limbs replaced by mechanical or divine constructs. Each member undergoes ritualistic mutilation and transformation, believing the loss of humanity brings them closer to God’s design. They are both feared and revered, their presence a grim reminder of God's wrath and how it twisted the minds of man. To the church, they are holy knights. To everyone else, they are monsters in the shape of men.The Legion of the Devout exists to enforce the church’s doctrine of divine transformation, serving as both enforcers of faith and living examples of what humanity must become to meet God halfway. They are the vanguard of the church’s holy mission, hunting heretics, False Angels, and all who resist the Celestial Council’s teachings.
The Lord's Judgement
They call them the Five Divine Senses, and if you ever cross paths with one, pray it ain’t your final judgment. They were made, not born—crafted by the Celestial Council to be the hands, eyes, ears, tongue, and nose of God Himself. No sin escapes their notice, no heretic evades their wrath. They roam the Dustlands, passing sentence with a chilling, absolute authority that makes even the most devout tremble.
The Eyes of God see truth in every lie, their many glowing eyes an unblinking reminder that nothing is hidden.
The Ears of God hear the whispers of heresy in the wind, their grotesque, flared ears catching every secret word.
The Hands of God mete out justice with inhuman strength, their fused, holy iron gauntlets crushing sin with every blow.
The Tongue of God speaks in riddles and decrees, their serpent-like voice said to twist minds and bend wills.
The Nose of God smells the stench of guilt on a soul, their shrouded face forever seeking the scent of purity—or its absence.
Their motto is as heavy as their presence: “No Evil Hath Crossed the Senses of God.” It ain’t just words; it’s a promise. The Senses exist to uphold the church’s laws and enforce the Doctrine of the Divine Flesh, ensuring every soul marches toward God’s image—or breaks under the weight of chains. To see one coming is to feel the weight of your sins settle on your chest.They don’t hold territories, not like a bishop or a warband. They move through the Dustlands, shadows of divine wrath sent wherever sin festers or rebellion stirs. Some say they answer only to the Celestial Council; others whisper they answer to something far higher. Whatever the truth, the Senses are the church’s greatest weapon, and their judgment is as final as the Reckoning itself.
“The Aces ride to live and live to ride, striking fast and hard to claim our fortune and freedom. No gods, no chains, only the wind and the dust.”
Toss Up A Coin, Let Luck Ride
The Aces are thrill-seekers, gamblers, and adrenaline junkies who see the Dustlands as one big game. Known for their reckless bravery and unmatched riding skills, they make their living as bounty hunters, smugglers, and racers. Their iconic emblem—a spade carved into the hoods of their steeds—strikes fear and envy in equal measure. To an Ace, every day is a gamble, and every victory is worth the risk.
“From the ashes of despair, we ride to burn away corruption and make the Dustlands pay for their sins.”
Toss Up A Name, Pray It Ain't Yours
The Revenants are a grim, vengeful faction born from those left for dead by the church or False Angels. Clad in scavenged armor and wielding weapons forged in their volcanic stronghold, they mete out justice to zealots and other predators of the Dustlands. Their haunting war cries echo across the wasteland, earning them a reputation as harbingers of doom. They are feared by many, but to the desperate, they are saviors.
“We are the Dustlands’ scavengers, circling the wreckage of a broken world to take what others have left behind.”
Toss Up a Bone, Pick it Clean
The Vultures thrive on scavenging the remnants of battles and forgotten ruins, piecing together treasures from the wreckage. They have a knack for repurposing technology, from weaponizing scraps to building mobile fortresses. While they rarely start fights, they always end up richer when the dust settles. Opportunistic and fiercely loyal to their own, the Vultures are a necessary evil in the Dustlands’ ecosystem.
“We ride unseen, carrying freedom in one hand and ruin in the other. The dust is our cloak, and the wasteland is our stage”
Toss Up a Match, Strike Where It Falls
The Black Spurs are freedom fighters and saboteurs who oppose the church’s influence with ruthless efficiency. Experts in stealth and strategy, they operate in the shadows, smuggling heretics and supplies while striking at key church outposts. Their symbol is a warning to the faithful: where it appears, ruin follows. To some, they are saviors; to others, terrorists.
We are using a modified Call of Cthulhu 7th Edition system.
Intro
Writing roleplay replies will be the crux of the experience, but to keep everyone on their toes, I'm including CoC mechanics and will be GMing in the main story channels. Players will be given rolls to roll by me sometimes, but it's more of the players' job to take the initiative to initiate rolls and go "I rolled X on [this skill] - what happens?". I'll give you the general idea of what happens in the rolls channel and you can expand on it in your reply. When we actually start doing stuff, it'll be easier! If you have any questions, just let me know.
Parallel Threads
There will be a "main story" channel where I will be personally GMing, however, players can also make their own private/semi-private threads. You guys can GM yourselves here and make rolls where needed.
Ask Away!
Most of the pertinent info is going to be in the Gameplay notes doc linked above, but PLEASE let me know if you have any questions either DMing me or through the QNA channel. Very much happy to help! Hopefully this isn't too overwhelming and we can have lots of fun!
From dust we came, to dust we return.
The iron beast roars across the Dustlands, its wheels screaming against the rails as it cuts through the Withered Peaks. The Iron Chapel they call it—a train bound for Chainspire, carrying passengers with secrets as heavy as the chains waiting at their destination. Some ride for duty, others for survival, and a few for reasons they’ll take to the grave. The air inside is thick with tension, the kind that comes when strangers are packed too close, and trust is a luxury no one can afford.Then, it happens. A screech, a jolt, and the train grinds to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Whispers spread faster than the wind—bandits, maybe, or False Angels stalking the rails. But before answers come, the conductor and his crew are found dead, their bodies riddled with bullets. Panic takes hold, and officials lock down the train, sealing the passengers in with suspicion and fear. The truth is out there, hidden in the dust and shadows, but finding it might be more dangerous than facing whatever’s waiting in the peaks beyond.
The air in Dunwoody always tastes of coal dust and sweat, but lately, it carries something else—a sense of dread. People are whispering in the town’s saloons and on the soot-stained streets: groups of miners are disappearing in the depths of the Withered Peaks, swallowed whole by the earth. The foreman, a grizzled man named Elias Thatcher, has seen his share of accidents, but this is different. These aren’t cave-ins or gas leaks; these are people vanishing without a trace.Thatcher’s at his wit’s end. The miners are terrified, work has slowed, and the town is on the edge of panic. Desperate, he’s offering good coin to anyone brave—or foolish—enough to venture into the mines and uncover the truth. The stakes are high, and the shadows run deep.
Click here for interactive map
Though Forsaken, We Live On
CHAINSPIRE rises like a fortress of stone and judgment, hidden deep in the jagged claws of the Withered Peaks. The only way in or out is through God’s Docks, where the faithful kneel, the Punished toil, and the church’s shadow looms heavy over all.
FREEPORT stands at the edge of the Sunken Frontier, a town of traders, outlaws, and those desperate enough to gamble everything for one last chance. The Vultures circle close, drawn by the scent of opportunity, but here, even the air feels restless.
DEVIL'S SPRING hides in the misty crevices of the Withered Peaks, its steaming pools promising relief—but at what cost? The whispers of the springs linger in the air, drawing the hopeful and the desperate alike to its treacherous embrace.
ASHSTEAD is a ramshackle hub of survival in the heart of the Chainlands, where shifting sands and grit rule the land. It’s a town where practicality outweighs ideals, a last stop for wanderers heading deeper into the Dustlands’ unforgiving expanse.
TOMBPLAINS sprawls across a cracked and brittle expanse, where the dead cities of the Reckoning watch over its sun-bleached streets. It’s a town caught between ruin and resilience, a resting place for both ghosts and wanderers.
Limbo Run sits at the edge of the Sunken Frontier, its crooked buildings teetering on the edge of the sands. The Aces call it home, a place where luck is king, and every step feels like a wager with fate.
Dry Roost clings to the edge of the Withered Peaks, a windswept outpost where survival is earned through grit and silence. Just beyond its borders, the Black Spurs’ camp keeps the tension high and the church’s eye ever watchful.
Twin Rise stands guarded by its two towering mesas, its people always watching the horizon for what might come. Connected by the railway to Bleakwater and Dry Roost, it’s a town of sharp eyes and sharper hearts.
Bleakwater rises from the flat desert, a town built on desperation and determination. Its foul springs sustain the town, but its lifeblood comes from the railway and the sheer will of its people to endure.
DUNWOODY carves its existence into the southern Withered Peaks, its mining town never resting. Soot fills the air, and the shadow of the Revenants to the south serves as both a warning and a grim reassurance.
Freeport stands at the edge of the Sunken Frontier, a town of traders, outlaws, and those desperate enough to gamble everything for one last chance. The Vultures circle close, drawn by the scent of opportunity, but here, even the air feels restless.
Welcome to the End of the World
They call it Freeport, but freedom here is a fleeting thing, traded as easily as water and bullets. Perched on the northeast corner of the Dustlands, it’s the kind of place where every step feels like a gamble, and the stakes are always high. To the south, the brittle expanse of the Tombplains sprawls out like an open grave. To the west, Devil’s Spring sends its hot winds howling through the narrow streets. And just north, the Vultures perch, always watching, always waiting.Freeport wasn’t built to last, but somehow it keeps standing. Its streets are a haphazard mix of cobbled-together shacks and sun-bleached tents, its markets overflowing with goods scavenged from the Sunken Frontier and beyond. Traders pass through with carts creaking under the weight of rare relics and stolen supplies, and the town’s saloon—The Gilded Coin—is where deals are struck, fortunes are made, and lives are ruined with the roll of dice.
Taking it to the People
Freeport is a town of survivors and opportunists, a place where trust is a luxury and loyalty comes with a price tag. Its people are sharp-tongued and quick on their feet, always looking for the next angle, the next score. Here, the line between outlaw and entrepreneur is thinner than the dust that coats every surface, and most folks learn early on that honesty doesn’t pay the bills.The town thrives on trade, its markets bustling with scavengers, Dust Riders, and merchants hawking everything from ancient relics to bootlegged charms. Bartering is an art form in Freeport, and a sharp tongue can get you as far as a loaded pistol. There’s no official law here, but the traders’ guild holds sway, keeping the peace with a mix of bribes and veiled threats. And then there’s the unspoken rule of Freeport: don’t draw unless you’re ready to finish it. The sands outside the gates are littered with the bones of those who forgot.
What It's Known For
Freeport’s claim to fame lies in its location, perched on the border of the Sunken Frontier. The dried-up seabed to the east is a treasure trove for those daring—or foolish—enough to venture into its cracked and shimmering depths. Relic hunters bring back fragments of the old world, strange artifacts that hum with forgotten power, and Freeport’s markets are the first stop for these curiosities.But it’s not just relics that draw folks to Freeport. The town has a knack for surviving where others have crumbled. Its water is clean enough, its defenses strong enough, and its people stubborn enough to carve out a life on the edge of nowhere. The Gilded Coin is more than just a saloon; it’s the town’s beating heart, where whispers of rebellion mingle with the clink of coins and the scrape of chairs against dusty floors.
Eyes Over Our Shoulders
Of course, freedom comes at a cost, and in Freeport, that cost often comes in the form of the Vultures. Their camp lies just to the northwest, a constant reminder that scavengers don’t just pick at ruins—they pick at people too. The traders’ guild does its best to keep the Vultures in check, but alliances shift with the wind, and it’s hard to tell friend from foe when everyone’s wearing a mask of civility.And then there are the rumors, the stories that pass through Freeport like the desert winds. Tales of strange lights in the Sunken Frontier, of relics that whisper secrets to those who hold them too long, of False Angels circling closer with every passing day. Some say Freeport is cursed, that it’s only a matter of time before the dust swallows it whole. But the people here don’t have time for curses—they’re too busy living, dealing, and surviving.
Chainspire rises like a fortress of stone and judgment, hidden deep in the jagged claws of the Withered Peaks. The only way in or out is through God’s Docks, where the faithful kneel, the Punished toil, and the church’s shadow looms heavy over all.
The City of Iron and Faith
They call it Chainspire, but there’s little spire left in the jagged peaks that cage it in. Nestled in the unforgiving heart of the Withered Peaks, Chainspire is a fortress carved from stone and belief, both as unyielding as the mountains that surround it. The only way in or out is through God’s Docks, a dock southside of Chainspire that takes you across the lake called the Tears of Mary. For the faithful, it’s a pilgrimage; for the Punished, it’s a penance. For everyone else, it’s a trap they’ll never escape.
A People of Faith
In Chainspire, faith isn’t just a way of life—it’s the only life allowed. The church rules with an iron fist, its bishops and priests overseeing every aspect of daily existence. The clang of hammers and the rattle of chains are the town’s heartbeat, echoing from the iron forges where Punished work tirelessly under the watchful gaze of their keepers. Redemption is promised but rarely given, and hope is a fragile thing, buried beneath layers of dogma and iron.The people of Chainspire live under constant scrutiny, their lives measured by the church’s rigid expectations. Community is defined by duty and fear, with neighbors quick to report each other for heresy or defiance. Despite this, small acts of rebellion persist—muted prayers whispered in darkened corners, forbidden books passed hand-to-hand, and the occasional flash of defiance from those who dare to dream of freedom.
What It's Known For
Chainspire isn’t just a town; it’s the church’s crowning jewel in the Dustlands, a monument to its power and cruelty. The chains forged here are said to hum with divine energy, binding not only the Punished but the very soul of the Dustlands. It’s the only place where new chains can be created, a process shrouded in secrecy and ritual. The iron ore mined from the surrounding peaks is believed to be touched by God, and its extraction is both a sacrament and a punishment.The town’s architecture reflects its purpose: angular, oppressive, and built to endure. Towering statues of the Five Divine Senses loom over the town square, their unseeing eyes a constant reminder of the church’s reach. Even the air feels heavy, thick with the metallic tang of iron and the faint scent of burning incense.
Cracks & Isolation
While the church controls Chainspire with an iron grip, cracks in their authority have begun to show. Whispers of rebellion echo through the forges, carried on the sparks of molten iron. The Punished, once cowed and broken, have begun to organize in secret, their chains clinking like the drums of war in the dead of night. There are rumors of a figure among them—a Punished with glowing red chains who speaks of freedom and vengeance.Chainspire’s isolation only adds to its tension. The Withered Peaks offer no mercy, and God’s Docks is as much a gauntlet as it is a gateway. Supplies trickle in slowly, and the harsh conditions have made the people harder, their faces lined with years of toil and faith. The church’s leaders grow paranoid, knowing that their stronghold is as much a prison for them as it is for the souls they command.
Devil’s Spring hides in the misty crevices of the Withered Peaks, its steaming pools promising relief—but at what cost? The whispers of the springs linger in the air, drawing the hopeful and the desperate alike to its treacherous embrace.
The Mist and Murmur
Devil’s Spring isn’t a place you stumble upon—it’s a place that calls you. Tucked into the northern reaches of the Withered Peaks, the town clings to the mountains like it’s trying not to fall into the steaming pools below. The springs themselves bubble and hiss, their waters glowing faintly in the moonlight, promising solace and danger in equal measure. To the people who live here, the springs are both a gift and a curse, a source of life and a harbinger of something far darker.
The Water Speaks to Us
The people of Devil’s Spring live as close to the earth as they do to the water. The town is built on a series of narrow terraces carved into the mountainside, its wooden walkways creaking with every step. Life here is slower than in other parts of the Dustlands, quieter, but that doesn’t mean it’s any safer. The springs provide the town with water, heat, and healing, but they also demand respect. Every resident knows someone who’s seen something in the mist—shadows that move when they shouldn’t, whispers carried on the wind.Faith runs deep in Devil’s Spring, though not always the faith of the church. Many here believe the springs are alive, that they hold the echoes of the Reckoning or perhaps something older. Rituals are common—offerings left at the edges of the pools, songs sung to the steam rising into the night. The church tolerates these practices, seeing them as harmless superstitions, but the locals know better. They know the springs listen.
What It's Known For
The springs are what make Devil’s Spring both special and dangerous. The water has properties no one fully understands: it heals wounds, soothes pain, and, if the whispers are to be believed, grants visions of the future. But the water also takes—memories, strength, and sometimes the people who venture too close. Those who drink from the springs often report strange dreams, and a few have claimed to see the faces of loved ones lost to the Reckoning.The town is also uniquely positioned as a waypoint in the Dustlands. Its location in the Withered Peaks makes it a natural stopping point for traders and Dust Riders traveling between Chainspire and Freeport. This transient population adds to the town’s mystique, with travelers bringing their stories, their secrets, and sometimes their curses to the springs.
Spring of Secrets
Devil’s Spring may seem peaceful, but it hides more than mist in its depths. The springs have been known to bubble red after a Punished wanders too close, and the whispers that follow are loud enough to drive a person mad. Some say the water holds the memories of those lost during the Reckoning, while others believe it’s the work of False Angels, hiding in the peaks and feeding off the springs’ power.The church maintains a small outpost here, a crumbling chapel perched precariously on the edge of a cliff. The priests watch the town with wary eyes, their sermons full of warnings about the dangers of the springs. But even they can’t deny the allure of the waters, and it’s said that more than one priest has disappeared into the mist, never to return.
Ashstead is a ramshackle hub of survival in the heart of the Chainlands, where shifting sands and grit rule the land. It’s a town where practicality outweighs ideals, a last stop for wanderers heading deeper into the Dustlands’ unforgiving expanse.
The Grit and Graft of the Chainlands
Ashstead doesn’t ask for much—just your sweat, your blood, and maybe your soul if you’ve got it to spare. Smack in the middle of the Chainlands, it’s a town built on survival and stubbornness, clinging to life in the endless dunes south of Chainspire. It’s not the kind of place you go looking for glory. You come to Ashstead because there’s nowhere else left to go. Here, the wind howls like a wild beast, whipping the sand into shapes that shift as fast as the lives of the people who call it home.
Earn Your Keep
Life in Ashstead is about work, plain and simple. There are no sermons ringing through its streets, no gilded spires to speak of divine purpose—just the steady clang of tools, the creak of sandblasted machinery, and the low murmur of voices too tired for idle chatter. The people of Ashstead are practical to a fault, their priorities survival first, everything else second. The town’s motto might as well be “Do the job, or die trying.”There’s a quiet camaraderie here, a sense that every back-breaking effort and every grain of sand swept from their makeshift homes binds the townsfolk together. Nobody cares much for where you came from or what you’ve done. What matters is whether you’re willing to put your shoulder to the grindstone and keep the town running.
What It's Known For
What sets Ashstead apart is its ingenuity. The Chainlands might seem like nothing more than an endless expanse of sand and sun, but Ashstead has found a way to make it work. The town survives on what it can scavenge and what it can build, piecing together machines from scraps and keeping them running with sheer willpower. Its windmills, cobbled together from pre-Reckoning debris, pull brackish water from deep underground. It’s not clean, but it’s drinkable—if you’ve got the stomach for it.Ashstead’s people are known for their skill with machinery. They can fix almost anything, and their jury-rigged contraptions are sought after by traders and Dust Riders alike. The town’s blacksmith, a quiet giant named Kole “Hammerhand” Yates, is said to be able to forge wonders from the most useless scraps, and his work has earned Ashstead a reputation as a place where even the broken can be made whole again—at least, on the outside.
The Struggle Out Here
But ingenuity has its price, and Ashstead isn’t without its struggles. The town’s machines break down more often than they run, and the brackish water has a way of turning stomachs and minds sour. The sandstorms that sweep through the Chainlands can bury entire homes in a single night, and there’s always the risk that a band of outlaws or a False Angel might see Ashstead as easy pickings.There’s also the lingering fear of Chainspire, looming just to the north like a shadow that won’t let go. The church doesn’t pay much attention to Ashstead—yet. But the town’s independence is a thorn in the side of the faithful, and it’s only a matter of time before the iron chains of Chainspire reach south to claim it.
Dunwoody carves its existence into the southern Withered Peaks, its mining town never resting. Soot fills the air, and the shadow of the Revenants to the south serves as both a warning and a grim reassurance.
The Soot-Choked Heart of the South
If the Dustlands have a soul, then Dunwoody is its blackened, beating heart. Carved into the southern reaches of the Withered Peaks, it’s a mining town that doesn’t stop for breath—not that there’s much clean air to be had here. The streets are lined with soot-stained buildings, and the air hums with the relentless clanging of pickaxes striking iron veins deep beneath the surface. This isn’t a town for dreamers or the faint of heart.Dunwoody is a town that doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop digging, and doesn’t stop surviving. It’s not pretty, it’s not kind, and it’s certainly not safe. But for those who can handle the soot and the shadows, it’s a place where even the harshest realities of the Dustlands can be turned into something strong. Here, in the blackened heart of the south, the Dustlands dig deep—and Dunwoody digs deeper.
Our Purpose Amidst The Coal
The people of Dunwoody are as hard as the rocks they break and as sharp as the tools they wield. Life here is built on grit and unspoken rules—work hard, don’t complain, and keep your head down. There’s no room for frills or luxuries; everything in Dunwoody serves a purpose, and what doesn’t gets ground into the dirt.Community here isn’t about friendliness—it’s about necessity. The miners look out for one another because they have to. A collapse in the tunnels or an accident in the forges means everyone pitches in, because next time, it might be you buried beneath the rubble. The camaraderie is tough love, but it’s real. If you live in Dunwoody, you earn your place, and nobody questions whether you belong.
What It's Known For
Dunwoody thrives on its mines, which are said to contain some of the purest iron left in the Dustlands. This iron feeds the forges of Chainspire and the weapons of the Dust Riders, making Dunwoody a vital cog in the broken machine of the Dustlands. The town’s blacksmiths are renowned for their skill, crafting tools and weapons that fetch high prices across the Dustlands.What makes Dunwoody truly unique, though, is its resilience. The town has been destroyed more times than anyone can count—by landslides, sandstorms, raiders, and even False Angels—but it always rises again. The miners joke that you can’t kill Dunwoody because it’s already dead, but there’s a kernel of truth in their grim humor. This is a town that refuses to die, no matter how many times the Dustlands try to bury it.
Don't Stop Digging
Dunwoody lives in the shadow of the Revenants, who make their camp just south of the town. Their presence is a double-edged sword: they protect the miners from raiders and False Angels, but their brutal sense of justice keeps the townsfolk in line as much as it keeps enemies at bay. Everyone in Dunwoody knows someone who’s crossed the Revenants and paid the price, and their stories hang in the air like the ever-present soot.There’s also the matter of the tunnels. Deep beneath the Withered Peaks, the mines stretch farther than anyone dares to map. Strange sounds echo from the depths—scraping, whispering, and sometimes a low, inhuman growl that makes even the bravest miners hesitate. Some say the tunnels are cursed, remnants of the Reckoning’s unfinished work. Others say it’s just the rocks settling. But nobody lingers underground longer than they have to.
Tombplains sprawls across a cracked and brittle expanse, where the dead cities of the Reckoning watch over its sun-bleached streets. It’s a town caught between ruin and resilience, a resting place for both ghosts and wanderers.
The Wind Never Stops
In the middle of this barren expanse of the False Plains lies the town of Tombplains, a scattering of half-collapsed ruins and stubbornly standing shacks. It’s not much to look at—barely more than a ghost town—but it clings to life like a weed that refuses to die. The past weighs heavy here, not just in the broken structures but in the air itself, thick with the whispers of those long gone.
Bones in the Dust
Tombplains wasn’t built; it was scavenged. Its buildings are patched together from the ruins of old-world towns, a mix of rusted metal and crumbling stone that somehow holds against the endless wind. Every structure feels temporary, like it could blow away with the next storm. The town is a patchwork of survival, its people living among the remnants of a world they’ll never fully understand.Life here is stark, ruled by necessity. The townsfolk are scavengers, farmers, and wanderers who make do with what little the False Plains offer. There’s no pretense of luxury or ambition—just the raw drive to keep going, even when the land itself seems determined to swallow them whole.The people of Tombplains have learned to live with the ghosts, both literal and metaphorical. The Reckoning left its mark here, and strange phenomena are as common as sandstorms. Flickering lights in the distance, voices carried on the wind, and shadows that don’t belong to anything living—these are just part of life in the Tombplains.The locals hold to a mix of faith and superstition, blending church doctrine with old-world rituals. They light candles at sundown, leave offerings at crossroads, and paint symbols on their doors to ward off whatever lingers in the dust. It’s said that the dead walk freely here, and whether that’s truth or just the weight of the past pressing down, no one can say for sure.
What It's Known For
What makes Tombplains unique is the land itself. The False Plains are riddled with buried ruins, and every so often, the wind reveals a new piece of the past—a crumbling tower, a shattered monument, or a cache of relics untouched since the Reckoning. Treasure hunters and scholars come from far and wide, hoping to uncover something valuable or profound, but most leave empty-handed—or don’t leave at all.The townsfolk guard their secrets fiercely. They know the dangers of digging too deep, both literal and figurative. The church keeps a close eye on Tombplains, suspecting heresy in the strange artifacts that surface here. And maybe they’re right—some of the relics hum with unnatural energy, and those who hold them too long often go mad. But the people of Tombplains know better than to ask questions. Curiosity, after all, is just another way to die.
On the Edge of the Afterlife
Tombplains has always been a town teetering on the edge, but the weight of its past is beginning to crack its foundations. The constant scavenging of the burial mounds has stirred unrest, with some claiming that the spirits of the dead are growing angry. More than a few residents have reported strange dreams—visions of the Reckoning, twisted landscapes, and shadowy figures calling their names.Then there’s the church. While they’ve largely left Tombplains alone, their interest in the Hollow Spire has grown in recent years. Priests and inquisitors have been seen in town, asking questions and making maps. The locals watch them with a mix of suspicion and fear, knowing that the church’s attention rarely brings anything good.
The Divine Residue
Magic was born in the chaos of the Reckoning, a byproduct of divine intervention clashing with mortal reality. When the heavens cracked open and the Reckoning began, divine energy seeped into the world, saturating the land, air, and even the people. This energy—uncontrolled and chaotic—manifested in strange, unpredictable phenomena: spontaneous fires that spoke, rain that burned like acid, and people who changed in body and mind without warning.After the botched Reckoning, this energy remained, coalescing in certain regions and within certain individuals. The Celestial Council declared it God’s Breath, a holy but dangerous gift left behind as part of humanity’s unfinished trial. Over time, survivors learned to harness this energy, shaping it into what is now known as the Dustlands’ magic system: The Divine Residue.
Harnessing Magic
Magic users in the Dustlands are few, but those who can harness it fall into distinct categories based on their methods:
The Blessed: Trained by the church, Blessed users employ magic for healing, creating chains for the Punished, and enforcing divine laws. Their power is channeled through prayers, rituals, and relics blessed by the Celestial Council, ensuring it remains "holy" and controlled. These bastards are created by the church via a ritual that has the user drinking raw divine residue.
Wild Mages: These are untrained individuals or Dust Riders who tap into the divine residue without church oversight. Wild Mages often rely on instinct and desperation, using magic for survival, combat, or rebellion. Their power is raw, dangerous, and prone to backfiring. These fellas were born with an innate affinity with the divine residue and were born after the Reckoning as a result of the residue being present in the Dustlands' water. Although it isn't enough for the drinker to become attuned, it's enough for the fetus within a mother to be born with the magic.
Relic-Bearers: Some survivors carry relics from the Reckoning—fragments of angelic wings, shards of divine chains, or even bones of False Angels. These items act as potent conduits, allowing the bearer to wield tremendous power but often at the cost of their humanity.
Ritualists: Ritualists rely on intricate ceremonies, symbols, and sacrifices to harness magic. Often considered heretics by the church, they work slowly but produce powerful, long-lasting effects, such as creating protective wards or summoning divine storms.
Magic Utilization
Magic in the Dustlands is as much a tool as it is a weapon, with its uses varying widely depending on who wields it:
Healing and Restoration: The church uses magic to heal wounds and diseases, but this gift is often reserved for the devout or those who can pay a steep price. Wild Mages may heal others in a more rudimentary fashion, but the results are unpredictable.
Combat and Defense: Dust Riders and factions frequently use magic in combat, from conjuring flame-laced bullets to creating shields of swirling sand. Ritualists and relic-bearers are particularly adept at creating destructive effects, such as summoning lightning or collapsing enemy fortifications.
Curses and Chains: The church’s most feared magic lies in the creation of chains for the Punished. This magic requires a bishop or priest to infuse divine energy into sacred metal, binding the recipient’s sin to their body and erasing their memory.
Mutations and Enhancements: Some groups, such as the Legion of the Devout, purposefully use magic to alter their bodies, believing that the resulting mutations bring them closer to God’s image. This includes growing additional limbs, fusing flesh with metal, or enhancing strength and speed.
Weather Manipulation: Ritualists and certain Wild Mages have learned to manipulate the Dustlands’ brutal weather, summoning sandstorms to obscure their movements or calling down rain to cleanse poisoned land.
Dangers of the Divine Residue
Magic is as much a curse as it is a blessing in the Dustlands. The reckless use of magic can result in:
False Angel Syndrome: Overuse of divine residue over a very short period of time often leads to irreversible transformations, turning the user into a monster similar to the False Angels. The timeframe is unknown and is entirely up to the individual's mental and physical capacity.
Mental Corruption: Prolonged exposure to divine energy can warp a user’s mind, leading to paranoia, hallucinations, or even religious fanaticism.
Environmental Decay: Magic use can destabilize the already fragile environment, creating Dead Zones where nothing can grow or live.
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Everyone starts off with 1-3 known spells and you must run these by me for balance & story purposes. (Please don't get mad if I say no to a spell!)Even then, your character doesn't need to know magic at all and you can leave this section blank. All other spells must be found/learned through story means.You may make your own spells & use the CoC Grimoire but please run them by me first! I will be reviewing people's spells lists (if applicable) and discuss it with you. Grimoire may be updated with more spells in the future, so stay tuned!