The Wandslinger in A'merikuh

One of the players in my Abomination Vaults game invited me me to their own weekly campaign. We had our session zero last week, and I've been determinedly procrastinating on coming up with backstory for my character. But we start tomorrow, so I've knuckled down and gotten something prepared¹!

A'merikuh

This is a homebrew world. Somebody named the FoundryVTT server A'merikuh. I'm not sure if it was meant to be named A'merikuh, but we just sort of ran with it after seeing it last week.

So. The essentials.

The world was created through a battle between the Goddess of Light & the God of Darkness upon a comet. Light won, and this resulted in Greater Evils being banished from the world. There's still relatively minor evil, like stealing. But for the most part, everyone is just living, hanging out, and having a good time in A'merikuh².

The Godess is the only major deity in the world. She's got a magic sword, called the Sword of Creation. I presume she used it to defeat the God of Darkness? But after that, it seems like she gave to a mortal bloodline. Exactly what this sword is capable of is unclear to us.

The sword is relevant because one of us bear it. The GM asked for volunteers to carry the badass divine magic sword. I pointed out that I have a very bad track record with magic swords, so it's not gunna be me.

The set-up is that we're a bunch of aspiring scouts. We'll be given our Offical Scout Commissions or whatever at the start, and set forth into the world to keep the relatively minor evil in check.

There is a secret-society-type deal too, with people who are watching for something. The GM was being cagey about this faction, but this was relevant to my character concept.

The brief for the campaign is:

You'll be doing adventures™, nothing big is gunna happen, it's probably fine, don't worry

This leaves the exact nature of what we're facing down unknown.

The Wandslinger

I've always wanted to play an artilleist artificer. At some point on manifest zone, Keith Baker talks about wands in the last war. If you can channel a cantrip firebolt through a stick, imagine what you can do with twelve guys and a tree trunk. The idea of heavy artillery wands appeals to me.

And if the world is called A'merikuh, why not have it be a gunslinger? So my concept, The Wandslinger, sprung forth. He is an artillerist artificer that specializes in blowing shit up. But in a comedic way, since there's no Greater Evil, so I want to be careful about not inadvertently doing a manslaughter³.

For visuals: imagine the actor that Chubbyemu uses for himbos, in his role as a farmer that mixed up the gatorade and herbicide bottles. Think him, but with a cool cloak and a cowboy hat:

As a dutiful member of the Spinach Inquisition⁴, I am legally required to extoll the virtues of corn to this new group of unsuspecting players. So: The Wandslinger is an artificer, specializing in corn. His tinkers? They use corn. His cantrips? Cast from corncob wands.

He thinks the Goddess of Light is fine, but as you'll see in the vignette below, he's got some ideas on a modernized god better-suited to the average A'merikun. He wants to figure out how to bring this new god about.

The worshippers should already be there; they just don't know everything they depend on day-to-day is made from corn. With a little proselytizing, surely a god can be forged? He doesn't know exactly how that would work, but as an artificer, perhaps he can build a prototype god, and find a way to power it up?

His faults are alcoholism. If there's no Greater Evil to worry about, hedonism suits him just fine. Perhaps this is where the idea of creating his own god came from? But he's always going to be piss-drunk, if he's got any choice in the matter.

Despite that, he's still the fastest wand in Saxet. When there's a fight on, he is there, with a pair of corn cobs, ready to start blastin' away. My initial thought was for the party to meet him in the middle of the street, passed out in a pool of his own piss. When somebody pokes him, a wand drops from his sleeve into his hand and he has it at their throat before they can blink. That doesn't quite fit the vibes for initiation day, but it's an idea I'll keep handy ... 👀

When the GM brought up the secret watcher society, it sounded good for The Wandslinger. He doesn't really want to go out and do things; he'd rather stay in his hometown of Saxet, partying and screaming corn facts at random passers-by. So if they're just ... watchers, hanging around and watching for something that never appears, it's perfect for him.

Imagine the egg on his face when whatever they're watching for turns up. He'll have to do work. Maybe even save the world! He's going to hate it.

He doesn't have much of a backstory: he grew up in Saxet. He had two dozen brothers and sisters and two parents, all living together on a farm. He knows about corn's by-products because their family mostly grows it, and he's been around corn all his life. He's grown apart from most of them in the last two years due to his substance abuse problems.

The character concept was "The Wandslinger", but I couldn't come up with a funnier name and kept it. First name The, last name Wandslinger. This will probably be very confusing, but that's funny so who can say if it's bad or not?

Adventure's Eve

This is a vignette on the eve of adventure. It's intentionally vague about a lot of stuff, since we've got a fairly bare-bones world. I may come back and revise it once we've got a few sessions in.

"Did you know that — hic — the armour they're giving ush tomorrow is — hic — made from corn biopolymers?" said the youth, waving an arm across the bar and sloshing his ale all over it. "Nesht time your greaves save you from a wolf — hic — thank the corn!"

His companions all laughed and mock-saluted with their mugs. Two dozen youth were crowded around the Rusty Sax's bar, celebrating their last night as aspirants.

They raised a rowdy cheer, "to corn!"

A figure in a forest-green cloak seated at the end of the bar looked over. Despite the roaring fire, their hood was up and their face hidden in shadow.

Their voice was deep, rough, and caught the aspirants by surprise. "That's got to be nonsense. You can't make armour or weapons out of corn. You need good steel and hide for that. All corn's good for is popping."

The youth stood sharply and glowered down at the stranger. "Corn's all around you, friend. You best acknowledge her."

The hooded man let out a laugh. He finished his drink slowly, then stood. He was at least seven feet tall. "Acknowledge her? It's a vegetable. You've had too much to drink."

The youth abruptly slammed his mug onto the bar. "The Godess is all well and good," he began, voice taking on a steely resolve, "but in this era, she's not enough. Your drink? Fermented corn. The bar? Corn stover processed into plywood, then painted to look like wood. And the paints are thickened by cornstarch."

The other aspirants began to form a box around the youth and the hooded man. Some looked nervous, and others began passing coins around and making bets.

"What are you saying? What does the Goddess have to do with this nonsense?" spat the hooded man. His arm slowly began moving towards his waist.

The youth approached him unsteadily. "Goddess gives us light, and that's important. But without realizing it, corn's become more important. Sun goes down? You need a lamp, and it's using corn ethanol. Corn's the true god of A'merikuh."

"Blasphemy," the stranger hissed between his teeth. He drew a thin silvered knife from within his cloak.

The tavern fell silent. The aspirants were shocked by this escalation. The other patrons had been watching with mild interest; some were preparing to leave, but others were reaching into their nearby coats or bags.

The bartender broke the silence. "Boy's right about the ale. Corn's cheaper than barley or rye," he said. While he spoke, his hands worked something behind the bar, out-of-sight. "I don't recognize you, friend. What's your business here in Saxet?"

The hood creased as the man surveyed the room. A table of rough-looking farm hands were approaching, mud-stained from the day's work, armed with utility blades and hammers. One spit a wad of tobacco into a rusty pail under a table as he passed it. Aspirants were beginning to pull sheathed short swords out of their packs, unsure if they should be drawing them or running for cover.

He ignored the bartender and turned to face the farm hands, judging them the greater threat. "Do you believe this foolishness? Is all of Saxet enthralled by it?"

"Naw," drawled one of the farm hands. "We just don't much appreciate strangers makin' trouble, is all."

The hooded stranger waited no longer: he lunged, blade out. He would cross the gap in mere moments. The farm hands raised their own weapons to meet his charge.

But then, as if by magic, the drunken youth was between them. He had a corncob in each hand, pointed to either side. The cobs had been stripped of their kernels and decorated with runes. Ghostly red flames danced around their tips: not real fire, but the promise of it.

"No troubl' here," the youth slurred. Despite his apparent agility, he was still drunk as a skunk. "Everyonshes just gotta sit and have anosher — hic — round, alright?"

The bartender, merely concerned before, now wore a look of panic. "The, don't you start flinging around any magic in here. It took weeks to fix this place up last time you let loose with those cob wands, and that was with two dozen of you hel-"

One of the farm hand's eyes widened, and he interrupted the bartender's plea. "The? You're The Wandslinger?"

The Wandslinger hiccuped again, and grinned at the farmhand. "Ayup. Just The's fine. Or Wand. It's a dishicult name in a — hic — scentensh!"

The hooded stranger let out a mangled snarl, sheathing his knife petulantly. "The Wandslinger, is it? By the Godess, I promise you that we will finish this conversation."

"Might have some trooooouble findin' me again, I'm schippin' out tomorra," replied The Wandslinger. His cob wands disappeared up his sleeves, and he gestured to the door. "Gunna be a bonifide advenshurerer. But fer now, yoush besht — hic — head home, shtranger."

The hooded stranger departed in silence. The bartender began to shout about the unpaid tab, but an aspirant tossed a few coins on the bar to cover it.

The Wandslinger's eyes didn't leave the stranger's back until the door slammed shut. The way they had moved under their heavy cloak was strange, as if they were floating instead of taking steps.

He filed that away for later consideration, and rejoined the festivities. He'd need at least three more rounds to appropriately celebrate.

Wand's Away

The campaign is meant to be relatively brief. I've got a lot of ground to cover to turn The Wandslinger's aspirations into a good story:

• Build his corn god
• Cure alcoholism
• Mend rift with family
• Solve whatever is about to go wrong in the world
• Deal with that hooded stranger's revenge???

The GM suggested perhaps eight sessions. We'll see what happens!