On Arborea
Arborea might be the most challenging of the Outer Planes to write about because it is lacking one thing that all other planes possess: a clear physical description.
Mechanus is a series of giant cogs, interlocking and forming a great machine that powers the ‘verse. Limbo is raw chaos, a primordial soup of creative and destructive energies that can be shaped by pure willpower. Ysgard is a bunch of floating islands while Acheron is a bunch of floating cubes. Pandemonium, underground tunnels devoid of light and muted by deafening winds; Arcadia, perfectly ordered cities and fields, a literal Utopia. Bytopia, Carceri and Gehenna, odd in shape and form, at least stick out in your mind; and even Elysium, Hades and the Beastlands, while fairly mundane, have enough of a physicality associated with the ideas they embody, that they leave an impression with visitors.
Arborea leaves no such impression.
. . . landscape in the settled parts of Arborea . . . is pleasant, pastoral, and mostly harmless. Gently rolling hills, fields of oats, barley, wheat, and millet, vineyards, and fruit and olive orchards pass by in quaint succession. But the open regions between the realms are often impassibly wild. The less settled any region is, the more hostile its hills, mountains, and forests are to visitors. Though it’s been said of many places on the Great ring, in Arborea it’s true: every mountain is the highest, every forest the lushest, and every ocean deeper than can be imagined. Arborea’s wilderness just doesn’t quit.
Planes of Chaos, the Book of Chaos, p.36
There is nothing in this passage (and others like it) in the original text that truly separates Arborea from any other realm among the planes. This could easily be Ysgard, the Beastlands or Bytopia ~ though, admittedly, each has its own distinct element that separates them ~ but this makes it worse in that Arborea doesn’t have its own purpose or definition, reflected in the landscape, so much as it just . . . is. The plane has three layers, described as a dense forest, a vast plain and a sandy desert, but there’s no theme among them. Of course, this is one of the issues I aim to address with these articles, to identify the gaps in the source material and to provide solutions ~ but with Arborea, I struggle to grasp the realm’s core philosophy, in no small part because its description is so . . . mundane.
Arborea is supposed to be a place where passion is the dominant emotional state. It’s “a land of deep emotions and powerful curses, loves, and hatreds;” of “violent moods and deep affections, of whim backed by iron, and of passions that blaze brightly until they burn out.” Even that statement above, that Arborea’s “wilderness just doesn’t quit,” suggests a certain vigor that should be visible in the realm, as much a part of its description as Baator’s pit or Celestia’s mountain. The problem is that the actual descriptions are lacking in this passion. They have no focus or no intensity, relying heavily on comparisons to other planes to make a point. Overall, the reader comes away with the sense that Arborea is no different than the Beastlands in form and appearance, except that there are more “people” (and “settlements”) than animals.
What to do, what do to, to do what . . . ?
If I do a search of the text for “passion,” I come up with five instances within the pages devoted to Arborea. (but my copy is a scanned .pdf and the program doesn’t recognize all uses of the word; there are more than I can find with a search function.) Given, also, that it’s one of the realm’s titles ~ The Passion of Arborea ~ I can’t help but obsess about it. First impressions can be very important and in this case, I think that’s the focus for this plane. Arborea is supposed to be a place of deep seated passions . . . so what does that mean?
Passion and Art
Art . . . is many things. It is too difficult to define, completely and accurately, try as we might; but that doesn’t mean we can’t make some claims about the process ~ where it comes from, how it manifests and what the outcome (often, might?) looks like.
I consider myself an artist. I write, mostly non-fiction, about a role-playing game; but I also discuss philosophy and politics, economics and logistics, personnel management, relationships, etc; all because these things are relevant to a game that mimics real life (and these things are critical to understanding life in general, particularly when discussing motivation). But I’m also working on fictional stories. I have several ideas, and even a partial draft or two. To the point, I get ideas fairly regularly; when I do, I write them down or I indulge in the fantasy long enough to capture the feeling of the idea ~ and then I write it down.
Here’s the thing about all this: I used to get more ideas when I was younger. Not, like, as a child, though I’m sure that’s true; I mean, when I was in college, studying literature and philosophy, reading four, five or six books a week, I would get tons of ideas, all the damn time.
Where does art come from? It starts with inspiration. And while I recognize that our sources for inspiration are multitudinous and varied, I can’t help but think that, if I were reading and watching as many stories as I used to, I’d have a lot more inspiring moments. There are other elements, as well. Healthy living; getting enough sleep or rest; eating well, getting exercise and so on. Good relationships. Comfort and security. Meeting your physical and emotional needs. Exposure to a variety of ideas, topics, concepts, viewpoints, etc.
Yet these are not hard and fast requirements. Many an artist has produced their greatest work under duress, pain, suffering, threats of violence, the list goes on. We can say that certain conditions make it easier to be inspired; we cannot say that these specific conditions are always required, for an artist to be inspired, but they definitely help.
Of course, this only speaks to the source of our art. The process by which we make art is a different matter. And just as there are many conditions that inspire us to make art, there are many means by which we can make it ~ though, again, I’m not saying there are as many different ways as there are people (if that were true, there’d be far more artists in the world than their are today) ~ I am saying that there can be many paths to producing a finished work. Yet, as with the source of our art, I think we can make some general claims about the artistic process.
My own experience tells me that, when writing both fiction and non-fiction, there are two (very) broad approaches: many drafts and few drafts. I’m oversimplifying, naturally, but it’s a starting point. In the former case, the artist puts tool to product ~ whether it be a brush or a pen, a hammer or a knife ~ and makes something. He reviews it, makes adjustments, refines it, possibly starts over entirely, makes a new draft, reviews and adjusts, and so on. By contrast, the latter approach involves fewer drafts, probably more time spent thinking about the piece, with a rapid period of production resulting in a finished work in a relatively short period of time. Personally, I gravitate toward the latter, though this site has given me the opportunity to adjust my process, in an effort to produce better and more polished work.
(clearly, I have a long way to go, yet.)
The output of our work is, ultimately, the true test of its value ~ and again, this is a point of major contention among . . . everyone. Generally, nobody can really agree on what art is ~ but that is not to say that we cannot make any claims about it. Typically, for something to be art, it has to have certain characteristics, although no single quality is required to the point where its absence is an immediate disqualifier; the presence of other qualities, in sufficient quantity, can make up for a deficiency in another area.
For instance, if I were to argue that a work is art if the creator put thought into the creation . . . that is to say, when a person makes something, if they simply make it as though they were going through the motions, without expending significant effort to understand the meaning behind the work, then it’s not really art . . . if I were to make this argument, it would be very easy to dismantle. There are plenty of examples of paintings, poems, songs, stories, etc., where the artist didn’t really put too much effort into contemplating the work; they simply . . . made it. For some artists, inspiration is strong enough that they can practically spit out a piece and it is no less a work of art for a lack of contemplation on the part of the artist.
What I’m trying to say is that, although certain things should be present for a work to be considered art, no one thing is so important that its absence disqualifies a work as art.
Further, there is the subjective aspect to any work of art. The Mona Lisa is considered a significant work of art; as is The Last Supper or Starry Night; and there are very good reasons for us to consider these art, yet . . . well, truth is, an individual viewer won’t always give a shit. And maybe we can discount the opinion of a handful, especially if they’re uninformed or unwilling to expend any effort on understanding the work in question. However . . .
Here’s a question: is Pacific Rim a work of art? This critic seems to think it is. Granted, time will tell with these things and I absolutely believe that time is a major factor for classifying works as art (or not). But the fact remains, we can use audience reaction as a litmus test: how a work impacts its audience is significant. Even if Pacific Rim ends up being forgotten ~ or even if other blockbuster movies, like The Matrix or Transformers, fail to impact future generations ~ these films had some impact on their immediate audience, as well as younger audiences, and should be considered important (as works of art) for that reason alone. They are worth studying, examining, understanding for the value and relevance of that impact.
In each of these steps in the artistic process ~ inspiration, creation, result ~ the common thread is the passion of the artist and the audience; the connection that artist and audience feels for the work; the significance of that connection and the impact it has on our lives.
This is the theme I want to illustrate with Arborea’s presentation: it is a realm of passionate, artistic, creative expression.
but a dream . . .
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumb’red here
While these visions did appear
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream.
Gentles, do not reprehend.
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call.
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 5.1.2275–90
There is an . . . odd . . . state of mind, that occurs when we dream. Not every person experiences it ~ I do, quite often, while my wife has never had the pleasure ~ and those who do, do so to varying degrees. I’m referring to lucid dreaming, the condition where a person is aware that they are dreaming.
I find that I can coax this sate of mind ~ this sense of being, as it were ~ under specific conditions. Alcohol helps, particularly if paired with ibuprofen or an allergy med, like diphenhydramine (Benadryl); but so does getting too little or too much sleep, or interrupting my sleep outside of the three-and-a-half hour cycle. I think it has something to do with when the mind enters REM sleep and how long it stays there (as each cycle gets longer and longer during the course of the night).
But as I said, not everyone can reach a state of lucidity while dreaming; and even when it happens, the dreamer doesn’t always have control of their dream, just the awareness that they are, in fact, dreaming. For some, it’s akin to being on auto-pilot: you’re aware of your surroundings, you’re aware of the condition of your being and you (probably) don’t really want to be in this state at this time . . . but there’s nothing you can do about it. A bit of free will has been taken from you. You’re screaming at yourself to do something else, something other than what you’re about to do, to not open that door because you know there’s . . . this . . . THING on the other side, oh please don’t go in there, it’s going to . . . !
That’s not the point; rather, I bring it up to demonstrate one (of many) possible source for inspiration. My personal experience with lucid dreaming is that I can (usually) bring it about by setting up the conditions for my body to slip into that state of being; that I am fully aware of that state; and that I can literally control my entire environment. Okay, to be fair, I can’t make something appear out of nothing, but I have thought to myself, “It’d be neat if I could walk through walls,” and then I’m walking through walls; and various situations to the same effect.
This ability ~ if that’s the proper term for it, to be honest, I’m not sure that it is ~ has contributed enormously to my writing, or at least, to inspiring ideas, helping to create characters and places and (potential) plots and stories that I plan to turn into finished stories. Some, granted, are just neat ideas or feelings, having been lost when I failed to write the details; and some are too similar to existing stories, being more the product of my mind reflecting upon the things that interest me, than anything truly inspirational.
Here’s the thing: where does all of this come from? And more importantly, for our purposes here and in a D&D game . . . what would this sort of thing feel like to our ancestors?
There’s a theory of cognition known as the bicameral mind. It’s a bit of controversial theory ~ being that it’s not supported by any current data or studies on cognition ~ but it’s a fascinating concept: that the mind exists in two states, two separate and distinct functional entities, one that gives instruction and one that acts upon that instruction. I can see the appeal, especially given what we know about the corpus callosum . . . okay, let’s back up a moment and understand this line of reasoning.
The corpus callosum is a portion of the brain that passes information from one hemisphere to the other. It’s possible to sever the two hemispheres, going through the corpus callosum, such that the mind becomes two distinctly separate entities. They both receive information and the both communicate with the body, and they even continue to communicate with each other, but on a level that’s well below consciousness. People who have had their corpus callosum damaged (through an accident, disease, or the like) experience this disconnect in a fascinating way: place a divider along the person’s center, effectively blocking each eye from viewing the opposite side of the body, and you can elicit very different responses to stimuli. Show the left eye a graphic picture and the subject feels disturbed, but can’t explain why (because the left eye communicates to the right hemisphere which doesn’t govern language).
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Dr. Julian Jaynes, who coined the term bicameral mind, postulated that the human mind developed from two separate brains into a single entity and that prior to this evolutionary step, we possessed two minds: one which would give instruction to the body and one which would execute that instruction. I’m repeating this because I want to emphasize the idea of this theory. Dr. Jaynes did not argue that the mind was literally two things but that it was experienced as two things. And there’s a certain appeal to the theory, especially when we consider philosophical writings (through the centuries) that describe thinking, cognition and the mind as though it were two distinct persons.
Inspiration comes from many sources, it’s true, but at least two that I can think of, are found in the discussion above: our daily dreaming and waking moments, where the mind works through its natural processes, taking information and past experiences ~ stored as individual units of data ~ and reworking them, remembering them, recreating the past, experiencing the present, predicting the future and all-in-all, inspiring us with new connections, new thoughts, new feelings, new ideas and so on and so on.
Arborea is the realm of inspiration. Instead of three layers, it’s a single vast ocean, surrounded by islands that grow in size as one gets further from the center; eventually, the islands are large enough to be entire continents and lands in their own right, growing into each other, trapping the ocean between them; and further still, the lands change from fresh, verdant places to harsh, dying things ~ dangerous to visitors but no less passionate for their inevitable decline. The ocean is the Waters of Creation, from which entire worlds are birthed; the islands are fledgling lands, formed by creative beings; the lands beyond are the finished (and shared) works of creatives; and the deserts ~ the dying and dead places ~ are the forgotten and discarded remnants of past creations.
On Arborea, moreso than other planes, the creative energies of the ‘verse coalesce into the waters. This applies to the islands (and the lands beyond), which take on a life of their own; they are the genius loci, the spirit of a place. Most come and go briefly, much as inspiration comes and goes to all mortals; some are nurtured and tended to, given a chance to flourish; and a precious few grow beyond their early days into something grand. On Arborea, these lands are literally alive, ranging in intellect, significance and intensity from the barest inkling of sentience to the most awesome of Powers.
Beyond the land ~ a literal person in its own right ~ the most common inhabitants of this realm are the muses. Greek mythology identifies them as “the inspirational goddesses of literature, science, and the arts.” For our purposes, they aren’t quite at the level of Powers but they are certainly operating as Proxies, equivalent to the highest orders of angels and demons. An encounter with one of these entities is an opportunity to acquire insight into . . . well, anything. If the planewalker secures a conversation with a muse, for at least an hour, he’s allowed to make a level check (roll a d20 to get below the character’s level). Failure carries no penalty; success, however, grants the character a +1 bonus to checks for a single ability score, for a number of days equal to the character’s level. The exact ability affected depends on the nature of the muse (and, at the DM’s discretion, might impact some other attribute, trait or skill, such as a saving throw or sage ability).
signifying nothing . . .
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.MacBeth, 5.5.2375–85
Of course, MacBeth is speaking of the overall tragedy that is the play in his namesake, but as with most of Shakespeare’s work, we can draw a parallel(however tenuous) to one thing or another; for myself, this passage speaks to the process of creation, our second focal point when understanding Arborea.
Specifically, I mean to talk about the destructive side of creation.
No work is created in a vacuum; nor is it hammered out in a three-day alcohol fueled binge. The example that springs to mind is an issue from The Sandman, a comic series by Neil Gaiman, in particular the single issue titled Calliope. In it, a frustrated author secures possession of a muse whom he abuses for the inspiration she grants. The result is a series of successful works, catapulting him into the limelight; but the key scene is that first evening with her: he locks her in a specially prepared room (meaning it’s magically sealed) and rapes her . . . and afterward, he spends several hours furiously writing his next novel. The implication throughout the story is that this process, repeated whenever he wants to write something new, results in a burst of frantic energy and production. His writing “process” ~ i.e. moments of sexual satisfaction (his, not hers) ~ always produces that . . . ejaculation . . . (apologies) . . . of a finished work. The story doesn’t touch on the extra effort that writing requires; there is no second draft, no editing, no proof-reading, no arguments with an audience or a publisher about what should and should not be included . . . in other words, much as I truly adore Gaiman’s work ~ and Calliope is, like all of The Sandman, a wonderful tale ~ it fails to illustrate just how much effort a writer puts into the process.
MacBeth’s lament ~ that “it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” ~ is but a small piece of that process. Because that is the fear that artists face, that their work is truly worth nothing, that they toil in vain, hoping to get across one-tenth of their emotional state to the audience, painfully aware that even that is too much to ask for . . .
And even knowing what we know about human nature, about the highs and lows of our lives, the artist is no better equipped to withstand that inevitable valley (except, perhaps, to weather it in reluctant silence, expecting that it will pass and the future will bring brighter times).
The creative energies of Arborea are a force in-and-of-themselves, not unlike the storms, tides or law of gravity from the Prime Material. Planewalkers visiting this realm experience these metaphysical waves, assaulting their very spirits. While traveling this plane, characters that engage in any vigorous activity ~ which includes everything from cross-country travel to full on violent confrontations ~ is invigorated by the plane’s energies. During this time, the character is immune to any and all hardships. However, this can only last for as many days as the character has levels, after which time the planewalker “crashes,” succumbing to melancholy and ennui. This “recovery” period lasts for as many days (though the player may make a saving throw per day to ignore the effect), during which the character suffers as many hardship levels as one-half of his character level.
mark the music . . .
The reason is your spirits are attentive;
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood -
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze
By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, strategems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.The Merchant of Venice, 5.1.2526–44
I have, in my lifetime, experienced a few things that I am willing to call . . . revolutionary? inspiring? no, what’s the word I want?
In middle school, about the 6th or 7th grade, I heard Les Miserables for the first time. It was a CD copy my parents had picked up ~ probably just something I found lying around the house ~ and I listened to it, I’m sure over the course of a weekend or perhaps a Saturday evening, probably when I had the house to myself and not much else to do. Likely I was playing some video games, it being the early ’90s and my father being an early adopter of computers, so I had easy access to the internet before it was the internet, including file sharing sites; in other words, I had plenty of mindless material to pour over and enough time to devote to it all. Of course, I’m guessing at the specifics of my physical activities because, once Les Mis was in the player, I pretty much forgot whatever else I was doing.
I was, in a word, enamored.
And it sticks with me to this day: no music since has given me pause like that particular work, including every other production by a different company or crew. I listened to it so many times, I can still recall every note, every pause or hesitation, every catch in the performers’ voices . . . fuck, I need to track that down and see if I can get another copy, maybe my family has that CD somewhere, still . . .
A few years later I had the pleasure of seeing a production of Martin Guerre while on a school field trip. The entire thing was abysmal . . . the trip, that is. I wasn’t friends with any of my classmates. The place we stopped for dinner ~ this “authentic” French diner ~ was rather pathetic with their offering. And the play started a full hour-and-a-half late, since the lead came down with something nasty and his understudy had to step in.
But it was entirely worth the trouble. It didn’t have quite the same resonance as Les Mis but it was truly enjoyable, nonetheless.
There have been a handful of times since where I’ve come across a piece of music that has given me pause. One of the more recent was this song:
This is particularly special because I found it around about November or December of 2016, just a few months after it as posted to YouTube, and I immediately thought of my father. He was a big fan of bluegrass and this type of band was right up his alley. Unfortunately, for a variety of reasons, I never reached out to him . . . unfortunate because he passed away just a few months later.
And now that I think about it . . . I suppose Martin Guerre held some significance as well. It was my senior year of high school, a time of massive change for, again, a variety of reasons, not the least of which was a major fallout with several close friends.
Les Miserables? I was much younger but I was also in a period of significant transition, living in a foreign country and struggling to find my place in that culture.
To be honest, I’m probably grasping as straws to find a connection here . . . but I feel there is a point to be made: the impact of a work of art is difficult to measure, to be certain, but that doesn’t make it any less significant for the people who experience it. I could do the same for practically any piece that has shaped me. Books ~ The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, Jurassic Park, The Sandman, The Kingkiller Chronicle, Paradise Lost . . . hell, just looking at my library is enough to conjure up two dozen works or more. Movies ~ The Matrix, American Beauty, Fight Club, Batman Begins, Pan’s Labyrinth, etc. TV series would definitely include Farscape and Neon Genesis Evangelion. Music is all over the board, as well; I like all artists of all genres, so long as their work is actually good (fully acknowledging that “good” in this sense is as much subjective as it is objective).
Consider, for a moment, this method for quantifying exposure to an artistic work. To summarize, Alexis proposes a system by which a bard (the clearest option for the artistic player character) can create a work of art that will impact the audience in a not-insignificant way. This system would involve a series of rolls that represent progress toward a goal with (ideally) decision points along the way. For example, the bard might come to a tough bit in their work, having rolled not as well as desired, and would be faced with a choice: continue the current course, risking the entire project (with the time and resources that involves); or abandoning the task, taking some time to clear one’s head, and start all over (with the understanding that, while there’s some loss, the chances for success during the second pass would be slightly higher). The end goal is one of two paths: the first grants a set amount of experience to those who experience the work (based on the factors of the bard’s and the audience’s level, figured in relation to each other); the second grants a bonus to future earned experience. The former represents the audience learning something meaningful and profound; the latter represents the audience expanding their minds with regard to the world, thus earning more experience if their circumstances allow for it. Each option is better suited to a specific type of artist and a specific type of art (and, generally speaking, results in art being classified into two very broad categories).
All that said, please understand that this system is still in progress and I’ve likely butchered the specifics involved ~ I’m working mostly from memory ~ but I think the underlying principles are sound: as we share our art with each other, we learn. We learn from stories we tell; songs we sing; paintings we draw.
The problem with RPGs, with regard to this particular topic ~ i.e. how do we award experience for non-combat related activities? ~ is that the solutions we find are often too simplistic or missing a key element. For instance, do a search through any D&D forum, looking for advice to this effect, and you’ll find suggestions like, “Award experience for exploring new places in your world,” or, “Use milestones or story awards,” and things of that nature. Whenever we ask, “How much is an appropriate amount?” we get answers like, “Base it on the characters’ levels,” or, “Use your best judgment.” In other words, the people offering the advice don’t know the answers to any of our questions because they haven’t spent time on the problem beyond initial inspiration; they haven’t gone through the creative process; and they certainly have no clue what the actual impact will be, should we listen to their advice and adopt their ill-conceived ideas.
This system, however, is grounded in an understanding of the human experience ~ as evidenced by simple reflection. I can think of a half-dozen YouTube critics off the top of my head who are consistent enough with their work that, while it’s not quite appropriate to think of their videos as art in-and-of-themselves, it’s possible to argue that they inspire and educate their audience as much as the art they’re commenting on.
It might be difficult to measure the full impact that art has on its audience, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try.
When visiting Arborea, every new situation has a chance of affecting the planeswalker. Since it should be assumed that the players will be traveling often ~ frequenting new places, meeting new entities and pursuing new objectives ~ we can simplify this process to a single die roll. Each day spent on the plane requires a level check. Success indicates that the character has been touched by his experiences; when he leaves the plane, he receives an additional 1% bonus to all earned experience (which lasts for one day per character level). For each successful check while on the plane, subsequent checks apply a -1 cumulative penalty (representing a threshold for new experiences, a sort of overload effect); these reset once the character leaves the plane and the experience bonus subsides.
Conclusion
My consternation with this realm has always been the disconnect between the intent of the text and the practical applications. It was lacking a mechanical aspect that tied back to the plane’s philosophy. I hope, by exploring the artistic process, that I’ve managed to satisfy that connection and to provide the reader with the inspiration necessary to make something amazing of your game.
Originally published at Crossing the ‘Verse.
