The Bottomless City, the Eternal Colony, the Red Jewel, and a dozen other appellations apply to the city of Cach. The original census records and founding charter were lost long ago when the city was sacked, but legend has it Cach was the result of five separate settlements colonized by ancient civilizations beyond the Great Sea. All five were wracked by famine, plague, hostile natives, and ravenous monsters until only a few dozen survivors remained. They banded together atop Burkant Hill, where they erected a sturdy rampart, drove a well deep into the earth, and clung together for dear life. Half of them died during the first five years, but nearly twelve hundred years later their desperate fort has grown into a mighty citadel overlooking a vast, dense city with sturdy walls, fearsome armies, and a bustling port.

The city states of Bektemir, Hamza, Mirobod, and Sergeli were all originally outposts of Cach that have since won for themselves political independence. The nobles of Cach have a long history of infighting, and many of its Lord Mayors have spent their entire reigns focusing their attention inward. This leaves its satellite cities to their own devices. While now fiercely independent, these smaller states look to Cach as an economic and cultural center, and each maintains active embassies here.

Cach is situated around a hill overlooking Olmazar bay. An artificial harbor and series of lighthouses provide shelter for a fishing fleet and trade ships carrying exotic goods and passengers from far-flung lands. Canals cut across the delta plain of the Green River and through massive locks that double as the Northwest gates in the city walls. The inland hills are extensively terraced and irrigated by massive screw-pumps. The Cachic justice system and armies provide a steady supply of laborers for the great locks and pumps. Hundreds of craftsmen and professionals ply their trade inside the city walls, operating mostly from small shops; there are no large-scale manufactories.

The national defenses consist of a fleet of mothballed war galleys and the Mayor’s Guard. Individual noble houses maintain their own cadres of soldiers. Technically only the Mayor’s Guard are allowed to bear military arms in public places, but entire neighborhoods fall within the property boundaries of some houses, and are heavily patrolled by private armies. There are currently two mercenary companies under contract with the Lord Mayor. A special dispensation exempts members of these companies from the city’s arcane and sometimes draconian sumptuary laws. The Lord Mayor is elected to a twelve year term by a congregation of representatives of the founding families. It is widely believed that the bona fides of many of these electors are the result of fabrications and that nearly all of their loyalties are bought and paid for by a deep and broad network of special favors, blackmail, and bald-faced cronyism. It is considered extremely uncouth for an elector to ever stop backing a Lord Mayor he has previously voted for; the elections are nearly always a formality, the results known long in advance.

The city-state Abadan lies roughly one hundred thirty miles north by northeast along the coast, connected by caravan roads and sea lanes. The nation of Konjikala is a hundred miles south, separated by the Leviathan Channel. Sea trade between these three is frequent, and each has been known to raise massive navies for use against each other. Konjikala recently lost a war against Abadan and is burdened with reparations and tribute. Their official delegation to Cach goes to great lengths to conceal how thin their budget has stretched.

For use in a Dungeons & Dragons setting with a very low incidence of full-caster character classes. Each of the deities listed here grants any domain listed in the Players Handbook or Dungeon Master’s Guide and may have followers of any alignment.

Many temples and shrines have been built and scrupulously maintained or left as crumbling ruins over the ages. The gods of Man are commonly understood to be tremendously powerful and personal entities that take a direct interest in the lives of mortals, bringing calamity, prosperity, joy, and sorrow in varying measure. Unlike the Fiends and Fey Lords, their influence on grand-scale world events is subtle or nonexistent depending on who you ask. The gods act directly and personally, rarely affecting more than an immediate family with their interventions. They make no binding contracts with their followers, accepting or ignoring their petitions as suits their own inscrutable desires.

They walk the earth, unnoticed by most, listening to or ignoring the appeals of their faithful, accepting offerings, granting boons, and dispensing punishments themselves. Their motivations are obscure and unique to themselves. The clergy are not miracle-workers, but shrine-tenders, teachers, bureaucrats, and intellectuals. They have no more direct access to the gods than the laity, but have developed various means of reading the signs and portents the gods are known to leave for them so they may better guide the faith and appease their divine patrons.

Akunbek, a very old god thought to have been a warrior long ago. When the world was young he killed the goddess of storms and the god of steel, taking their secrets and their power for himself. Now doddering in his old age, Akunbek no longer answers prayers for rain or calm seas, imparts no secrets to craftsmen, and is known as the god of rust. Common prayers to him are uttered when using metal tools, embarking on a sea voyage, sowing crops, or preparing for battle. Those that can see him describe a withered, gray-haired man with a whispy beard, tired eyes, and threadbare noble regalia. It is thought that he rarely strays from his holy places, and it is typical to see a small shrine dedicated to Akunbek in seaports and near armories.

Karluk, a clever young man thought to be the most knowledgeable of the gods. There is some difference of opinion regarding his backgound. Some tales report him as the son of Mahatbek and Akunbek, others place him as the child of Sanira. It was Karluk that taught the Elves and Dwarves how to speak and invented written language. Through his gifts, useful information and gossip can spread like wildfire among mortals. Many stories of Karluk paint him as the god of fear. His faithful seek answers from him, but when he obliges they often come to regret it. He is revered by scholars, respected by the clergy generally, and his favors are often sought out by the desperate. Reports of his appearance are conflicting, with most divinely-inspired Clerics who have laid eyes on him declining to describe him. Some say his is a slight, frail man with shifty eyes and ink-stained fingers. Others report him to be a hulking brute of a man with a heavy beard calloused knuckles. It is common practice to inscribe a prayer to Karluk inside the binding of every book, making any collection of written works a shrine of sorts to him. A notable exception to this practice is the spellbooks of Eldritch Knights, Warlocks, and Wizards, who fear a prayer in such a book may provoke Karluk’s wrath.

Mahatbek, a wise old woman thought to be responsible for plants and fungus of medicinal value. Also the goddess most closely associated with pestilence. Myths involving Mahatbek tend to center around barbers, witch-doctors, and midwives suffering from hubris and bringing disaster to those under their care. She is thought to punish the proud with illness. Those that have seen her report she appears as an inscrutable middle-aged woman in simple attire. Prayers to her are uttered when preparing food for winter storage, when a ship arrives from a foreign port, and when doing business with courtesans. She is thought to travel widely from place to place, and her shrines are typically found in the homes of people that are frequently in contact with the ill.

Rostem is thought to be this age’s thriving and vital warrior god. In recent times it has become increasingly clear to the clergy that he may never have been a god of strength and martial valor as originally thought, but rather a spirit of deception and lies. He is portrayed as dashing, athletic, and valiant, eager to rush headlong into battle for a worthy cause. Those that have seen him in recent years believe this image is actually Rostem’s shadow, reshaped to distract and confuse those around him. Rostem negotiates in bad faith and manipulates his followers and fellow gods continuously. Prayers are frequently offered to him in times or crisis or to bolster bravery. Increasingly the laity is accepting the notion that their warrior champion god is a liar, and many gamblers invoke him before picking up dice or cards.

Sanira is the every-woman of the gods. Stories about her are nearly always parables of gender role expectations, with various other gods taking on the male role but Sanira always at the middle weathering abuse and doling out justice to suit the needs of the storyteller. Many of the popular tales are likely falsehoods, but she remains a cultural cornerstone. She is often thought of as the grieving mother, as any story about a fallen god places her in this role. Of all the gods she is the mostly frequently depicted in artwork, generally shown as a grey-haired matron with sad eyes and a kind smile. Prayers to Sanira are frequent, and offered to comfort her as often as to seek her help. Of all the gods, her mortal champions are the most likely to perish early in the execution of their duties. Her Clerics, when they arise, are mourned even as they live.

There are various other gods that appear in the folklore of the world, but these are the five most commonly venerated and the most likely to interfere with or assist mortals, and the only five thought to grant divine spellcasting. Several of the less notable gods are actually dead, victims of squabbles among themselves or even the machinations of the Archfiends or Fey. As a whole they are a fractious lot, and prominent servants of one god will often run afoul of the others.

Note that in this setting the magic used by Druids, Paladins, and Ranger are all of fiendish or fey origin. Bards, Clerics, Druids, Sorcerers, and Wizards are exceedingly uncommon, with perhaps a dozen of each alive at any given time.

Back in the 1980’s I swindled my mom into fronting the money for a series of strange purchases, including a funky red, blue, and green cardboard boxes filled with odd little saddle-stitched books, bizarre dice, and all manner of crazy ideas. In the back of one of these books was a sheet of paper covered with a blank hexagonal graph paper and guidelines for building your own fantastical world. I hadn’t been exposed to Greyhawk or Lankhmar or the Forgotten Realms yet; this was simply how you went about making a world for your evil sorcerers and hobgoblin armies and chromatic dragons to threaten. For other kids to explore. For adventurers to save.

It suggested you start in the middle of the page with the location of your first adventure and its nearest village or city. Fill in the immediate area with some terrain, and expand outward as needed. Sprinkle in some rivers and oceans and mountain ranges, and plant some points of interest as the locations of future adventures and quests and plots and schemes. You’re off to the races.

As I grew up a good portion of how a D&D game unfolded evolved, refined, and perhaps corrupted. Random encounters were ridiculous, as they don’t contribute to the elaborate story the Dungeon Master and players were weaving together. Wandering monster tables were immersion-breaking and had no place in a serious game. Adventure locations should make internal sense. If the original inhabitants didn’t have the resources or motivation to put a giant boulder trap in a hallway, it doesn’t belong there. Giant carnivorous monsters shouldn’t dwell where there are no prey. Monsters and villains should be carefully crafted to ensure the player characters have a solid chance of defeating them in a fight. The plausibility of fantastic treasures must not be compromised by random generation tables.

When I type all that out it becomes clear how hampered the role of Dungeon Master had become. How pampered and stifled the players. No clever 3rd level Fighter was going to accidentally find a +2 Flaming Ranseur. No 10th level party was going to have to run for their lives from an angry dracolich whose lair they accidentally camped in en route to another location, leaving one of their own behind for dead. I’m not sure where the desire to not have a slapstick Monty Hall campaign turned a game of swords and sorcery into Serious Business, but it did. Randomness in a roleplaying game isn’t just a tool for spicing up a success/failure mechanism. It is also an opportunity to force improvisation.

Time to dial it back a bit. Brew up a map with Hexographer. Brew up a few villainous NPCs with bad intentions and some random encounter tables and see what happens. I’m not going full-on OSR, just treating the release of 5th edition Dungeons & Dragons as an opportunity for a clean break and a fresh start.