The October Country: The Cargo Cult

Those residents of the October Country who originally hail from Earth know of the cargo cults that arose in South Pacific following the Second World War. However, those born in the Autumnal Lands are aware of another quasi-religious phenomenon that shares the same name.

Signs of the cult are not common, but do pervade almost every known trade route and method throughout the October Country. On rattling railcars bound for the Lightning Lands, on moss-covered boats plying the Snakewater Swamp, and on the beasts of burden driven by the nuleskinners of the Brackish, the signs are there: parcels, crates, and barrels chipped with travel and bearing any number of near-illegible labels and mystic symbols. Always treated with care, these containers move from town to town, never finding a final address at anyplace they go.

The origin of the cult is uncertain, but scholars have pieced together some background. In his work Transient Religions Under the Frost Moon, Professor Caspar Gellkillerson records the most commonly told tales regarding the cargo cult and is considered the primary reference source for all theologians interested in the study of this religion.

According to Gellkillerson, the cargo cult began when a large packing crate bearing certain High Magic sigils of protection was laden onto a wagon bound for the City of Candles. When the wagon arrived in the city, it was learned that the addressee had died, leaving no next of kin to receive it. The caravan master, as is custom, could claim the crate and all it contained as his own if no legal claimant was found. After a week passed with no such challenger appearing, the caravan master paid a magician to inspect the symbols prior to opening the crate. Upon seeing the glyphs, the magician backed away in fear and warned the caravan master that powerful protective charms were in place, ones that spelled doom for whoever dared to open the box if they were not “of the selected brood.”

The caravan master tried unsuccessfully to pass the crate onto other unsuspecting parties, but they always became aware of the warnings protecting the crate and refused to take it off of his hands. Finally, in desperation, the caravan master had it shipped back to its town of origin, thus beginning a process that continues to this day.

The crate arrived back from whence it came, but the original shipper could not be found. The poor depot clerk who accepted the crate soon found himself in the same situation as the caravan master. It took him two weeks, but he eventually smuggled the crate onto a riverboat headed north and dusted his palms of the problem. In each new place the crate arrived, the process was repeated and the box, now showing signs of wear and tear, and covered with faded shipping labels, continues its endless journey looking for someone “of the selected brood” to take possession of it once and for all.

In time, other containers joined the original crate under similar situations. Some are no doubt “copy cat” shipments sent by pranksters who heard the tale of the crate and mocked up their own with fake sigils and blatantly erroneous addressees, but others bear the same fearful warnings etched upon their wooden exteriors. More telling that these containers were of legitimate origin was the effects produced when two or more crates found themselves in close proximity in a warehouse, riverboat, or railcar.

When multiple containers come near one another, unnatural events occur. Spontaneous growths of vegetation, chilling fog banks, whispered songs sung in unidentifiable tongues, and other happenings have been reported. These so-called miracles were what created the first of the Cargo Cultists—men and women who reported seeing visions, receiving supernatural healing, and other mystical revelations when near the containers. These cultists continue their strange religion, often acting as unofficial (and often unwanted) guardians of these containers as they make their endless journeys. When several containers appear at the same location (always by happenstance for the Cultist never act to guide the boxes on their travels or determine where or when they will arrive), tent revivals spring up to attract the few but fervent believers the Cult has. There, the devoted witness miracles and testify about the coming of the One the Crates are Destined For.

The Cargo Cult is tolerated, mostly because they keep to themselves, pay the costs of keeping the crates moving, and are not a violent or proselytizing sect. They’re nevertheless considered one of the weirder religions in the Autumnal Lands and associating with it adherents (or worse, joining them) is a sure way to damage one’s prestige.

Stonehell Deities, Religions, and other Strangeness

One of the members of the Stonehell Dungeon Facebook group asked for a list of all the deities, religions, cults, and other such powers found in the upper levels of the dungeon. Never let if be said that membership doesn't have its benefits, as he and other Stonehell fans got a free, no-frills PDF of all those entities.

Since I'm a mostly swell guy, those of you who are not members now have access to the same PDF. Click here to download it. It's nothing fancy, but if you want a little more info on the gods of Stonehell (including a little behind the scenes trivia), it'll do you good.

The Priests of Guraul

The cult of Guraul has only recently made inroads to the civilized lands along the border of the Kinan-M’Nath. In recent years, the arrival of one of the Great Bear’s nomadic bands to the thorpes and homesteads that dot the frontier have grown more common, and crofters have become used to the colorful wagon in which these adherents travel. For these isolated homesteads, the Bear Priests are often the only form of semi-organized religion seen all year, and the minor miracles and blessings the priests perform are warmly welcomed.

The worship of Guraul arose less than three decades ago when the totemic beliefs of the western barbarian tribes met with the more civilized tenets of Warden Rangers, resulting in a totem-based religion adorned in highly-formalized ritual and mystery-work. Elevated to the ranks of minor godhood, Guraul the Bear Totem is now venerated as a deity of healing, wisdom, and protection. His worshippers and priests are predominately human, although a handful of demihumans have been adopted into Guraul’s ranks as well.

As would fit their wild origins, the priests of Guraul are hirsute individuals, and neither the men nor women who pay homage to Guraul trim their hair. They dress in simple homespun robes and protect themselves with cudgels and staves. Despite their gruff-looking demeanor, the followers of the Great Bear are both friendly and goodly-aligned, and they will lend aid to itinerant adventurers encountered on the road provided that the party doesn’t seem bent on evil deeds. Donations for such services are encouraged of course, and a few gifted coins are usually rewarded with snippets of rumor or gossip as well as clerical aid. Those unable or unwilling to donate are given a simple nod and a wish that “The Great Bear watches over you.”

The priests travel in covered wagons adorned with yellow-green banners and wind chimes, both of which herald the arrival of the priests to a new locale. They typically bivouac in or near one of the many small homesteads or settlements along the frontier, and spend between 2-8 days before moving on. When encountered on the road, the priests offer to host travelers for the evening in return for some minor form of entertainment such as song, music, dance, or ballads. Those in true dire straits are hosted gladly and without the need for recompense. A typical band of Bear Priests is composed of an 8th-level cleric, 3 5th-level clerics, 10 clerics of 1st-3rd level, 15 laymen, and 2 others of various backgrounds (typically ranger, fighter, elf, halfling, or thief). Each band has 5-7 wagons.