World's Largest Rewrite: Noble Neanderthals, Grimy Goblins, Execrable Elves

#80: Neanderthal (Caveman). Here we find more of the lost world vibe that is pretty strong in early D&D, but mostly gone from the modern game. The neanderthals are a bit more interesting than some of the other bestiary entries that can be boiled down to “Normal Human with slightly different equipment, group composition, and treasure.”

• Friendly with dwarves and gnomes. Turn that mancave into a demihumancave. 
• Lawful. Thog part of community. Thog honor social contract.
• Two 6HD leaders (one male, one female) live in the neanderthal lair. They are 10’ tall and of "a related but distinct race." I presume this comes from pulp fiction like Robert E. Howard’s stories and Shaver Mystery stuff; tales of speculative anthropology, crypto-history, devolution, and civilizational decline, suggesting that primitive humans might live under the sway of an older and more powerful species.
• Attack ogres on sight. Hate goblins and kobolds. They learned it from watching the dwarves?
• Sometimes keep white apes as pets. Who saved who?

Within our prison dungeon milieu, the neanderthals obviously make sense as members of the lost world “section” of the prison. But their alliance with dwarves and gnomes gives us another hook to work with. Let’s say that as the dwarves and their gnomish allies began to lose control of the prison, they thawed out the neanderthals and deputized them as prison security guards. The neanderthals and the dwarves are now separated by dangerous parts of the dungeon, with the dwarves toward the "south" and the neanderthals in the "north," where the lost world stuff is. 

#108: Shrieker. Of course prison builders in a D&D world would use shriekers as “alarms” to detect escapees. It is interesting that OSE shriekers can move, but very slowly. Shriekers in 5E are stationary (lazy). We can presume the shriekers have drifted somewhat from their original “stations.”

The Overhaul doesn’t have a shrieker entry, but we can revert back to the richly populated myconid entry we used for the Mother Fungus. On the hallucinogenic mushroom effects table, we get “Walls move and churn. Navigation difficult.” It would make sense that in addition to screaming, the shriekers would emit spores that would befuddle would-be escapees. This can also help explain why some prisoners haven’t yet escaped the prison; they're watching the walls melt.

#47: Goblin. The one detail from OSE that surprised me is that the king and bodyguards don’t suffer the sunlight penalty that affects ordinary goblins. Otherwise, these are your bog-standard gobbos. The Overhaul gives us five (!) pages on goblins, making them one of the most richly detailed monsters in the entire book. The Overhaul takes some liberties with the stat block, giving them 0 (!) HD (2 HP) and a morale of 4 (!), presumably to differentiate them more from other humanoid-style creatures that 1st-level PCs might encounter. Rolling on a few of the tables gives us some details:

• Special ability: Gravelmouth. Can digest anything.
• What are they doing: Malicious destruction.
• Leader: Bluck-ing Ding Tark. Necklace of teeth.
• Elite weapon: Boiling oil cauldron.
• Superweapon: Doomwand.
• Mounts: Larval worm. Hmm… maybe they’ve tamed some Caecilia?
• Loot: Turnips.
• Bullying target: Kobolds.
• Where goblins come from: “If you use a turnip as a ‘marital aid’ and plant it in a dunghill it grows into a Goblin." Skerples, why…
• Fear and response: Music; paralyzed
• Leadership method: Elective democracy

An embarrassment of riches. Democracy makes them our most commendable prisoners, although I don't like what they have been doing with it. Never eating a turnip again.

#77: Minotaur. The OSE minotaur is pretty basic. Dwells in mazes, charges like a bull. The Overhaul can beef it up (I’m sorry). 

• Why must this minotaur die? Technically the heir to the dying ruler’s throne. 
• Name: Harnthgar
• Feature: One blind eye
• Weapon: The Big Club

So our minotaur is a VIP (very important prisoner) who was put here because he is the heir to a powerful kingdom. Too important to kill, to dangerous/embarrassing to keep at court. One of god's own prototypes. Now there's some kind of succession crisis and the kingdom needs him, but there’s no easy way to retrieve him, due to the prison’s decline. Perhaps one or more of the organized factions on the outside, trying to get in, are seeking the minotaur?

#38: Elf. Elves don’t have a dedicated Overhaul entry, but we can once again use the Adventurer section to develop ideas. The tables there are intended for rival NPC adventuring parties, but mostly work just as well for a faction. These elves have…

• Vice: Distressing greed
• Goal: Bloodshed
• Why are they here: Found a map
• Subtype: High elves
• Leader: Vaeleth Duskstrider; unwrinkled, charming face; soldier; lifedrinking longsword
• From: Kethampton 

Oh, wonderful, I already hate these guys. Bloodthirsty, greedy elves in search of treasure. They are probably very well-mannered and good at putting up appearances, but are really just sadistically cruel shitheads.

#130: Water Termite. Ah, yes, the classic D&D monsters. Goblin, minotaur, elf… water termite. Again I am charmed by some of the OSE oddities that don’t appear in modern editions.

Like the beetles and rats, the mechanics of the water termite imply An Entire Situation. They are pests that consume wood, including the undersides of ships and boats, with a built-in chance of someone noticing their presence. They might have been drawn to the dungeon as the sea seeped into the lower levels, coming into contact with wood... delicious wood. They are probably also living inside the sperm whale’s stomach, feeding on the crashed ships therein. 

#76: Merman. Nothing surprising here. Let's go to the Overhaul.

• Leader: Tenchal 
• Feature: Sensory barbel-whiskers
• Lower half: Eel
• Trades/treasures: Untraceable poison
• Want: Return of a kidnapped merfolk

Once again the Overhaul’s random tables provide a connection that would not have otherwise occurred  to us. The merfolk are willing to trade an “untraceable poison,” probably derived from some deep-sea creature. Sounds like just the sort of thing our dwarven leader would have used, right? They’ve traded that poison for the freedom of a merfolk leader (Tenchal) trapped in the prison. The dwarves have to return this prisoner now, but that process is probably complicated by the distressed state of the prison. The merfolk are getting impatient…

#28: Djinni (Lesser). Like the sea serpent before it, we have a lesser creature with no greater equivalent. Maybe this is some inherited B/X design, where the “greater” creature is assumed to be something lower-powered PCs would never encounter.

Regardless, amid other, flashier powers, the djinni has two powers that are particularly interesting to our prison builders. They can use each of these three times per day.

• Illusion: Visual and audial. No concentration required. Remains until touched or dispelled.
• Conjure soft goods / wooden objects: Up to 1,000 coins weight. Permanent.

So a djinni is summoned and bound to serve the wardens. They have it spend its daily uses conjuring wooden objects – all the non-stone components of the dungeon, like the doors. This compliments the cockatrice/basilisk/medusa/gorgon system of stoneworking. The djinni uses their illusion powers to create illusions that will complicate escape from the prison. Many of these illusions have been dispelled overtime by touch, but some remain. Whether through accident or betrayal, the djinni, like the medusa, is now trapped in the prison it helped build.

#58: Hippogriff. The most interesting thing about the hippogriff is that they hate pegasi and will attack them on sight; I guess because the pegasi are competing for similar “flying amalgamation from mythology” category that the hippogriffs live in. We haven’t even reached the griffons yet.

Pegasi make sense as mounts for Team Lawful, so we’ll assume these hippogriffs are mounts for the twisted elves we just met. The elves are able to enter the dungeon from a non-obvious angle because they have flying mounts.

#50: Grey Ooze. These are the rock-camouflaged, armor-dissolving oozes. While I didn’t want all of our slimes to be associated with our black dragon, the grey ooze is the one that fits the best with their acid vibe. The black dragon can loogie these out and send them roaming places where it cannot go, but they're too dumb to do complex tasks, which might mean the dragon would be willing to parley with adventurers. 

World's Largest Rewrite: Rats are Terrifying, I Want to Leave This Dungeon Right Now

 #25: Crocodile. We got giant crocs, we got large crocs, we got normal crocs. In contrast to OSE sharks and 5E crocodiles, there is no unique mechanic, like a bite-and-grapple; they just get bigger and bite harder. We’ll go with the giant crocodile, as it has a bit of lore – “usually encountered in Lost World regions” – that fits with our idea that the prison has a zoo of ancient pseudo-extinct beasties.

#95: Rat. Rats are typically either a tutorial challenge for newbie adventurers, or little more than set dressing. I like that OSE treats rats rather seriously. They have five (!) special characteristics, making them much more mechanically distinct than a lot of OSE’s other animal monsters. 

• Afraid of fire. Will flee unless “forced to fight by summoner.” Their fear of fire means they are a puzzle monster; like the beetle swarm that invites the PCs to escape by diving into water, the rat swarm has built-in counterplay. We’ll decide later if these rats are compelled by a rodent-summoner, or just out there swarming on their own volition.
• Disease. There’s a 1-in-20 chance of disease, which allows a save, and the disease has a 1-in-4 chance to be deadly over 1d6 days. Given that the disease has no immediate effect, I would probably keep a rat bite tally during any encounter with rats, and sum the infection odds to a single roll after the encounter is over. The disease system here is pretty forgiving, but obviously scales in danger with the number of rats encountered…
• Pack. The equivalent of swarm rules from modern D&D. It does not specifically state how the pack feature interacts with the disease odds; I would rule that swarms have a 5-in-20 chance of inflicting disease, versus a sole rat’s 1-in-20.
• Attacking in water. Excellent swimmers, no penalty. Swarms of disease-ridden rats chomping away at a swimming adventurer is scary enough on its own, without even considering…
• Engulf. The PC saves versus death or falls prone, unable to attack until they can stand again. This is pretty scary in a land encounter. In the water… well, when your PC sinks beneath the surface, covered in ravenous, diseased rodents, no one is going to mistake that for a training wheels encounter. 

#101: Rust Monster. Another classic creature that is brutal in its old-school presentation. Magical items only have a 10% chance per “plus” to resist the effect (the entry does not say if metallic magical items without pluses even get this chance). Oof.

I like the rust monster as an invasive species, possibly drawn by the abundance of unprotected metal in the prison. Like the cellipedes, they are a kind of dungeon vermin that specifically plagues prison wardens. As much as adventurers hate rust monsters, prisoners love them, as they can quickly destroy metal cell bars, incidentally freeing the incarcerated.

So the rust monsters are hated and hunted by the guardian monsters, but beloved by the prisoners. Escaped prisoners are trying to capture and herd the creatures toward their allies, using the rusties to jailbreak those who could aid them in a more general escape from the structure.

#117: Thoul. We planned for this. Our thouls are bodyguards to the hobgoblin king! They were mutated with trollish blood, which caused runaway cellular replication; the ghoulish infection counterbalanced that explosion of life, and now these creatures live a tenuous existence, their trollish blood and their necrotic flesh caught in a delicate balance. 

#131: Weasel, Giant. Like the giant shrews before them, the giant weasels provide a surprising degree of mechanical crunch. They are tunnel dwellers who are good at tracking (favoring wounded prey) and have infravision. They attach to targets and suck blood (!), and treasure is found on the bodies of their victims, in their lair. This encounter writes itself. 

The giant weasels are invasive to the prison complex. They have burrowed down into the ground surrounding the prison, and created tunnels between otherwise unconnected areas. They show up 1-4 turns after a PC is injured, stalking the group, waiting until the PCs are in darkness, separated, or otherwise vulnerable. They then emerge from the nearest tunnel, attempting to grab a victim and drag them back toward their warren. If they succeed in pulling someone back into a tunnel, they move backwards, so that their victim’s body blocks pursuers’ line of sight. The weasel can continue to drain blood as they drag their victim to their doom. That’s a pretty intense encounter, for a superficially unimpressive creature.

But those tunnels also provide an opportunity to the PCs. Like our mother fungus, apes, and gargoyles, the weasel is not just a combat threat, but also a creature that creates an overlay on the dungeon, another network of connections that intersect and defy the built structure itself.

#55: Hawk. Not much to see here. We have normal hawk and giant hawk; they can swoop attack, and they are trainable. That’s it for OSE. The Monster Overhaul index directs us to another entry with a “why are they attacking” table, where we find “judgement-altering disease.” 

I’m going to combine that with OSE’s note that they can be trained, and use this as another opportunity to tell the story of the prison’s decline. The hawks were once kept by the prison wardens, perhaps used to track prisoners who escaped the walls and fled into the wilderness. They are now feral and have contracted some kind of illness that compels them to harry anyone who approaches the prison exterior, regardless of purpose. The brigands camped outside the prison have figured out some kind of combination of smells and colors that repel them, and have festooned their camp in associated materials (it makes them look ridiculous). 

#86: Octopus, Giant. We’re running into some overlaps as we get deeper into the OSE bestiary. The giant octopus lives in the same mechanical space as the lesser sea serpent, and we haven’t even gotten to OSE’s giant squid. The Overhaul’s index refers both to the kraken entry. Rolling there are on the variant table we get chameleonic; pulsing chromatophores. I’m reminded most strongly of the intelligent octopi in the science fiction novel Children of Ruin, who use colors to communicate in a way that the humans in the story don't understand at first. Making our giant octopi intelligent rather than yet another big sea beast could carve out some interesting space. Deeply curious creatures, they’ve been to drawn to explore the dungeon. 

#122: Triceratops. The OSE triceratops is an aggressive herbivore that charges on sight, presumptively behaving like a territorial bull. The Overhaul refers us to the same “herd lizard” category that we used for stegosaurus. Lets do something different and say that our knight Sir Guy Truthspeaker has captured a young triceratops and is using it as a mount. The other triceratops are agitated by the missing member of their herd.

#46: Gnome. The best bit in the OSE entry is “May make foolish decisions to obtain precious items.” They get along well with the dungeon's dwarves, so they fit neatly with an already-established faction. Like any good faction, some of these gnomes are on board with this whole “strip the magical prison of valuables” approach, while others recognize that this is a bad idea. The Overhaul gives us some unexpected material to work with, directing gnome-seekers to the elemental spirit category, where they are the earth/stone equivalents of nereids, sylphs, and salamanders. Rolling on the “local reputation” table, we get “the honored dead, reborn.” So the dwarves have summoned gnomes that they believe (rightly or wrongly) are reincarnated ancestors. That certainly adds an edge to the dwarves' betrayal.

#103: Scorpion, Giant. A good straightforward monster. Most OSE animals, even giant ones, are neutral, a pattern that holds true in modern D&D as well. But the giant scorpion is chaotic. I’m not sure why. It’s not because of the poison (the giant spider is also neutral). The chaotic alignment pushes me toward the idea that the scorpion was a prisoner (or specimen) in the dungeon, rather than an incidental invader. 

Fantasy Language Review: Infernal Institutions, Primordial Dialects, Sylvan Secrets, and Solving the Origins of Undercommon

 A year and a half later, we finally finish this series of posts! 

Previously:

• Fantasy Language Review: Demons, Devas, Dragons, Derp Speech
• Fantasy Language Review: Building, Stealing, Adopting, and Conquering Words
• Fantasy Language Review: Delver Cant, Tremorspeak, Lyrical Language, and Shouting at the Smallfolk
• Mapping the Fantasy Languages – How and Why

Infernal 

Variations: Tyrannous taxonomy. Devils are obsessed with domination. But it is a relative, not absolute, power structure. Each devil spends their time obsessing over the creatures they can control… while also obsessing over the creatures that can control them Infernal is consequently a language dominated by social deixis. Speaking in infernal is a process of constantly reinforcing and emphasizing these terms; words of submission and supplication when addressing a more powerful creature; a completely different set of words of coercion and control when addressing a less powerful one.

An alternative approach: Burning words. Infernal is so infused with devilish energy that the very words they speak burn the tongue. For a tiefling, infernal fluency and fire resistance are complementary features. A creature from a cold-weather environment, or the elemental plane of water, might require protective mouth-gear or equivalent magic simply to speak such a language without harming themself.

Get weirder: Legalese. The Switchwander Courts in the Third Circle of Hell endlessly litigate anything and everything in existence. Whether language or legal procedure came first is a real chicken-or-egg type of question. Speaking Infernal anywhere in the Third Circle can create a binding magical contract, similar in effect to a Geas, with the severity and intensity of said contract proportional to the disparity in power between the speaker and the listener(s).

Primordial 

Variations: Forged from the four elements. It’s Dwarvish script again you guys! If someone is speaking Primordial – literally, etymologically, suggesting it came before other languages – why are they writing it in Dwarvish? Echoing our lore from the giant language post, we can posit that the Primordial language was spoken, but not written, until the dwarves lent it a script. Perhaps it was the combination of the four elements in their forges; metal mined from the earth, fire to shape it, air to drive the bellows, water to quench and harden it. The dwarves were the first to tame the four Platonic elements, and they encoded that mastery in writing. 

An alternative approach: Divisive dialects. The 2014 PHB notes that Auran, Aquan, Ignan, and Terran are dialects of Primordial, but that speakers of the dialects can understand each other… which is fine, but means that the dialects are just for flavor, and as written, don’t have any mechanical or roleplay heft. Complicate dialects by requiring an appropriate check when switching from one dialect to another. Failure risks mingling terms and syntaxes, inadvertently slipping into a quasi- or para-elemental patois, which any speaker of the four “true” dialects will consider an insulting debasement of their pure lingual tradition. Skilled translators who can avoid mistakes like this are in high demand.

Get weirder: Tension in the tenses. Perhaps the four elements should not be thought of as dialects but rather different tenses within the primordial language. A speaker of Primordial might use the rigid and unchanging Terran in the past tense, blazing Ignan words in the present, and abstracted air for the future tense. Flowing water fills the gaps and takes any of the modal constructions that don’t fit the past/present/future structure.

Sexy fey singles in your area!

Sylvan 

Variations: Elvish antecedents. As we mentioned way back when we covered Elvish, Elvish and Sylvan may be related languages. Sylvan creatures understand that Elves speak a related language, but because they are prideful and mischievous about the etymological linkage. On any interaction with the fey, the fey will inevitably find a way to critique the Elven language in their response, noting all the ways that Elvish allegedly debases Sylvan. 

Alternative approach: Witching words. Many fey have magical charm abilities, and this magic sometimes seeps into their spoken words. Characters without some resistance to fey magics may find themselves in trouble if they ask for aid or try to influence Sylvan creatures. If a player fails a Charisma ability check, reaction roll, or similar mechanism while interacting with a fey creature, that creature may use any charm magics it possesses (Charm Person, Suggestion, etc.) immediately on that character, without any obvious indication that they are doing so (i.e., no somatic or verbal components required).

Get weirder: Rhymes and riddles. True to folklore, the mischievous spirit is so strong with these creatures that tricks and games infuse their very words. In any conversation where a non-fey creature asks a fey creature a question, the fey creature will think of a “riddle-type” answer to the question. If possible, this answer is something that is analogous in some way to the real answer (e.g., something that follows the logic of very basic riddles, like a play on a homonym). The fey creature in question will be happy to draw the conversation out, encouraging the inquirer to solve their stupid riddle, refusing to answer those who won't play along.

Undercommon 

Yeah, this one has issues. As with deep speech, let’s start with a census of the speakers. 

• Beholder and variants (deep speech, Undercommon; the zombie beholder, like other zombies, understands Undercommon, but doesn’t speak it)
• Cloaker (Deep Speech, Undercommon)
• Yochlol (Abyssal, Elvish, Undercommon)
• Drider (Elvish, Undercommon)
• Duergar (Dwarvish, Undercommon)
• Drow and variants (Elvish, Undercommon)
• Flumph (understands Undercommon but can’t speak it, telepathy)
• Fomorian (Giant, Undercommon)
• Deep Gnome (Gnomish, Terran, Undercommon)
• Grimlock (Undercommon)
• Kuo-Toa (Undercommon)
• Mimic (no languages, but “a rare few evolve greater cunning and the ability to carry on simple conversations in Common or Undercommon”)
• Mindflayer (Deep Speech, Undercommon, telepathy)
• Nothic (Undercommon)
• Quaggoth (Undercommon)

This doesn’t make a lot of sense. Why do so many creatures speak Undercommon as their only language? 

We can start to sort this out by breaking these creatures down into a few groups. We’ll disregard the “rare” talking mimic. I don’t know why the Flumph needs to understand Undercommon when nonverbal telepathy is core to its concept, so we’ll throw that one out too.

Random aberrations (beholder, cloaker, nothic). As with our conversation on deep speech, I think beholders should have their own language. It is hard to know what to think of cloakers as they are essentially ambush clothes, and the game doesn’t tell us why they are smarter and wiser than the average person. A solitary creature like the nothic has no use for a trade language, so it should speak deep speech, or have some text to the effect of “speaks the languages it knew before its transformation.”

Drow and their associates (yochlol, drider, drow, quaggoth). These creatures are united by Elvish (assuming we treat them as elves at all). Undercommon uses Elvish script, which implies that the drow, as one of the major underdark factions, founded this trade language. 

Underground versions of familiar surface creatures (duergar, fomorian, deep gnome). Like the drow, these creatures can just speak an underdark dialect of their ancestry language.

Mindflayers and their associates (grimlock, kuo-toa, mindflayer). If we’re keeping deep speech, have the grimlocks and kuo-toa speak debased, simplified versions of that language.

So where does that take us? We have several overlapping options.

Strike Undercommon entirely. Underground adventuring should be hard mode. There is no common language. The major factions of the underdark are confrontational, secretive, evil powers. Like real-world powers, if they need to trade or establish diplomatic relations with another power, they will train translators or use magic. Adventurers will need to do likewise. 

Three big factions. The main languages spoken in the underdark are Elvish (by the drow), Dwarvish (because Dwarvish script can tie together the duergar, the fomorians, and the deep gnomes) and Deep Speech (for the aberrations and mindflayers).

Deep Speech identity. Making Deep Speech a key underdark language solves a lot of the identity problems it was struggling with in my post about that language. Mindflayers, beholders, aboleth, and other major powers speak it, and their servants and allies speak dialects or derivations of it.

Something alien. A trade language exists, but it must be fundamentally different. It is not just "underground Common." Consider using, for example, the Silent Tongue/Speech of Veins of the Earth: “A subtle and expressive language composed of minor or near-invisible bodyshifts, slow twitching of the fingers, seemingly-passive glances, shifts in breathing and complex flows of facial expression. A kind of stealth sign language, common to intelligent travellers and high-status individuals in the Veins."

Fix 5E Fights By Turning Monsters into Glass Cannon Puzzles

I’ll skip the whole preamble establishing how fights in 5E and other modern-style D&D games are too long. Let’s go right to a solution.

The recipe for a glass cannon puzzle monster is as follows: 

• Reduce the HP by a lot. If you like to math this out, you want the total monster HP to be equal to no more than three rounds worth of the party’s total DPS. Probably closer to two rounds. But if you don’t enjoy that math, just eyeball it.
• Make their attacks 25-50% stronger. They are going to get fewer chances to hit, so they should hit harder. You can buff their to-hit somewhat as well, but I don’t find this to be necessary. They should hit hard enough that the first time a PC takes damage, the group should be a bit surprised and taken aback.
• Give them a big edge. Some monsters already have these as they are currently written, but they’re often narrow, superfluous, or transparently obvious to overcome. Give more monsters powers that make them hard to overcome… at least to start.
• Tie that edge to a major weakness. They have some kind of weakness, usually associated with their strength. If understood and exploited, they become much easier to defeat.

1d10 OK give me some examples: 

1. The azer’s heated body and weapons can set creatures and objects on fire, causing them to burn and take damage each turn. The flames can spread to other creatures and objects. An azer who take cold damage or is doused in water loses these abilities until they complete a long rest.
2. If the banshee sees its reflection, all of its immunities and resistances drop away, and it is as vulnerable to damage as a normal person. 
3. The chimera is immune to fire (from its dragon head), fear (from its lion head), and losing its balance (from its goat head). But the heads hate each other. Make a cromulent criticism of a chimera head, even in the midst of a fight, and it loses the attack and immunity associated with that head until the end of its next turn, as the heads bicker and undercut each other.
4. The duergars’ ability to enlarge themselves and turn invisible make them fearsome foes in combat. They have resistance to damage from creatures who are smaller than them or can’t see them. But when fighting creatures who are larger than them and/or that they cannot see, the duergar have disadvantage on morale checks and Wisdom saving throws.
5. The distracting sound of the hook horror’s claws scraping against the rocks of the Underdark requires any spellcaster to pass a concentration check in order to cast a spell. The hook horror has disadvantage on saving throws and vulnerability to damage from any effect with an auditory components (e.g., Tasha’s Hideous Laughter). 
6. The peryton goes directly for the heart. If it succeeds on an attack roll on a dive attack, it is an automatic critical hit, and if the damage leaves the target at or below 0 HP, they must immediately make a death saving throw, or the peryton rips out their heart. The peryton will then attempt to retreat, taking the heart with it. Some resurrection magic will not work without an intact heart. A peryton that has damaged a humanoid but failed to rip out its heart is blinded by single-mindedness and has disadvantage on Dexterity saving throws and attack rolls against other targets until it has killed the wounded target. 
7. Shadows are fully invisible in darkness, torchlight, and even magical light. They are visible and completely susceptible to damage in candlelight.
8. Skeletons are almost completely immune to piercing and slashing weapons, but can typically be destroyed with one hit with bludgeoning weapons.
9. The sphinx can't be harmed until you answer their riddle. If you stump the sphinx with your own riddle, it is vulnerable to damage you deal until it can solve your riddle.
10. The troglodyte’s stench doesn’t only poison those near it, but incapacitates their foes as well, if they fail their saving throw by 5 or more. But the troglodyte’s aversion isn’t limited to just sunlight; soap, running water, or anything else that could dilute or cleanse its stench forces disadvantage on its attacks and Wisdom (perception) ability checks.

Augmented Reality, Mars, and the End of the World: Speculative Fiction Set in 2026

Last year we reviewed speculative fiction set in 2025, comparing what creatives imagined in the past versus the world we actually got. So what about 2026?

A few notes on what I am not covering. There are a lot of stories that are too recent to be particularly interesting for purposes of this exercise. For example, there is a book (that I have not read) called The Future of Another Timeline, which apparently features scenes set in 2026. But it was published in 2019. Stories set less than 10 years into the future are really intended as “just around the corner” stories, rather than a prognostic leap into the unknown. There will probably be exceptions, but we’re most interested in stories imaging 2026 decades in advance.

Other projects just don’t have the narrative depth to produce an interesting post. I don’t think 2005’s Doom movie tells us much about the world of 2026 beyond “wow, what a difference 20 years makes in the kinds of roles and budgets Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson will accept.”

Finally, this exercise will obviously skew toward set-in-2026 content that appeals to me for other reasons. If it was on my reading list or my watch list, it's more likely to be featured. This is decidedly a personalized take, not a comprehensive or impartial one.

Now on to the fiction of 2026.

Den-noh Coil (released in 2007)

In last year’s fiction post, I wrote about Rainbow’s End, a story that is largely about children navigating the world of 2026 through the (literal) lens of augmented reality. Den-noh Coil has a lot in common with Rainbow’s End. It deals with a near-future 2026 where citizens of a Japanese town wear augmented reality glasses to view a virtual overlay on the real world. As in Rainbow’s End, augmented reality provides a parallel, invisible world, with its own conflicts and rewards, and children are the primary explorers of this world. The show was produced by Madhouse, a prolific studio that has recently adapted Frieren: Beyond Journey’s End to anime, but I hadn’t heard of Den-noh Coil until I looked it up for this exercise.

Like Rainbow’s Children, Den-noh Coil supposes that AR in 2026 is more advanced and more integrated into society than it is in real-world 2026, but it gets many details right. I won’t spoil too much, but the story takes folklore, ghost stories, and local superstition and reinterprets it through a new lens of technology. 

For example, the characters use “tags” to hack the virtual world; the tags look a lot like Shinto ofuda talismans. And the digital enforcers that serve as antagonists for much of the story cannot pass through shrine gates, much like mythological ghosts or demons. But the protagonist eventually learns that the real reason is bureaucracy; the shrines are controlled by a different ministry than the bureau that runs the AR tech, so the virtual enforcers come to a dead stop at the torii because of intergovernmental rivalries. This is a fun idea, and the series does a good job of exploring ideas of non-literal/superimposed spaces, a subject explored in both fiction (The City & the City, The Cartographers) and non-fiction (Unruly Places).

Other story beats feel prescient too, like a “bus graveyard” (implicitly the aftermath of widespread autonomous car usage ending public transit) and a scene where children have to figure out how to use a rotary phone.

Many aspects of Den-noh Coil's world are reminiscent of efforts by Meta and other companies to create value in the AR/VR space. The story's valuable “kira bugs” are like NFTs. The scavenger hunt aspect of the story, as well as the prominence of virtual pets, foreshadows 2016’s summer of Pokémon Go. Per Wikipedia, the founder of Niantic Labs, the company that powered Pokémon Go, is a fan of Den-noh Coil, so this may be a life-imitates-art situation. In a way, the only surprise is that today – 10 years after the peak of Pokémon Go – that feels like the exception, as a successfully monetized instance of AR, rather than the first of many such products in a full-blown AR world, as Den-noh Coil predicted.

Den-noh Coil is not perfect. In particular, the plot is unnecessarily convoluted, with much of the mystery delivered by monologue near the end of the show. But the worldbuilding and vibe are a great example of creators guessing what the world will be like in 20 years, and coming up with an answer that resonates with IRL 2026’s headlines.

There Will Come Soft Rains (published in 1950)

You can read this short story online, and doing so will only take a few minutes, so I won’t avoid spoilers here.

A lot of futuristic fiction is understandably vague about when exactly events takes place. So for purposes of this 2026-in-fiction exercise, I want to thank Ray Bradbury for explicitly specifying that this short story takes place on August 4, 2026. That’s today. 

This story is prescient in describing a “smart” home, complete with programmed alarm clock (“Alexa, snooze 20 minutes”) and automated vacuums that aren’t too different from modern Roombas. The story presumes a kind of analog infrastructure that is very different from our digital present, but the effect is quite the same. Bridge-and-martini night is a little quaint for 2026, but the vibe is right.

TWCSR is one of those classic stories that encourages the reader to think anew about nuclear annihilation by changing the frame of reference. We are introduced to an idyllic home. We gradually realize something is wrong. Where are the people who live in this home? The story adds clues until we understand we are seeing machine servants mindlessly performing the rituals of a civilization that is now dead.

I wish I could say that the story's warning of nuclear annihilation was a quaint relic of another time... alas, reader, I cannot. We can at least say we beat this prediction, but whether we have avoided this fate or merely delayed it remains to be seen.

Parable of the Sower (published in 1993)

I didn’t even realize I owned this; it was hiding on my bookshelf at home. Like TWCSR, Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower blesses us with explicitly dated chapters, beginning in July 20, 2024 and running through October 10, 2027. Written in an epistolary style as a teenager’s diary, the story begins in a small community in California that is struggling to survive as a combination of environmental, economic, and political disruptions leaves the United States teetering on the brink of collapse.

This is a society that is most of the way toward a true Fallout/Mad Max post-apocalypse, but the slide is slow and irregular, region by region, social group by social group. Government services are gradually failing and jobs are disappearing, but there are just enough remnants of normality that the people in the narrator’s community can cling to the hope that the world as they knew it will make a comeback. The narrator accepts that the old world is not going to return, and begins an ambitious plan to create new communities that can grow from the ashes of the old.

I’ve read and watched a lot of post-apocalyptic fiction, and there is much, much more of it that is set in the aftermath of the collapse, than the collapse itself. Most stories are more interested in the settled world after the collapse is done, or perhaps a back-and-forth with the pre-collapse world; The Last of Us, Oryx and Crake, and Station 11 all land in this space. There are a lot of signs of long-past suffering; and flashbacks that foreshadow suffering to come; but the show elides the actual suffering that a nuclear holocaust would bring. No shade on stories that go that route, but I appreciate that Parable grits its way through the ugliness of the collapse day-by-day. I was reminded at times of Blindness by José Saramago, which is perhaps the most unflinching and difficult societal collapse story I have read.

The protagonist's concept for a new community is a poetic, pseudo-religious idea called “Earthseed.” It begins with a humble self-organized community that she builds over the course of the book, but she has ambitious plans for civilization not only to regrow within a small holdfast in California, but to spread and grow even beyond the Earth itself. 

A manned mission to Mars is a plot point early in the story, and Butler wasn’t the only SF writer who picked the mid-2020s as a plausible period for Mars exploration. Red Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson (which I shortlisted for this post, but didn’t get around to finishing) also takes place in 2026. I think these '90s writers were directionally correct on the Mars idea, just a bit early (like with the AR stuff).

Speaking of Mars, it is interesting that the most prominent real-world proponent of an Earthseed-like concept in real-life 2026 is... Elon Musk, who also wants humanity to extend beyond earth to ensure its survival. Butler’s protagonist is, uh, decidedly different from Elon in any number of ways. The passage of 30 years makes for strange bedfellows.

Parable of the Sower’s sequel, Parable of the Talents, takes place in 2032, so if I’m still doing this series six years from now, I’ll read it then. Butler had planned to write several more Parable books, but understandably needed a break from their heaviness, writing Fledging instead. Fledgling is actually the only other Butler book I’ve read, and while two books is not a pattern, it is hard to miss that both are about a female protagonist in the western United States setting out to create an intentional, interracial community.

Worldbuilding Takeaways

Den-noh Coil presents a parallel world with opt-in dangers. Those who ignore the AR world entirely are safe from it, but those who engage with it are subject to its dangers. This is a good model for how forbidden magic can work in a fantasy game, or forbidden knowledge in a mythos game. Ignorance is safety. If you get in over your head, remember that you opted in.

TWCSR works as a location you could drop into any post-apocalyptic game. It's one thing to say the bombs fell and everyone died, and quite another to make the players feel it. RPGs can’t replicate every neat trick that authors use, but they can set up a location-based mystery and let players add up the clues until the “ohhhh…” moment when they figure out what’s going on.

Parable is a heavier hang than most people are going to want in their Apocalypse World games, but I do think its ideas of community formation could inform tough decisions characters would face in such a setting. How do you decide who you can trust? How do you decide who has the skills and resources your community needs? What do you do when those two categories don’t overlap? 

Next year: the speculative fiction of 2027. Do you like long takes of Clive Owen running through gray British murk? Then you're going to love 2027. See you then.

Stolen Board Game Mechanic: Divide-and-Choose Spells

Various types of boardgames and card games include “I cut, you choose” mechanics. One player divides a quantity of tokens, or cards, or some other discrete game element into two piles, then a different player gets to pick among those piles, with the first player receiving the remaining selection. Like unchosen picks accruing value, divide-and-choose is interesting because it is self-balancing. The divider is incentivized to make as even a split as possible, unless they have access to information the chooser does not, or believe that the chooser is otherwise unlikely to pick correctly.

How could we apply this to D&D-style games? Consider divide-and-choose as a magic system.

Assume each spell has three major effects. The caster separates them into one pile of two and a remaining pile of one. The target of the spell can choose either pile.

For example, imagine that Fireball had the following effects: Area Effect; Fire Damage; Burning Condition.

The caster divides; they offer the target either Damage OR Area Effect + Burning Condition. The target is low on HP, so they take the Burning Condition and Area Effect, which spreads the Burning Condition to several of their allies. 

Video games provide plenty of ideas for effects. Area and range, damage increases, damage over time, all kinds of “debuffs,” poison or disease, fear and charm, and so forth. 

Some care has to be taken to avoid making one choice much weaker or much stronger than the others, such that the divide-and-choose would become trivially obvious. But this approach also makes it possible to add niche effects that wouldn't otherwise be "worth" including.

Consider a spell that forms a cloud with the effects Poison, Obscuration, and Coughing. The Poison and Obscuration effects are probably more broadly useful, and would typically be split, so that at least one would apply. But if the target is a spellcaster, and Coughing could prevent them from intoning arcane words, it might be viable to divide such that Coughing is alone and Poison and Obscuration are together, forcing the target to accept both Poison and Obscuration if they want to avoid Coughing and be prevented from casting spells.

A spell is not necessarily limited to three choices. A higher-level spell could involve four, five, or more choices. But we should be careful about how many we offer; too many choices and the divider will take too long picking their piles, dragging the game to a halt. 

D100 Places to Stay that Aren’t Generic Fantasy Inns

Adventurers in a typical vanilla fantasy game arrive in town and need a place to stay for the night. They get directions to the inn. You can readily imagine the inn that the DM improvises. It is familiar from many fantasy TTRPGs, video games, books, and movies. A rough-hewn fireplace, perhaps a full-ass hearth. A heavyset bartender, facial hair guaranteed. Some extremely provincial locals and workaday traveler NPCs gathered in a common room, perhaps with a musician performing.

Of course, that typical fantasy inn is an anachronism. It does not resemble anything that was particularly common in real medieval or renaissance settings. It is instead similar to the English coaching inn, which developed hundreds of years after the source period for D&D and most similar fantasy work.

That’s not a bad thing; D&D is full of anachronisms anyway. The game would not be improved by hunting down those anachronisms. But it does create an opportunity to brainstorm lodging options that add some more variety, particularly for a game that features a lot of travel.

Roll 5d20 for a result that will skew toward the middle of the list, where the (relatively) “normal” results appear. Roll 1d100 for a truly random result. If you’re wondering why the first few entries on this list are so gonzo, it is so they won’t show up at all on the more controlled 5d20 roll. Skip to the entries in the 50s for examples of the more conventional results.

1. Hotel of Dogs. Comfortable and well-appointed, but entirely staffed by dogs, who clumsily but diligently attempt to perform all the tasks of hotel management. They lack opposable thumbs, language, and other key tools of the hotelier trade, but try very hard. Polymorphed humans, or merely well-trained ex-familiars? No one knows.
2. The Terror Beast of Grottug Swamp. Spend an hour or two grooming ratfang ticks out of its fur, and it will perceive you as a cleaning mutualist. Sleeping curled up against it is about as safe as it gets, because everything else in Grottug Swamp is terrified of it. 
3. There Is No Anti-Memetic Hotel. Everyone forgets about this place shortly after checking out due to some ancient enchantment magic. The sensation is mildly distressing and confusing, and it makes it hard to find it in the first place. But it is relatively secure from any non-accidental discovery and attack.
4. Secure demiplane accessed by a one-way magical door. Reasonably safe from everything. The only catch is that you can only leave it by a different one-way magical door, and no one is sure where that door goes.
5. Enormous tortoise trundles across the landscape. Travelers gather in a house on its back. 
6. A gorgon will petrify travelers for the night, de-petrifying them in the morning. Locals will confirm this isn’t a trick. Pretty safe if true, but do you actually feel rested? 
7. Fane to a faded god, long ago the site of human sacrifices. Theurges have now bound the remnant deity and divert its remaining power to the local town, where it serves those who once served it. The emanating divine energy makes this a warm place to stay. 
8. Ongoing construction. Obsessive builders are hard at work on a megastructure of vague and mystifying origin and purpose. The builders will let you sleep within the completed parts of the structure if you spend a day of hard labor contributing to its construction. 
9. Valley of slumbering mists. Living things fall into a deep sleep at dusk each evening. The mist dissipates in the morning. Travelers here get a great night’s rest, and they won’t be bothered by any predators capable of sleep. Things that don’t sleep are a different issue…
10. Shade? A perfectly square area, 100 meters on each side, is shielded from the weather by an invisible, floating structure or object. Provides shade in the summer and shelter in the rain, but some travelers are understandably uncomfortable sleeping under it; it has been there as long as anyone can remember, but who knows if the magic will someday wear off, and whatever is up there will fall from the sky? 
11. The Endless Show. Sleep No More-style interactive theater. You are given a role and expected to stay in character. You can get some sleep, but expect to be woken up at least once or twice by dramatic happenings.
12. Abandoned giant termite mounds. Hollow like dead trees. Not enough room to lay flat, so you must sleep upright. Awkward but functional.
13. Tombs! Safe, dry tombs, at bargain rates! Rumors of a breakthrough in magical immortality research have forced cemetery owners to pivot and market their real estate for a different purpose.
14. The basement backrooms. Huge, underused space underneath the largest building in town. Damp and full of forgotten and worthless echoes of whatever is cherished and valuable up above. Probably connects to local dungeons. 
15. Murder mystery. A shriek in the night. One of the other guests in this sprawling estate is dead? Who could be the killer? No one is recovering HP or memorizing spells in peace until the mystery is solved. 
16. Pleasure gardens. Safe from harm, comfortable, plenty of food and wine… but will you ever want to leave?
17. Mush-room. Toadstools the size of cozy cottages. Come hungry. You have to burrow out the interior to create enough space to sleep for the night.
18. Faerie ring. Sleep here at your own risk, for this place is bound to another world… 
19. Gargoyles guard the abandoned chapel. A local scholar claims to know what kind of offering will appease them, allowing travelers to sleep safely within the chapel. Is it real, or is she scamming the unwary?
20. Quaint witch’s cottage. The witch is currently (1d6): 1. Hungry 2. Bored 3. Horny 4. Polymorphed 5. Wrathful 6. Not Home.
21. Hollow, egg-shaped stone structures. Step into one, and it will close and keep you safe for 777 minutes. Large enough to provide enough air for one sleeper. Can’t be opened early by any known means. Simple, secure, eerie, unnerving.
22. Capsule hotel-style tubes in a massive granite block. The tubes are eerily silent. More than 10,000 years ago this block was part of a prison complex meant to drive prisoners mad through sensory deprivation. The prison and its purpose is long forgotten, and now the permanent Silence spell merely ensures a good night’s sleep. 
23. Wealthy distant relative. What a surprise, it turns out the PC’s wealthy uncle, sister-in-law, or other relation owns a vacation dwelling here. They may take an interest in one of their relative’s companions.
24. Discarded giant’s helm, embedded in the landscape. Provides a cave-like space where every sound echoes sonorously. Despite age and wear, parts exposed to the air gleam brilliantly in the light each morning.
25. The Painted Caves of Cavinto. An ancient cave art site of stunning beauty and sophistication. The Painted Sisters who care for the site welcome all who appreciate its beauty. One of the sisters may decide to paint the portrait of a party member. If they are not finished by the time you depart, they will travel with you until they complete the work. 
26. Slopes of the dormant (?) volcano. Heat from the vents keeps the night’s chill at bay.
27. The traveling circus will provide safe and dry accommodations in exchange for contributing something to the show. Magical tricks, acrobatics, and strongman performance are obvious options for adventurers, but weirder ideas from the PCs are welcome. 
28. Offseason shacks. Whatever the fishers/hunters/punters use this for in-season, it isn’t in use now. Poorly suited to this season’s weather, but otherwise fine.
29. Cartographer’s guild camp. Free admission for anyone who can provide detailed descriptions of the areas they traveled through to get there. The longer the journey and the more they got lost, the better.
30. Romantic spa. The newlyweds’ suite is the only room available, and the owners are strict about only renting it to qualifying customers. They are licensed and willing to perform a marriage between two party members, for a small additional fee. 
31. Abandoned owlbear lair. Safe as long as the smell lingers and keeps other predators away. Probably not a good choice once the nesting season begins.  
32. Laboratory. You will be tested, examined, poked, prodded, quizzed, queried, then tested again. And finally allowed to sleep.
33. Well-guarded ksar. The worse the approaching dust storm is, the greater the ksar's obligation of hospitality compels them to accept travelers. 
34. Leper colony with extra beds. Shunned by the nearby town, but the “lepers” generally have non-contagious or non-threatening skin conditions. Staying with them is actually safer than staying in the nearby town.
35. Convent operated by the Sisters of Perpetual Quietude. No charge to stay, but all visitors must keep completely silent while there; violators are cursed (or so they say (or so they would say, if they could talk)). 
36. Clay furnaces. They fire the furnaces all day, then the residual heat keeps sleepers warm through the bitterly cold night.
37. Brothel. Yes, you can rent just a bed. But the upselling is intense. 
38. Crowded tenement. A stair landing or coat closet is considered a viable rental spot.
39. Blacksmith’s shop. The heat from the forge is nice, but watch out for the cinders and hot ash that can ignite fires long after the blacksmith has gone to sleep.
40. Workhouse. You can stay here, but you need to put in an honest day’s work, or participate in an impromptu musical number. Food, glorious food… 
41. Overhanging cliff forming a natural windbreak. A fire is almost always maintained here, and stories are exchanged, as exaggerated silhouettes dance upon the rocks.
42. All-night bar. I don’t care where you sleep, but you can sleep here!
43. Fishermen shacks. Hammocks made from fishing nets. You will smell like fish for at least three days after staying here.
44. House for rent. The owner will rent it at a rather low price, for any length of time. Suspiciously eager to close the deal even at a discount price. Something happened here…
45. Boomtown mining camp. Think Deadwood season one. Tents, communal campfires, ample gossip and carousing.
46. Communal sleeping quarters. Stretch of bare floor in the largest building in town.
47. Hayloft. Not fancy, but reasonably dry. Moo.
48. Hostel. At least one Weird and Extremely Extroverted Traveler is going to try to get you interested in Their Weird Thing, whatever it may be.
49. Bathhouse. It seems like some people never leave. 
50. Coaching inn. Yeah, this is the basis for the generic fantasy inn described at the beginning of the post. Make it over-the-top stereotypical. You can have one ordinary inn now and then, as a treat.
51. Hollowed out tree. Surprisingly comfortable. There are signs that a gang of kids may have once dwelt here, long ago. 
52. Cells in the local jail, currently unoccupied. Don’t worry, they won’t lock the doors. Worst-case scenario, you get kicked out at 1 a.m. to make space for bar brawlers.
53. Monastery hospitia. They have empty beds. If you can plausibly fake an illness or injury, it is a good place to sleep. Just don’t fake it too well, or they’ll insist that you stay for an extended period.
54. Combination hotel and tattoo parlor. You can stay for free if you get a tattoo advertising the place. 
55. Lumberjack camp. Residents are friendly but boisterous and earnest. Lots of men’s men going around shirtless, wrasslin’, and having a wholesome good time, just hangin' out with the boys. Hope you like flapjacks.
56. Under the bridge downtown. That's where I want to be. Watch out for rattagators. 
57. Nomadic campfire. Of course you can stay here, if you can perform an impressive FEAT OF STRENGTH.
58. Qanat or underground cistern. Built by some long-lost empire that once ruled the area. The water is clean and cool, but paranoid travelers claim they have seen large, shadowy forms swimming in the waters…
59. Couriers’ Mansiones. PCs who wish to stay there will be expected to demonstrate what important information they are carrying on behalf of which governmental entity.  
60. Endless party on a river yacht. Plenty of comfortable places to sleep amongst the revelry, if you don’t mind the noise.
61. Asylum. It is a coinflip between creepy horror movie nonsense and an orderly, clean, professional facility.
62. Lighthouse. Dry and secure but the lighthouse keeper is a little… odd. Pray the weather doesn’t keep you here more than one night.
63. Short on beds. It is an ordinary inn, but the biggest festival of the year is happening right now, didn't you know? They have instituted a two-to-each-bed policy. Parties with an odd number of members should expect a roll on a carousing table or similar to decide who the unlucky (?) adventurer will get paired with.
64. Restaurant. A few hours folding napkins or skewering dire weevils in the basement will earn you a spot to sleep in the back of the kitchen.
65. Chimneyheaps. Creep out onto the roof of the palatial mansions in the wealthy district and sleep against and around the massive chimneys, warm from the heat of fires below, stoked through the night by diligent servants. Just step lightly on the tiles, lest you alert a sleeping noble to your presence…
66. A halfling wagon train has stopped here. Friendly RV camp vibe. They will expect you to sing in the round with them. 
67. Wedding! So large and extravagant, they don’t even try to keep out the wedding crashers. You will be expected to bring a gift for the newlyweds. Everyone dances.  
68. Futons in Dave's creepy shed. Dave is as creepy as advertised, but also extremely harmless.
69. The king has decided to hold open auditions for those who desire a sponsor for their heroic quests. The city is consequently lousy with adventurers. Every inn is completely booked, even at high surge prices. Tinier and tinier subdivisions of space have been made available for rent. Look forward to paying a fortune for a thin strip of floor behind a sideboard, or an uncomfortable night’s sleep on a pile of onions (you aren’t allowed to eat the onions).
70. Dilapidated resort. Just barely still in business, a reminder of better times. The resort is known for (1d4): 1. Skiing / yeti avoidance 2. Diving for enormous pearls 3. Rustic backwoods charm 4. A regrettable incident that the staff will only whisper about.
71. Bandit camp. Risky option, but plausibly a safe place to stay if you can convince the bandits that you are not worth robbing. This one time, at bandit camp… 
72. Haunted manor. Comfortable, spacious, and free, but low level poltergeist activity throughout. The spirits can be placated with fine wine, witty bon mots, or a game of charades.
73. Old folks home. The only payment expected is an attentive audience for their long, rambling stories. Stories may include historical lore that is nominally relevant to the PCs, but the storytellers will inevitably focus on mundane details, and they will get annoyed when someone tries to steer the conversation in that direction.
74. Ramshackle beach hotel. Rooms are rented out around low tide. The proprietor plans to take the money and run before tenants realize they’ll be underwater at 2 a.m.
75. Thieves' den. Guild membership typically required to enter, but if you can “steal” a good night’s sleep here, they would probably be impressed. 
76. Exclusive club. Members only. Very difficult to find unless you know the right person. Members are charming, useless, status-obsessed idiots.  
77. Monkey hot springs. Give them gifts of fruit or they will steal your gear.
78. Fragrant greenhouse. Rumor is that the smell repels predators. In truth, the smell attracts an alpha predator, which frightens the other predators away. But the alpha predator probably won’t come by tonight, right? …Right?
79. Elven hammock commune. Hammocks are available really, really, really high up in the trees.
80. Junior enchanters academy. The apprentices are all practicing the Sleep spell, and need volunteer test subjects. 
81. Mercenary camp. This free company once roved the land, but have taken root in this particularly resource-rich and conflict-prone region. Friendly to adventurers, but will try to recruit them into their ranks, particularly young and impressionable (impress-able?) hirelings and henchmen. Each night there is a cumulative 5% chance that the local political authority launches a surprise attack on the camp. 
82. Dungeon basecamp. Not the dungeon your party is traveling toward, just some other dungeon along the way. The camp is (1d4): 1. Freshly set up for a delve that has not yet started 2. Occupied by adventurers licking their wounds 3. Only guarded by a few hirelings while the adventurers are inside 4. Abandoned ("found a mule"). 
83. Shrine of Revelations. Perfectly safe, dozens will seek shelter here every night. Every night, at least one person who sleeps here will be forever changed by a spiritual awakening, often a traumatic one. 
84. Bulette graveyard. Shells form convenient half-dome shelters. There is a small but very dangerous possibility that a dying bulette will show up during your stay and take offense at your use of its family’s shells as shell-ter. 
85. Cemetery. Make an offering to the dead that reflects what they cared about in life and enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep right there atop their grave. Monsters, animals, and even the weather will be repelled from the gravesite, if you get the offering right. The local historical society will pick the right offering for you, but they charge a high fee.
86. A deep well. At the bottom are muddy ledges surrounding the source of the water. Various moist intelligent creatures hang out at the bottom, loudly advocating the virtues of sleeping at the bottoms of wells, and encouraging passerby up above to come down and join them.  
87. Foxholes. Oh, you didn’t know there was a war? Get in this hole if you want to survive the night.
88. Scarecrow fields. The scarecrow here keeps more than crows away, so this field is a safe place to sleep. In the morning, there is a 1-in-10 chance the scarecrow takes a shine to the travelers and leaves its post to go with them. 
89. Toadstool hovel. Charming, bucolic, safe, and warm. Three months after staying here, visitors will emit clouds of spores that will eventually grow into new toadstool hovels. Otherwise harmless, but likely to anger hoteliers, who don’t appreciate the fungal competition. 
90. Sirens' rocks. An enterprising merchant sets up shop just out of earshot, selling wax earplugs. You can then approach the shoreline where the sirens sing. Your earplugs keep you safe from their song. Their song keeps you safe from bandits and vagabonds. You really have to trust the discretion of the earplug guy not to sell you out, though.
91. Huge sleeping monster’s gaping maw. Locals say it has been open like that for years, and no other monster will approach it, so it is probably a safe place to stay. Bold choice Cotton, we’ll see if it works out for them. 
92. Competitive sleeping event. Professional slumberers will watch you sleep to see if they can learn anything from your technique. No need to post a watch!
93. The dump. Raccoons run it. They will accept visitors, but are extremely raccoons. 
94. This is my hole! It was made for me! Whenever people travel past this ravine, the cliff face inevitably features silhouette-shaped holes perfectly sized to match each traveler. Save or crawl inside.
95. Pitcher-plant like pods that entice creatures to slumber in them with sweet smells. Harmless to the sleepers, but the plant devours any and all insects on the sleeper’s body as recompense. Travelers plagued by lice and similar parasites will actively seek these plants out. 
96. Serpent dream-harvester. (Relatively) friendly/hungry giant snake runs a well-kept bed and breakfast. No money required; harvests dreams are payment.
97. Mandrake’s Mystical Manse. A magical doorway provides access to an extradimensional space with lavish bedrooms and nourishing food. Travelers assume a powerful wizard once cast it and… forgot about it? Died? Plans to return someday?
98. The Infinite Library. A fine place to sleep if you can resist the temptation to read uncountable fascinating books. 
99. Crashed aerial caravel. Upside-down, ploughed into the earth, never to fly again, but the hull provides reasonable shelter. Music from a spectral band (standing inverted on the deck above those sheltering under its hull) seems to keep wild animals away, but wild magic can surge forth from the long-dormant engines at inopportune times. 
100. Tired of being tired? A wizard here will sever you from your dreaming self, for a fee. Trapped in a bottle, your dream-self slumbers constantly, while you live on without the need to sleep. Side effects may include (1d4): 1. Difficulty telling time, gradually getting worse until even clocks and calendars become gibberish. 2. Susceptibility to illusion magic, as the mind gropes for dream images it can no longer find. 3. Enmity of a powerful night hag, who sees your dreamlessness as a professional challenge. 4. Flatulence.