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.