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Discover everything there is to know about dragons — the most iconic of D&D monsters — in this quintessential reference guide.
Meet Fizban the Fabulous: doddering archmage, unlikely war hero, divine avatar of a dragon-god — and your guide to the mysteries of dragonkind.
What is the difference between a red dragon and a gold dragon? What is dragonsight? How does a dragon’s magic impact the world around them? This comprehensive guide provides Dungeon Masters with a rich hoard of tools and information for designing dragon-themed encounters, adventures, and campaigns. Dragonslayers and dragon scholars alike will also appreciate its insight into harnessing the power of dragon magic and options for players to create unique, memorable draconic characters.
• Introduces gem dragons to fifth edition!
• Provides Dungeon Masters with tools to craft adventures inspired by dragons, including dragon lair maps and detailed information about 20 different types of dragons
• Adds player character options, including dragon-themed subclasses for monks and rangers, unique draconic ancestries for dragonborn, additional spell options, and a feat
• Presents a complete dragon bestiary and introduces a variety of dragons and dragon-related creatures — including aspects of the dragon gods, dragon minions, and more
• Reveals the story of the First World and the role the dragon gods Bahamut and Tiamat played in its creation and destruction
I’m turning 47 in a few weeks, the same age novelist and poet Jack Kerouac was when he collapsed on his mother’s bathroom floor and hemorrhaged to death, the consequence of decades of alcohol abuse.
Jack Kerouac’s literary reputation has dimmed over the years which could just be the result of time — his most famous book On The Road came out over 60 years ago — or more likely just fashion. His swaggering, hard-boozing, macho persona is just… behind the times.
Eventually, he would turn on the counterculture he helped create but for years he wrote books with ferocious speed and passion. Legend has it, he banged out On The Road on a typewriter in three drug-fueled weeks, typing madly on pieces of paper taped together into one seemingly endless sheet until he had filled 120 feet with unedited, occasionally electric, slightly dishonest, autobiographical “spontaneous prose” about listless young white men crisscrossing post-war America, a country glowing with victory and money, growing and mutating.
Kerouac was the first blogger. He may not be popular now but we live in his world. A world where millions of writers spill their guts by the sloppy bucketful onto screens that scroll and scroll forever. The great Truman Capote famously quipped that Kerouac’s style was typing, not writing. He would have hated the internet.
Product details
Publisher : Wizards of the Coast (October 19, 2021)
Language : English
ISBN-10 : 0786967293
ISBN-13 : 978–0786967292
Item Weight : 1.25 pounds
Best Sellers Rank: #39 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
#1 in Fantasy Gaming
#1 in Greek & Roman Myth & Legend
#1 in Sword & Sorcery Fantasy (Books)
If I’m honest and I try, oh I try, I should mention I barely made it through most of his novels. I read On The Road in high school but mostly carried it around like a preacher with a pocket bible. But Dharma Bums? Big Sur? Even the relatively slender The Subterraneans? His wild runaway writing style was too much or too exhausting for my brain at the time. The man wanted his words to flow and pop and twist like jazz, like Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, the legendary sax player Kerouac fetishized as only a mid-century white man could. His obsession with Black culture and music was not shared by the majority-white squares and suits who ran the U.S. at the time. He was pioneering in that regard, although he definitely got more out of plundering the jazz clubs of Harlem for stories than those musicians ever got from performing for Kerouac and his pals.
I was also besotted with the Beats, Kerouac’s Frankenstein family of hustlers and junkies, and *gasp* homosexuals. Kerouac wasn’t even the best writer from that group. I think that distinction goes to Lawrence Ferlinghetti or Gregory Corso. Allen Ginsburg was very much the heart and soul of that whole literary scene and a true free speech hero — his notorious book of poems Howl and Other Poems was banned and the publishers charged with disseminating obscene literature, prompting a famous court trial that ruled in Ginsburg’s favor. Kerouac may have written the defining book of that era but I still think needle-loving maniac Burrough’s incomprehensible work of disturbing experimental fiction Naked Lunch is more noteworthy.
These pretty dudes were a little too young for World War II but weren’t Baby Boomers. They knew America at its lowest and saw it rise like an ICBM. The Beats were the inspiration for the hippie movement which eventually morphed into a big business but during their heyday, the Beats were despised by the public. Looked down upon. The 50s was a time of intense docility: the Nazis had been defeated and America’s future was bright but the Beats were immediately distrustful of the nations’ newfound optimism and lust for conformity. They were true social misfits and I think that was what attracted me. I wanted to be a Beat. An All-American beefcake Beat, like Kerouac.
His persona drew me in when I was a teenager. I desperately wanted to be a poet and a writer but also a man, a tough guy, cool, a little shy when talking in public or on TV but otherwise fearless. I didn’t really understand that Kerouac is a patron saint of toxic masculinity. That he struggled with drink and women and his own sexuality. One of the last interviews he ever gave was on his friend William F Buckley’s conservative debate show Firing Line and Jack was soused, red-faced and sweaty, railing against hippies, and unable to fully comprehend the times he was living through as if he was already dead at 46.
The Beats were also an almost exclusive boy’s club, with a few notable exceptions like Diane di Prima and Hettie Jones. The most famous woman in the Beats canon is probably Joan Vollmer, Burrough’s wife, who he shot dead during a “William Tell” stunt. Or so he claimed.
Kerouac wrote about women but they were animated props at best. In On The Road, Neal Cassady’s feral speed demon character was always running to a woman somewhere. Kerouac was married three times but, ultimately, the most important woman in his life is the one whose bathroom he died in, his mother. In Kerouac’s club, women were prizes or Sphinxes, muses, or spectators.
Kerouac was a sensitive soul, but alcoholics are a sensitive bunch and I should know because I am both. That’s another thing that drew me to him. Before I started drinking, I fell in love with the romance of booze. Liquor and cigarettes at midnights, deep conversations. Because it was the drunks who had adventures and wrote about sex and fury and who mocked the powerful. It was drugs and drink that fueled Kerouac and Cassady on their epic odysseys through the plains and mountains and barren West.
The bloody truth is my sobriety is delicate and requires constant vigilance and I’m one bad decision away from murdering myself with alcohol.
Kerouac died in 1969 and his ghost still stumbles around the streets of Lowell, Massachusetts, drunk on port wine, heartsick, and lost, chasing after beautiful lunatics. But I idolized the man. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have ended up a drunk if I had never heard of Kerouac or the denizens of his underworld. No. I was always destined to end up in a basement drinking bad coffee telling other alcoholics that I was sober, thank god, but tomorrow? You never know.
That he died middle-aged and left a bloated corpse wasn’t romantic but it seemed like a proper melancholy end. The man ran out of gas. So, for years, I’ve thought of 47 as the last service station until the map ends. And now that I’m almost there, I don’t know what comes next. I followed in Kerouac’s footsteps but quit drinking eleven years ago. That doesn’t mean I’ll make it past 48 but the odds are on my side, right now. At least when it comes to drinking oneself into an early grave.
I also didn’t write a generation-defining work of 20th Century literature — or anything of real value — a book that is still read and discussed and argued over. Americans worship the road trip, be it Huck Finn floating down the Mississippi or Kerouac and Cassady driving 110MPH through the Kansas night. We love piling into gas-guzzling, Earth-wrecking cars we can’t afford, and speeding off down highways that lead to countless fast-food restaurants. This is a vast country and we like to think there are still adventures to be had, hidden secrets, and discoveries. America has been tamed, hog-tied really, but it’s nice to believe there are still surprises when there aren’t any, really.
I have also never been on a cross-country trip. I may not have finished all of Kerouac’s seminal works but I did finish The Hobbit, and I do fancy snacks and naps. So I guess I didn’t really live up to Kerouac’s legacy, although I do have a small family of weirdos who love me despite my flaws. He died tragically, pathetically, in the end even legends are vulnerable, frail human beings who suffer. Just like you and me.
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