A (Very) Partial Pictorial History of Gnolls

There's no use in fighting it. You'll be seeing more entries in what has inadvertently become a series for a few more weeks at least, perhaps longer. After last week's post on bugbears, which are a uniquely D&D monstrous humanoid, I knew I'd have to turn to gnolls this week, as they, too, are unique to the game. Perhaps I should clarify that a little. There is no precedent, mythological or literary, for the spelling "gnoll." However, the spelling "gnole" appears in "How Nuth Would Have Practised His Art Upon the Gnoles" from Lord Dunsany's 1912 short story collection, The Book of Wonder (as well as in Margaret St. Clair's "The Man Who Sold Rope to the Gnoles"). 

There can be no doubt that Dunsany's story served as the seeds for the gnolls of D&D. In their description in Book 1 of OD&D, gnolls are described as "a cross between Gnomes and Trolls (. . . perhaps, Lord Sunsany [sic] did not really make it all that clear." The original short story contains no description of the titular creature, leaving Gygax to advance his theory of gnolls being a weird hybrid monster. Artist Greg Bell interprets them thusly:

Sometime in the three years between their first appearance in OD&D (1974) and the publication of the Monster Manual (1977), someone at TSR decided that gnolls were, in fact, "low intelligence beings like hyena-men." That's how they're described in J. Eric Holmes's Dungeons & Dragons Basic Set, which is where I first encountered them, courtesy of this delightful illustration by Tom Wham:

Meanwhile, the Monster Manual itself, published the same year, gives us this illustration by Dave Sutherland.

The Monster Manual also includes another Sutherland gnoll-related piece, this time of Yeenoghu, the demon lord of gnolls. To my eyes, Yeenoghu looks a lot more hyena-like than does the illustration above, but, even so, they're still broadly similar.

Speaking of Yeenoghu, he reappears in the pages of Deities & Demigods, this time depicted by Dave LaForce. I've always found this version of the demon lord a bit goofy. I'm not sure if it's his grin or the strangeness of the arm that holds his infamous triple flail. 

The AD&D Monster Cards sets are a good source of unusual takes on many monsters and that's especially so in the case of gnolls. Artist Harry Quinn depicts them in a way that, to my eyes, looks decidedly feline. To anyone familiar with the weird phylogenetics of hyenas, that's inappropriate, but it still feels off somehow. Perhaps it's simply the weight of all the previous depictions that makes me think so. In any case, Quinn's version of the gnoll is quite distinctive.

The 2e Monstrous Compendium features what is probably the most hyena-like of all versions of the gnoll, courtesy of James Holloway.

Tony DiTerlizzi provides an even more hyena-like version of the gnoll in the Monstrous Manual, right down the spots on its fur. 

I feel like I have probably overlooked some illustrations of gnolls from the TSR era of D&D, but, if so, they must be fairly obscure, as these are the only ones I could easily find in my collection. What's most notable about the ones I did find is how closely they hew to the post-OD&D notion that gnolls are hyena-men. I'd chalk up most of the differences to artist skill and choice rather than a fundamental disagreement about this fact. In this respect, they're quite similar to bugbears, another distinctly D&D monster whose look stayed largely the same during TSR's stewardship of Dungeons & Dragons.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Sign of the Labrys

One of would think, after over two hundred entries in the Pulp Fantasy Library series, I would have covered all of the entries in Gary Gygax's Appendix N. While I've made a very good go of it, there are still a handful of explicitly named titles I've never discussed, one of those being Margaret St. Clair's 1963 novel, Sign of the Labrys. I've discussed St. Clair in a couple of previous posts, but she's not an author about whom I know a great deal or whose work I'd read until comparatively recently. From what I've gathered, she was quite an unusual individual, not merely being a woman in a field dominated by men – though, given the prominence of writers like C.L. Moore and Leigh Brackett, I sometimes think this is overblown – but also being an early enthusiast for the burgeoning Counter Culture. Some of this comes through in this novel, which gives it a rather odd flavor, particularly when compared to the other books Gygax chose for his list of recommended and inspirational reading.

The novel takes place in the near-future, about a decade after

yeast cells escaped from the scientists who had been working with them, and started the great plagues [and] it was not only the sorts that were deleterious to human beings that escaped.  Our domestic animals died too—the mortality was even higher among them—and our food plants too were affected. 

Approximately 90% of the human population died as a consequence of this yeast plague and most survivors have retreated into multi-level, subterranean fallout shelters, built in the years prior to the plague in anticipation of nuclear war (remember when this novel was written). The shelters have immense stores of food and other necessities for life, the former of which are now scarce on the surface because of the plagues. 

Sam Sewell is a young man living in one of these underground complexes. His existence, like that of most of the survivors, is largely solitary, eschewing contact with others, except when necessary. It's suggested that this isn't solely due to fear of contagion but simply because "we dislike contact with one another nowadays." Sam spends his time hunting for canned food or edible fungus, occasionally venturing aboveground to work with crews disposing of the untold numbers of corpses that now litter the earth.

One day, an agent of what remains of the government approaches Sam, asking him about his association with a woman named Despoina. Sam has never heard of such a woman and asks why the agent is looking for her. He explains that she's wanted for her supposed role in releasing the plagues that overthrew human civilization. According to him, she has been seen traveling to and from the lowest levels of the same complex that Sam calls home. The agent then tries to pressure Sam into helping him find her. After all, he's traveled widely underground, seeking out food and other items; he'd be perfect for this job. Initially reluctant, Sam changes his mind once he finds a ring carved with the sign of a double-headed axe – a labrys – along with a message asking him to meet Despoina, the very woman the government agent had asked him about.

What follows is a bizarre journey that is simultaneously a Gamma World-esque exploration of a ruined, high-tech complex beneath the earth and a journey into a mythic underworld, leading to an initiation into occult mysteries. St. Clair and her husband's Counter Cultural activities included involved in neo-paganism and and Sign of the Labrys is filled with symbolism derived from such alternative religious practices. Much more interesting, though, are the levels of the subterranean complex itself, each of which has a distinct character of its own. I have read others surmise that it was for this reason that Gary Gygax recommended the book, with the complex being a prototype of the dungeons of D&D. I'm agnostic on this particular point. In the absence of a quote from Gygax where he specifically credits St. Clair for having inspired dungeons, I think it's much more likely that this was one of his inspirations rather than being the primary (or sole) one. Regardless, Sign of the Labrys is worth reading if you have an interest in odd, idiosyncratic science fantasy of the sort the 1960s and '70s produced in abundance.

Alternate Humanoids

Today's Pulp Fantasy Library featured monsters called "gnoles" which were first referenced in a short story by Lord Dunsany. Though Gary Gygax gave different answers at different times, OD&D's entry on gnolls nevertheless makes reference to Dunsany, implying that the Anglo-Irish author was the ultimate inspiration for these antagonistic humanoids. 

Dunsany doesn't describe his gnoles in any detail, leaving it to the imagination of his readers. Consequently, the entry for gnolls in Volume I of OD&D theorizes that they are a "cross between Gnomes and Trolls," despite the fact it later states that the gnoll king's bodyguards "fight as Trolls but lack regenerative power." There's no suggestion whatsoever of their being hyena-headed, something I don't believe appears prior to the publication of the Monster Manual (though, as always, feel free to correct me in the comments if I am mistaken).

This relative lack of detail extends to all the monstrous humanoids in the game. Other than being small and poorly adapted to daylight, for example, neither goblins nor kobolds receive any detail. Orcs and hogoblins are not much different. Greyhawk gives us bugbears and says they are "great hairy goblin-giants" with a "shambling gait," but is otherwise silent on the matter of their appearance (though there is a genuinely compelling depiction of them on the inside back cover that features a jack-o-lantern as a head).

Why mention all of this? I've talked before about my unhappiness with the enervating self-referentiality of Dungeons & Dragons. This is a feature of all editions of the game after OD&D and necessarily so, since they all build on one another (with the possible exception of the much-hated 4e which, for all its manifest faults, did genuinely try to break free of the shackles of the past). When I first read the Holmes Basic Set or even the Monster Manual, this was all fresh and imaginative and it powerfully seized my imagination – as you would expect, given its novelty to me. 

With time, though, it's inevitable that I wouldn't feel quite as enthusiastic about the standard presentation of monstrous humanoids in the game. So I find myself returning to OD&D and using what little it presents as the basis for my own interpretations of these enemies. As I further develop Urheim, I'll share what I've come up with here. My goal is twofold: to imagine unique versions of classic monsters that convey the distinct flavor of my campaign setting and to show that this cane be done without the need for mechanical changes. That is, even if, for example, my take on orcs or kobolds is different from the received D&D version, it will still be mechanically compatible with the one everyone already knows. I don't want to create a new game, just show how the existing game can be used in (I hope) imaginative new ways.

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Man Who Sold Rope to the Gnoles

If I had to pick the most obscure author listed in Appendix N, Margaret St. Clair would almost certainly be whom I'd choose. Despite the fact that she wrote at least two books that had an influence on Gygax – The Sign of the Labrys and The Shadow People – I think it's safe to say that very few players of Dungeons & Dragons have ever heard her name, let alone read one of her stories. 

I can't fault anyone for not having heard of St. Clair. I'm fairly certain I'd never encountered her name prior to seeing it in the Dungeon Masters Guide and, even then, finding an actual book with her byline wasn't easy. Why she is largely unknown is a mystery to me. If I had to guess, it's that she broke into the pulp scene during the late 1940s, which was after the golden age of the pulps that is now so familiar and celebrated. If so, it's ironic, as St. Clair's writing is very much in keeping with the ideas and themes of her more acclaimed colleagues. 

A case in point is her short story, "The Man Who Sold Rope to the Gnoles." Written under the pseudonym of Idris Seabright, the story originally appeared in the October 1951 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (which also featured stories by Richard Mattheson, Alfred Bester, L. Sprague de Camp, and Fletcher Pratt). The gnoles of the title are a reference to a short story from Lord Dunsany's The Book of Wonder, "How Nuth Would Have Practised His Art upon the Gnoles." Dunsany's tale is ostensibly about how the titular character, a professional burglar, attempts to steal from the monstrous gnoles – and it is – but it's also a satirical meditation on capitalism and monsters.

St. Clair's own short story is not a sequel or continuation of Dunsany's tale but I'd say that one's enjoyment of it is increased by familiarity with its predecessor. Both explore similar themes and do so in humorous ways. The difference, in my opinion, is that "The Man Who Sold Rope to the Gnoles" is much darker, even horrific, than Dunsany's narrative and it's precisely for that reason that I find it so memorable. The story begins thusly:

The gnoles have a bad reputation, and Mortensen was quite aware of this. But he reasoned, correctly enough, that cordage must be something for which the gnoles had a long unsatisfied want, and he saw no reason why he should not be the one to sell to them. What a triumph such a sale would be! The district sales manager might single out Mortensen for special mention at the annual sales-force dinner. It would help his sales quota enormously. And, after all, it was none of his business what the gnoles used cordage for.

From the very beginning, the tone of the story is clear and St. Clair takes full advantage of this breezy, almost light-hearted spirit, drawing the reader to conclude that this will be a fun little piece utterly lacking in punch. Mortensen, his Manual of Modern Salesmanship in hand as his guide, continues toward his intended goal.

The gnoles live on the very edge of Terra Cognita, on the far side of a wood which all authorities unite in describing as dubious. Their house is narrow and high, in architecture a blend of Victorian Gothic and Swiss chalet. Though the house needs paint, it is kept in good repair. Thither on Thursday morning, sample case in hand, Mortensen took his way.

No path leads to the house of the gnoles, and it is always dark in the dubious wood. But Mortensen, remembering what he had learned at his mother's knee concerning the odor of gnoles, found the house quite easily. For a moment he stood hesitating before it. His lips moved as he repeated, "Good morning. I have come to supply your cordage requirements," to himself. The words were the beginning of his sales talk. Then he went up and rapped on the door.

It's at this point that the story slowly begins to make a turn toward horror, but the turn is so slow, so subtle that the reader might not notice it at first. On the surface, not much has changed. Mortensen proceeds to greet the gnoles, enter the home, and make his sales pitch without taking any heed of the danger into which he has thrown himself. Yet, things are most definitely not what they seem and St. Clair masterfully conveys this switch from the fanciful to the dreadful with assurance. The story's final paragraph is indeed shuddersome and further demonstration, if such were needed, of St. Clair's skill as a writer.

As an aside, roleplayers might well wonder whether the D&D gnoll in any way derives from either Dunsany or St. Clair. There is no clear answer for, although OD&D Volume II makes reference to Lord Dunsany (or "Sunsany" in the actual text) in the entry for gnolls, Dunsany does not describe them in any detail. St. Clair offers a little more but what she says does not comport in any way with the AD&D-derived idea that gnolls are hynea-headed humanoids. Further, Gygax's original description stated that they were "a cross between Gnomes and Trolls," whatever that means. For my part, I like the fact that the description of OD&D's gnolls are so vague and encourage referees to decide for themselves what these monsters look like. 

Pulp Fantasy Library: The Shadow People

When one looks at the list of authors Gary Gygax assembled in Appendix N, chances are good that most of the names at least are familiar, even if one hasn't read the particular stories associated with them. They're a veritable who's who of pre-1970s fantasy and science fiction, writers whose works formed the canon of these genres. A notable exception is Margaret St. Clair, one of only two women on the list -- the other being Leigh Brackett -- and one whose name was utterly unknown to me, never mind her novels.

When I was a younger man, I had no trouble getting hold of books by Howard or Merritt or Leiber, so I devoured those and promptly forgot about St. Clair and her 1969 novel The Shadow People. It wasn't until years later that I actually came across a copy of it in a used book store and picked it up on a whim. I dimly recalled the name and figured it might be worth reading if Gary considered it an inspiration on AD&D.

I'm glad I did so, because, whatever its shortcomings as a novel, it's one that (I think) gives some insight into the origin of everyone's favorite dark elves, the drow. The Shadow People is about human beings stumbling upon the dark fairy world that exist just behind the walls of certain places in the world, where twisted, emaciated elves lay in wait, plotting the downfall of the world above. Addicted to hallucinogenic fungi, their plots often go awry thanks to their penchant for treachery against their own kind, a trait that has probably saved humanity far more than outright heroics against the dark elves.

It's hard not to see the drow in St. Clair's dark elves, but perhaps I'm simply projecting them backward in time. After all, part of the drow's appeal is how archetypal they are. They draw so brilliantly on centuries of myths and legends about dark elves while having their own unique spin that they seem exactly as our subconscious would imagine them to be. St. Clair's dark elves have similar qualities, though they are a bit more explicitly mythical than are the drow, right down to their use of the hallucinogenic fungi to lure human beings into their own surreal kingdom.

I can certainly see why Gygax found the book so attractive. He had a great love for creepy fairy realms, something that reached its fullest flower in his post-D&D games, Mythus and Lejendary Adventure. The Shadow People is well written and enjoyable as a story in its own right, but I found it particularly useful for its presentation of another take on dark elves. I found myself with plenty of great ideas to swipe for my Dwimmermount campaign and I suspect I won't be the only referee mining St. Clair's novel in this way.