Hereticwerks

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Aero-Droid Rediscovered.

I discovered a stack of old sketches and notes for a series of 'strangedroid' paper-minis earlier this week. funny what can happen when you get around to cleaning your desk/workspace. ahem.

I stuck with a simple grayscale approach to this one originally because it was a 'proof-of-concept' sort of thing. Now i'm going to paint it up in spiffy colors and get the rest of the set finished.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Fleshwrought Servitors of Varug

Quote-bit

Fleshwrought Servitors of Varug
(Standard Order Servitor)
No. Enc.: 1 (1)
Alignment: Neutral (Inimical)
Movement: 120' (Fly/Levitate)
Armor Class: 3[16]
Hit Dice: 5
Attacks: 2 or 1 (Weapons or bite)
Damage: 1d6, 1d6 or 2d4+2
Save: F7
Morale: 12 (Suffers -4 penalty when confronted with the Sign of Drallik)

Standard Servitor Abilities: Tactile sight (90'), Telepathy (only human languages can be used), Teleport (Once per day). Immunities/Resistances: Electrical, Poison and Gas attacks only do half-damage. Immune to Illusions/glamers, but can be Charmed and are reported to be very susceptible to Suggestion or Hypnosis.
Take double damage from bronze, bone, stone or wood weapons.

The Fleshwrought were once human beings. Once, but no more. Their bodies were left behind on alien planes by their comrades, abandoned within unwholesome places by circumstance or design, or otherwise lost to the forces beyond the comforting boundaries of the mortal world. There they were found by the prowling hound-things of Varug and subjected to the foul ministrations of his bone-masked minions. The flesh of these forlorn and fallen adventurers has been remolded in mad and bizarre ways, restructured to eliminate their faces, extinguish their former identity, and to make them fitting slaves to the Keepers of the Bone Cages and the Lords of Squirmkeep.

The Fleshwrought are called forth by use of a variation of the Conjure Servitor spell:

Conjure Fleshwrought Servitor
Level: 4
Duration: 1d6 rounds per hit point sacrificed
Range: 10' per level of caster

This spell can only be cast if there is a sufficient amount of living flesh arranged within the Six Nested Hexagons chalked on a suitable flat surface. None of the extant sources give any hints as to what constitutes 'a sufficient amount' of flesh, so one must use their ingenuity or invest some time and effort trying to get that worked out through divination, interrogation or whatever means gets best results.

Fleshwrought Servitors called forth by this spell are not brought under the control of the summoner; that requires another spell, rite or device...or special dispensation from Varug or his cult.

If the caster has possession of one of the authentic Amber and Bone Orbs of Kilushak from before the grievous inundation, they are said to gain the option to call forth stronger Fleshwrought Servitors than usual by a simple expenditure of one's personal hit points at a rate of one hit point granting 1d4 additional hit points to the conjured servitor. Of course, those servitors that have higher HD than the summoner's level as a spell-caster tend to be much more difficult to control and have been known to devour the one who called them forth as it was far easier than the task they were assigned.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Review: The Manor (Issue 6)

Click Here to Order

The Manor is Tim Short's old school RPG zine. Issue 6 features The Brothel of Wargumn by Matt Jackson, The Guard (an NPC class for beefing up those guys who the player characters are always running into), a D20 table for Random Guard Greetings, Getting from Point A to Point B by Ken Harrison, and Witches of the Dark Moon, a low-level one-shot adventure that features a new monstrous spiders, new spells, and a werespider witch who could easily sneak off to become a recurring NPC antagonist for a party of low-level characters. The Dark Moon scenario was inspired by Tim Brannon's incredible RPG-Tome The Witch and Dylan Hartwell's Big Book of Spiders. Both scenarios are excellent and are accompanied by maps by Matt Jackson, with art from Jason Sholtis and Dylan Hartwell. The Brothel scenario by Matt Jackson is one of the most highly entertaining scenarios you're likely to read any time soon--it manages to be both distinctively gritty and memorably oddball in equal measure. All in all this is a great zine that manages to pack quite a punch in only 28 pages. Highly recommended!

PDF version is available at RPGNow or Lulu for $2.50, which is a bargain.
Print version is available from Gothridge Manor Games for $4.00 ($4.50 to Canada, $5.00 to the Rest of the World).

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Sewers and Cellars of Wermspittle (Encounter Table III)

Then came the locked cellar door, and the search for something to break it down. A heavy stool stood near, and its tough seat was more than enough for the antique panels. A crack formed and enlarged, and the whole door gave way—but from the other side; whence poured a howling tumult of ice-cold wind with all the stenches of the bottomless pit, and whence reached a sucking force not of earth or heaven, which, coiling sentiently about the paralysed detective, dragged him through the aperture and down unmeasured spaces filled with whispers and wails, and gusts of mocking laughter...

The Horror at Red Hook, by H. P. Lovecraft

Sewer and Cellar Encounters Table III (D30)

Six barrels of Spectral Brine have been roughly pushed up against the far wall. They are leaking. The muck at your feet faintly glows and you're already feeling sick.
There is a small (6' diameter) Maelstrom swirling at the center of this muddy, mucky-floored cellar. Only the whirlpool is on the ceiling. Every ten minutes the Maestrom's sucking force grows stronger and stronger until, after the third hour it is creating something of an inverted/reverse hurricane. Then it settles down to a light draught once again. The cycle is a bit erratic. The tenants above have barred the door to keep anyone else from getting taken away by the violent winds this thing causes.
A small, possibly immature Yoggidam packed in some kind of brine inside a heavy glass jar. Someone's specimen? A torn messenger-bag, a scuffed-up pair of airship-mechanic's goggles (left lens is missing), and some incidental trash gives the impression that a Forager may have hid out here not long ago. Perhaps they left the jar behind by accident?
Congratulations. Right there in the muck nearest your good right foot there's a Dread Penny staring right back up at you. Don't mind the half-dissolved gas mask and the six empty carboys labelled 'sulfurick acid.' It's probably safe to pick it up...
There must be at least twenty penguin carcasses hanging from the beams overhead. All of them skinned, salted and smoked...and sprouting the wriggly green tendrils of some pernicious and vicious form of fungi. This is why the Tsalalians prefer to use attics.
Three, perhaps four bodies are crumpled and curled up along the left-hand wall. Each one is covered in the distinctive gritty-sooty residue left behind by Black Smoke.
They were doing some work up above, renovating the old place. Then the floor collapsed and everything fell down here, into the basement. Three of the workers might have survived, if they hadn't been locked in here. With the rats. You might not see them right away. You might not even hear them immediately. Stick around and you will meet them soon enough. There are hundreds of rats running around in the warrens surrounding this basement. Their incessant digging has weakened the foundations of several buildings next to this one.
Seven circles of heavy translucent moon-metal chains encircle a trapped Insectillar. The chains are anchored into the floor with six-foot spikes of hardened greenbrass. You're about two steps away from awakening the guardians--the creature weakly informs you through its heavily suppressed telepathy.
A section of the ceiling has been compromised by the runners and shoots of some sort of Red Weeds. This particular infestation is still quite fresh and very vulnerable. The leaves are streaked with pale blotches of orange and there are pulsing, bulbous growths dangling form the ceiling that resemble mandrakes crossed with lumpy potatoes. Should you burn it or call some experts?
The floor is flooded to a depth of just under four feet. There are blind catfish swimming about. You've just surprised a pair of kids who were fishing. They're climbing through a window that is only partly boarded-over. One of them dropped their pole. A large fish is dragging it along the rubble and gravel slope that used to be the lower part of the wall near the entry-window.
Something, or someone, is watching you. It's exceedingly dark in here, possibly because of a spell. It reeks of moldy persimmons. Some merchant caravan has used this cellar for storage the last two summers. Something else has taken up residence while they're gone. Three Morlock runes have been scraped deep into the limestone above an old door that has been cut in half and fitted over the bolt-hole in one of the back corners. It is locked. With poison needles still sticking out of the mechanism from the last intruder's unsuccessful attempt to gain entry.
A pair of Grunters are playing some form of gambling-game with the hacked-apart finger-sections of some previous intruder. One of them carries an air-tight greenbrass tube that holds a rolled-up map to a series of three captured Weak Points that will take you to the outer perimeter of the most recent base of operations for their Queen-General's main army. The passwords are scrawled next to each of the Weak Point symbols, against all regulations and orders. You might have heard a few whispers or rumors that Idvard might be interested in something like this...and he has a good reputation for being generous to those who bring him things he wants or needs. The other Grunter, a corporal blind in one eye, wears a black iron ring that can be used to call forth a wall of tangled, burning black iron blades and spikes directly from Kalkendru that will persist in its bilocation for one hour before collapsing into the space it has been summoned into (20%), or back into Kalkendru (70%)...or just simply disappearing into some indeterminate non-space (10%), possibly taking along anything/anyone unfortunate enough to be entangled within it. The ring works once a day and costs the used 1d4 hit points to activate. It is meant to hurt. It also has three other functions, but those are unknown to the corporal.
There is a layer of curdled mud covering the floor to a depth of 4 inches. There are traces of the mud extending up the walls for more than three feet. The carcass of a dead crocodile lies twisted-up in a painful looking manner just out of the mud in what must have been its death throes. It appears to have been digging into the base of the far wall. That section has partially collapsed. Trapping the beast's head under a heavy pile of stones, bricks and blocks. Removing the debris will re-flood the basement. The crocodile is slightly squirmy to the touch--its insides are filled with maggots and eggs about to erupt into a swarm of cellar flies.
The good right arm of an Iron Pig lies in the middle of the floor.
A scratched, pitted and slightly dented Hexagon of Bohz lies partly embedded in the floor. It was improperly prepared. A casual inspection will readily reveal the shoddy workmanship. Polyps are unforgiving; they also have very high standards.
Three feet past the door everything is blocked-off by the dried-out form of a massive, gigantic Gunpowder Grub packed with well over 43 tons of unstable gunpowder. Please tell me that you're not using torches with an open flame...
Someone's wine cellar. Left over from better days. The entire space is infested with purple-spotted spiders. Hordes of the things. Past the third set of wine bottles in their racks you can see multiple cocoon-like masses dangling from the ceiling. One might even be writhing a bit. Are they victims or massive egg-sacs? From here you can't really tell...
Bubbles? Yes. There's an Orb Cluster trapped down here because there are no Weak Points available to it, and all the Ley-Lines in the area have been somehow re-routed or blocked. How is that possible?
Sixteen bales of moldy Yellow Wallpaper were stored down here right before the place up above was burned-out due to arson. Everyone blames a gang of Feral Children. Perhaps it was a Yellow Kid or a Creeper that escaped from the Wallpaper instead? Maybe it doesn't matter. Whoever did the arson is long gone. The bales of this horrid stuff are still here. How do you dispose of it?
Three arrows tipped with Yirgao-teeth. One has blood on the fletchings, which are harpy-feathers.
Either that's a Sallow Stain, a Loathsome Mass or a Wet Spot that is seeping into this space over by the right wall.
She might have been pretty. Before. Now she's a real mess. Those kids didn't leave much of her personal possessions behind after they stripped her corpse. Just the Gore Worms breeding in her heavily distended belly. There are a few blood-soaked maps, a half-burned atlas, and a small pocket notebook left in her torn-apart belt pack. The pocket notebook contains numerous references to someone named 'Bujilli.' She was sent here by her older sister. A Zurian Princess.
A deserter made this space into a decent little home-away-from-the-Ramparts, up until the Takers caught up with him. There are (1d4) cans of pickled meat and some penguin-jerky (spoiled) behind the over-turned end table. There is also a Hole in the Wall that you might want t take a closer look at...
Pods. Six, child-sized pods of some wrinkly, almost scrotum-like plant material, split down the middle, flecked and speckled with a pungent off-white foam that reeks of rancid parsley. They're empty.
Someone has piled-up forty-three rolls of sod in this space. All of it is dried-out now.
A broken guitar. The strings have been removed. With a dull knife.
The deal went bad. A panicked Eloi in fishscale armor tries to force their way past you. They botched their attempt to work out an arrangement with the Withering Mist behind them.

Jusgat de la Vardin [Eloi, AL N, MV 100' (30'), AC 6 (fish-scale caster-armor), HD 3, #AT 1, DG 1d4+poison (glass dagger filled with arsenic), SV MU3, ML 4, (Spells per day: 2,1) Level One: Hammer Toe, Needle-Fling, Shield, Sleep. Level Two: ESP, Kazwen's Reflections, Knock.] They left their scroll of Call Withering Mist behind.
A lilac and almond striped disk of pressed-chitin embossed with the twenty-seven characters of the click-speech of Nhor. Successfully reading the disk, even to oneself, summons a 4 HD War Grub.
The gnawed femur-bone of an Almas. Each end is wrapped tightly in sinew and braided hair over a cap of thick felt. There is a swarm trapped inside it. You'll need to open it to find out what kind...
Six feet deep. The piles of dead frogs are six feet deep in here...

Sewers & Cellars: Encounters Table I | Sewers & Cellars: Encounters Table II
Sewers & Cellars: Encounters Table III | Sewers & Cellars: Encounter Table IV

Local Authorities: Cellar Inspectors in Wermspittle
Making the Prinn Street Rounds | Beneath Suydum Blvd | The Butler Street Station
Cellar Inspectors: PreGen Characters

Wermspittle Index

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Killing Frost

Winter rarely leaves gracefully in Wermspittle, nor even completely, if you believe the tales of Foragers and other scavengers. Out past the barriers, where trees and Red Weeds are reclaiming the ruins and rubble left from the bombs and fires, if you manage to avoid the sticky strands of Yellow Death or the lingering patches of Black Smoke, you might run afoul of the Killing Frost.

Killing Frost is considered to be almost a type of hazardous terrain or aberrant weather effect that is distinctly different from Blue Frost. It appears suddenly, with little warning, causing an area of up to 30' in diameter to suddenly plunge into extremely cold conditions. Heavy layers of frost and ice form rapidly across every surface. The area radiates such intense cold that those caught in the effect suffer damage as though they were exposed to the worst arctic conditions. Then, within 10 minutes or less, the Killing Frost fades and everything goes back to normal.

There were no recorded reports of Killing Frost in Wermspittle prior to the Parzguin Expedition into the heart of the Glowfield. Perhaps this is just a coincidence, though some Yellow Journalists have taken the position that somehow, someway the members of that ill-fated expedition brought back something that now prowls about the place and the Killing Frost is simply some sort of after-effect of its passing. It is an intriguing theory, but one that has yet to be tested by accredited experts. With the recent transfer of Gnosiomandus away from the Academy it is unclear who or what department might eventually take up this matter...

Friday, July 11, 2014

Sickly, Yellow Phantoms

Boxer's wrath, shamelessness of Fauns, you whose genius
Showed to us the beauty in a villain,
Great heart filled with pride, sickly, yellow man,
Puget, melancholy emperor of galley slaves...

Fleurs du Mal,

Chucky Baudelaire

Sickly, Yellow Phantoms
(A.K.A. Melancholy Emperors, Shamewraiths, Monument-Minders)

The ironic hoots of these forlorn phantoms echo about the Jumbles, but can be heard at times from the ruins surrounding the White Sphinx, or from within the Burned Over Districts or deep in the Baffles. They haunt desecrated reliquaries, looted ossuaries, plunder crypts and the shattered and battered monuments of long gone and forgotten tyrants, despots and other civic-minded and legacy-minded rulers and potentates. to some they are a reminder of inconvenient truths and the inconstancy of politics. To others they are a lingering vestige of the slowly intrusive horrors visited upon Wermspittle by the cold, unsympathetic fungal intellects of Yellowholm.

Hooded, shrouded or robed, wearing elegant leather gloves they have made from the skins of their ancient enemies, these sickly, yellow phantoms rarely leave their beloved ruins where they brood over omens and portents of days long past. They keep a record of ancient prophecies. They maintain the hoary traditions of soothsayers and other prescient scoundrels everyone else has forgotten. They preserve the secrets, keep the mysteries, hoard the lore, observe the forms and defend the Sybelline Grottoes where they tend the inscribed leaves of plants that know too much.

No one is certain whether they are truly undead or merely some form of parasitical fungi, or something else entirely. For a price, a small sacrifice, they will perform any of a hundred or more forms of divination for you. But it will take a great deal to get them to break their sullen silence, to utter more than a few strange hoots or warbling gurgles, ironic or otherwise. They will show you the results, but they never interpret the spectral evidence they provide, never explain; to them the answers are always self-evident.

They tolerate the momentary presence of those who approach them out of respect and will render such results as they may according to the merit of the offering and the whims of the particular phantom.

However, when provoked they breathe forth their notorious yellow flames that inflict slow-healing burns that are prone to vicious fungal infections, or they will employ one of the Six Yellow Signs, or use some ancient and obscure spell only to be found within the yellow pages of the psychotropic grimoires these beings are said to grow like mushrooms in dark, deserted places known only to them. For a suitable price they will allow those they deem worthy to study certain of these living grimoires. The spells made available in this fashion are strange and sometimes wonderful, often terrible. Some do not survive the process of transmission. A few are reduced to gibbering wrecks or shapeless masses of spore-ridden ooze. But for those who succeed, who survive, there is power to be had; and in the end that is all that matters to some.

And shadowed on a screen, I saw hooded forms amidst ruins, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments...

Nyarlathotep

H. P. Lovecraft

Sinspiration: Les Fleurs du Mal/Flowers of Evil by Little Chucky Baudelaire, Maldoror by Comte De Lautremont, and of course, Nyarlathotep by HPL, the poem, not the entity...oh wait...

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Bujilli: Episode 97

Previously...
Bujilli brought Leeja to the Grampus and Krampus Tavern where they met green-toothed Triddel and Vushka, who was now the owner of the place. Vushka promised to help, gave them a room, and went off to carry out some errands, leaving Bujilli alone with an unconscious Leeja. So he put the time to good use and started reading through one of the Little Brown Journals he had stolen from his Uncle, who had in turn stolen them from Bujilli's father...

There was a knock at the door. He was on the twenty seventh page. They knocked again. He considered giving whomever it was a taste of the Red Light of Kulva...but that would be stupid. Besides he was ravenously hungry.

"Yes?" he waited to hear their response before opening the door.

Nothing.

He pulled out his hand-axe. Just in case. Then Bujilli unlocked the door and pushed it open just a small bit.

There was a tray on the floor beside the door. Food. He leaned out and looked along the hallway in both directions.

Nothing.

He slipped his hand-axe back in his belt-loop then picked-up the tray.

The soup smelled good. He placed it on the table and turned back to close the door.

"What have you done with Leeja?" screeched the green-toothed bar-maid. She had a cleaver in one had and a pistol of some sort in the other. The cleaver jittered in her shaking hand. The pistol was aimed right at his chest, for the most part.

Bujilli distrusted firearms. They were too damn loud. They also seemed to grant idiots far more courage than was usually healthy. Perhaps it was some sort of talismanic effect.

He lunged for the door and slammed it hard on the startled bar-maid's arm. Her pistol clattered to the floor. Triddel screamed. Bujilli let up the pressure then slammed it down again to make sure she wasn't going to forget what happened when she tried to ambush him.

"Let me go damn you!" Triddel screeched in six voices at once.

Then he knew.

She was werm-ridden.

One of the Host.

The faction that had once enslaved Sharisse**...until Bujili had restored her humanity.

The Wermic Host hated him for what he had done.

"Too bad your masters have decided to attack me--"

"No! NO! I did not attack you! I'm not here to hurt anyone!"

"Pointing a pistol at me? Waving a cleaver around? Sure. You just wanted to talk. Right." he considered breaking her arm or using a spell on her.

"No! You've got it all wrong. I needed to make sure that you'd listen--"

"I'm listening."

"But..."

"You're not coming in. If you have something to say, get on with it or else I intend to make you--and your masters--regret this unwelcome intrusion."

"No! No offense was meant. My masters...they want to reach an understanding with you...they want to make a deal."

"Deal? What kind of deal?" Bujilli watched Triddel's arm writhe bonelessly. She was far-gone. He doubted he could break her arm by simply jamming the door on it; her bones were mostly some sort of wermic-cartilage now.

"A truce."

He almost laughed. Instead he stepped back from the door. She retracted her arm. He nudged it open. She had dropped her cleaver.

"A truce? What kind of truce?" Bujilli was incredulous. He did not trust these things.

"We would let you live in peace for so long as you left us in peace. Fairly simple, nothing onerous, and certainly nothing to compromise your personal principles." The chorus of wermic-voices sent a shiver down his spine.

Bujilli bowed his head ever so slightly so he could check on Leeja--she was still asleep. He looked closely at Triddel. Her skin was wrinkled and sagged awkwardly where werms crawled underneath. Whatever looked at him from behind those eyes, the no-longer-young bar-maid was little more than a prisoner trapped within her outrageously parasitized body.

For a moment, a brief shining moment, he considered attempting to free her of the werms as he had done for Sharisse.

But she was too far gone.

The werms owned Triddel body and soul.

He hated them for that.

Boom!

Pulpy white werm-bits and brain-matter spattered across the wall.

"Death to tyrants." Bujilli called-up the Purging Green Flame he had used to drive the werms from Sharisse*** and used them to do what he could for Triddel. At least she could be free in death.

The green flames reduced the screeching mass of werms and what little was left of the bar-maid's body to a fine white ash.

Bujilli stood there for quite a while, just staring at the ash as it swirled and settled on the carpeting. It left a bitter taste in his mouth in more ways than one.

He needed some way to respond to the werms that wasn't simply destroying them and their hosts. He had been able to salvage Sharisse from their clutches...but she had been young and only recently taken over.

How could he drive these things out without killing or further harming the hosts?

Was such a thing even possible?

If old men could lob exploding orbs of fire at one another and a few words and a gesture could let him breathe in a place without air then anything was possible. He just needed to learn more. Dig deeper.

Bujilli closed the door on Triddel's ashes.

He ignored the soup.

It was time to get serious about these spells in his father's Little Brown Journal. He re-opened the little booklet at the beginning and began to read in earnest. The first few entries were anecdotal jottings concerned with his father's exploration of an abandoned mountain redoubt where he discovered what was left of a once great library of metallic scrolls and whispering tablets. It was there that Lyhydris had transcribed his notes regarding the Twenty Deadly Planes. Bujilli read through his father's notes eagerly. Some sections required re-reading a few times to get them worked-out in his head, but it all made sense; it all was workable. He would need to attempt an attunement to test things out. But that he could do. Eventually. The Six Low Forms fit with what his uncle had taught him and gave him ideas for how he might modify some of the spells he already knew quite well. The Higher Forms could wait, for now. He needed to build a good foundation before rushing into things he wasn't ready to handle just yet.

He committed several new spells to his repertoire, transcribing them into his own spell-book and impressing them onto his brain through the usual mnemonic processes. Time meant nothing. He lost himself in his studies.

Bujilli caught himself before he fell out of the chair. His neck was stiff. He'd fallen asleep studying the Little Brown Journal again. His eyes were blurry from long and weary contemplation of obscure trivia and esoteric formulas. The room was stuffy. He could use a bath. The candle had burned itself out. It must be late at night.

Tap.

He rolled to his feet. Hand-axe at the ready. A Gestural Glob on the very verge of forming around his left hand. Perhaps he'd get a chance to test this new spell out...

Tap. Tap.

The window. Something was tap, tap, tapping at the window. He went over and pulled wide the heavy drapes, raised the armored blinds and cranked open the shutters. Slowly. He wanted to see what was out there, but he wasn't about to let it break into the room either.

A flat paper packet of some sort. Two packets. Both shoved past the shutters toward the glass by a smallish, hairy paw.

Bujilli cranked the shutters open farther. A winged monkey wearing the uniform tunic of the Night Mail latched onto the extended window sill and held the letters up against the window.

It took a moment to figure out how to open the window. The winged monkey waited patiently.

The window rose grudgingly; no one had opened it in ages. The winged monkey hopped to the edge of the window and proffered the two letters to Bujilli. He could see that they were marked. Graceful handwriting. His name in flowing, looping Franzik if he wasn't mistaken. The other one was marked in blocky, gothic Pruztian characters. It was for Leeja.

Bujilli reached out and took the letters from the winged monkey. It tipped his little hat and flew off, a satchel of letters and parcels dangling and swaying as it fluttered along its route to the next customer.

There were heavy clouds overhead. Another thunder storm was approaching. He watched the clouds move in front of the bright crescent moon. Just as the moonlight failed he spotted one, no two, three Tripods stalking through the Farm Market. Smoke curled up from the burning stalls and wagons. Somewhere nearby he could hear a Black Smoke alarm clanging away.

He closed the window. Cranked the shutters closed. Went to the door and listened. Nothing. Whatever was going on, it was far enough away that they had time to decide what to do next.

Bujilli checked on Leeja. She stirred in her sleep. Restless. Uneasy. Agitated. He sat down on the bed next to her and considered the two letters.

He cast Gloomlight, letting the little glyph float close enough to the letter to not disturb Leeja too much. He had read through a section of the Little Brown Journal that expanded upon the basic framework of the old Lurmish spell and now he now knew six ways to modify it to better suit his needs.

He set Leeja's letter down, examined the one addressed to him. It carried the faint scent of something vaguely familiar. Exotic. Feminine? It felt so. But he couldn't place it. The black wax seal bubbled and evaporated as he went to scrape it off. The evaporating wax left the impression of a very ornate letter 'Y' on the envelope. One sheet of crisp gray werm-vellum slid out smoothly into his hand:

Bujilli,
Thank you for your warning. If you had not come to my husband and myself when you did, we might have shared Headmistress Shael's fate. It is unfortunate, what has happened, but nothing very new or particularly shocking to those who are aware of its history. Whether you stay or go, I want you to know that you have made a difference in your short time among us. You have made enemies, as anyone in your situation would; but you have also made some friends.

War is not coming to Wermspittle--it never left. Shael broke the third covenant and for that we will all pay a steep price. But it is better this way. I believe that. I believe in you. Now.

Yushgra
Consort-protector to Morquin

There was a glyph of some sort embedded within the werm-vellum. It glinted like oily metal in the Gloomlight. He could feel it tug at his hand ever so slightly. It was some sort of spell-cyst. Or perhaps it was a glyph-map. It might be a apport-junction. He examined it with his sorcerer's vision--faint lines of force curled around the thing, but nothing led outwards, nothing obvious, nothing he could detect. It was not a ley-line nexus...unless Yushgra knew some way to suppress the connections far more deeply than he could see...and that was unlikely. It just didn't radiate that kind of signature. It was certainly compressed, but it was also keyed to him--personally--the reaction to his aura was unmistakable. Whatever it was, it was meant for him. Personally.

He wasn't sure what he thought of that.

Yushgra had made him uncomfortable. She was one of the Perdu. Born invisible, their ancestors had been exposed to hazardous chemicals and then subjected to medical experiments by defrocked pharmacists and other quacks. The Perdu, and their offspring the Abseen, were notorious thieves and scholars lauded for their acute perceptions even as they were reviled for their duplicitous schemes and opaque manipulations, they were considered both native to Wermspittle and a fitting punishment or pox on the place.

The assassins who had struck Mama Rudta's alley-camp* had been Abseen. Invisible kin to the Perdu.

He wasn't sure what to think, let alone believe.

Leeja stirred. He shifted position so as not to disturb her farther. He felt he should stay close to her. Something about her expression troubled him.

Knock.

Someone was at the door.

He got up from the chair. Stretched the stiffness out as best he could. Drew out his hand-axe--like an idiot he had not re-loaded his pistol.

Knock-knock.

"Yes?" He called through the door.

"I haven't much time..." grumbled a familiar voice.

Bujilli opened the door. His mentor and sponsor at the Academy, Gnosiomandus, shuffled into the room and shut the door behind him.

"I brought you something." The old man held out a heavily-wrapped parcel. It looked like three old books.

"What?"

"You came here seeking knowledge you were not going to get anywhere else. I promised to help you in that pursuit and I intend to keep my promise."

"But--"

"Things are going from bad to worse and I'm not inclined to stick around for the inevitable pogroms and executions and all that scheiss all over again. I'm leaving. My things have already been shipped-out to three different destinations and before I head off across the mountains I want to give you these," Gnosiomandus foisted the books on Bujilli.

"What?"

"The Blue Grimoire is a compendium of the more common sorts of spells and their most well-known variants you'll find in Wermspittle. There is an annual supplement that I used to help put together that was available by subscription. I put you in for a subscription and paid for it for the next ten years when I cashed-out my accounts. So if it manages to continue, you'll have that to look forward to. The Red Bestiary is an incomplete copy of my working manuscript. I don't know now if I'll ever get a chance to finish it, but it might come in handy whether you stick around here or head off for somewhere else. The Yellow Pages is another grimoire, taken from Secondspittle, Yellowholm, whatever they're calling the ruined place on the otherside of the Eastern Gate of the Inner Ramparts. A group of us recovered this grimoire from the wreckage of the parallel city over there. Half of us died from fungal infections or worse before we realized what was happening. If you want to get to the root of why Wermspittle is the way it is, you'll find answers there, if you survive. It's a perilous, harrowing place. Make damned sure you don't go alone. Take flame-throwers if you can. I suggest talking to the Middle-Sized Bear if you plan on going over there. Leeja has already met them. You might find yourself with another friend if you're lucky. She has a fondness for honey-taffy. Ever since she stopped drinking, that's her only weakness; but I didn't say anything. I think the Voormis might have an easier time relating to you than your partner there, now that they think she's some sort of demoness."

"I--"

"No need to thank me lad. Consider it my gift to you, at least the Red Bestiary; that I haven't shared with too many people as yet, being a work-in-progress. I ought to have gotten you a copy of the Blue Grimoire right away, but I just assumed you were like every other student and would have a copy in-hand already. A grievous oversight, I know, but I have rectified it now. The other one there...well...it's a dangerous, damnable thing...but I have the impression that you know your way around such stuff fairly well, based on your heritage and what I know of your upbringing. I only hope it doesn't prove a let-down after studying Tsannic Rites, amorphic wards, geist-kills and the more tactical forms you've been examining."

"You know what I've been doing?"

"Of course! I've done my level best to keep an eye on you both. If I hadn't been ambushed by the Faceless or nearly skewered by a Wretched Lord's ahlspeiss, I would have gotten to you sooner. Oh, before I forget, here--" He handed-over another, smaller bundle; "This is for Leeja when she wakes up. Hedrard sends her blessing and wants to let you know that she's reachable via that amulet she gave you, if you ever decide to re-open the link. Eberhard is going to be busy for the next while, but she remains your friend and ally and you might consider lending her a hand if you get ambitious. She's going to need all the help she can get!"

Two books, one dark violet, the other some sort of field journal, and a disk of carved jade, all wrapped-up like his bundle. It was a strange sort of peace-offering. The old man looked almost guilty as he handed it over.

Bujilli set both bundles down on the table.

When he turned back, Gnosiomandus was gone.

Leeja sighed deeply. Sat up. Stared right at him; "We need to go."

"Go? Go where?"

"Sprague is waiting for us--"

"Sprague?!? Why would he be waiting for us? Where?" Bujilli wasn't sure he wanted to go running off just yet. There was a lot more to learn, to study, to master.

"No time to explain. We have to--"

Bam! Bam! Bam! Someone else was at the door.

Bujilli slid out his hand-axe. The door opened. Vushka entered, nearly breathless and bloodied.

"Here!" She tossed a package towards Leeja. It was the replacement armor she had gone after.

"There are Tripods out there--"

"I saw them." Bujilli nodded.

"We don't have time for this!" Leeja made a gesture. An oval of purplish mist formed before her. It shimmered into place. Bujilli could see trees on the other side, some kind of a forest. A Purple Forest.

Leeja scooped up the armor. Nodded to her friend. Grabbed Bujilli by the hand.

"We need to go n--"

The outside wall flashed red. Stone screamed and wood charred into ashes that reminded him of Triddel.

Vushka turned and ran.

Bujilli...

What should Bujill do next?

You Decide!

* The attack on Mama Rudta's alley-camp took place in Episode 89.
** Sharisse was part of the group that ambushed Bujilli and Leeja back in Episode 29, was captured by Bujilli in Episode 30, was revealed to be Werm-Ridden in Episode 31.
***Sharisse had the werms removed in Episode 32 and Episode 33, (it was in Episode 33 that Bujilli put together his spell of Purging Green Flames, one of the new spells to be featured in our forthcoming grimoire), and Sharisse was then sent on her way. She re-connected with Gudrun, who was being manipulated to wrongly blame Bujilli for the death of her brother and ever since then Sharisse and Gudrun have become friends and followers of Bujilli. Both young girls were featured in the short story Of a Feather. Sharisse and Gudrun were both involved in the battle with the MirrorBorn back at Sprague's offices in the East Wing of the Academy that kicked off around Episode 74. We'll be seeing more of Sharisse soon...

Should Bujilli go with Leeja into the Purple Forest? Or should he follow Vushka downstairs and out into the thick of things? Something else? Let's hear your suggestion!

Initiative: Roll 1d6 each for (1) Bujilli, (2) The Tripod, (3) Sprague.

Reaction: Now we could use a Reaction Roll for the Tripod. Roll 2d6, and consult the Monster Reaction Table on p. 52 of Labyrinth Lord. Maybe these are not the adventurers the tripod is looking for?

As always, if you have questions or suggestions let me know in the comments, or via email.

What happens next is up to you, the readers.

You Decide!

Previous Next

Series Indexes

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six

Starting Page | Central Index

About Bujilli (What is This?) | Who is Bujilli? | How to Play

Bujilli's Character Sheet | Leeja's Character Sheet | Cast of Characters

Bujilli's Spells | Little Brown Journals | Loot Tally | House Rules

Episode Guides
Series One (Episodes 1-19)

Series Two (Episode 20-36)

Series Three (Episodes 37-49)

Series Four (Episodes 50-68)

Series Five (Episodes 69-99)
Series Six(Episodes 100-ongoing)

Labyrinth Lord | Advanced Edition Companion

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

One More Page for Taglar's Tomb

Click to Download

Here is one more page for Taglar's Tomb. We reveal a few more details about the Goblins of the Black Orb, the competing kobold tribes, Toothy-Toads and wyverns, just in case some of this stuff might come in handy at the table.

We also want to say Thank You to all of you who have downloaded Taglar's Tomb (Revised), and especially those of you who have contributed to the cause--that kind of encouragement is greatly appreciated and we will be hoisting a glass or two of our favorite Old Eight Porter at Barley John's one of these nights and toasting you all. Maybe we can get someone to take a photo we can post. That might be fun. Might get me to finally shave off the grognard-beard too...

We're wrapping-up work on the next release, hopefully we'll be able to get it uploaded before the weekend.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Taglar's Tomb (Revised & Expanded) is Pay-What-You-Want at RPGnow/DriveThruRPG

Now Available at: RPGnow & DriveThruRPG

The Revised and Expanded Taglar's Tomb is now available at RPGnow & DriveThruRPG as a Pay What You Want pdf.

Taglar's Tomb was originally posted as a free mini-dungeon in support of Swords & Wizardry Appreciation Day 2013. We took the bare-bones of the original scenario and pumped it up so that it now has everything we could pack into 18 pages to help you imagine the hell out of it.

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