Bronzeel

Bronzeel
No. Enc.: 1 (0)
Alignment: Chaotic Evil
Movement: 30' (10')
Armor Class: 5
Hit Dice: 1-12
Attacks: 2 (Tail-bash or Bite)
Damage: 1d4/2d6 (+1 per HD)
Save: MU1+HD
Morale: (equal to HD)

Special: Upon achieving 3HD a Bronzeel gains the ability to cast spells as a first-level Magic User. They gain new spells by devouring portions of the brains of spell casters, physically removing the structural mechanisms pertaining to a specific memorized spell from the victim. Every 6 points of damage inflicted upon any one victim requires a Save to avoid the loss of one memorized spell of first level. The Bronzeel can choose to attach itself instead of draining a first level spell and continue to inflict damage, gaining the option to remove a higher level spell at double the cost (12 points for a Second Level spell, 24 points to gain a Third Level spell, 48 points to take a Fourth Level spell, etc.) This damage can be healed, but the spell is lost and must be re-learned from scratch. There are unverified rumors of variant forms of Bronzeels that remove their victims capacity to cast spells, in effect removing spell slots/reducing the number of spells a victim can cast per day.

Immunities: Charm, Sleep or ESP.

Weird, wrinkly and worm-like denizens of the Interstitial Regions, Bronzeels can only enter into the manifest world by passing through flat sections of bronze. The particular geometry and the specific chemistry of flat-sided bronze objects are essential for a Bronzeel to migrate across layers and levels of reality; they cannot cross-over without it.

Ancient cultures who had knowledge of these creatures avoided leaving flat sections of bronze exposed in their architecture, armaments, or apparatus. Bronze mirrors are an especially favorite vector for Bronzeels. Bronzeels can 'swim' through bronze (treat as a limited form of Passwall), so it provides no protection from these creatures and in some cases may in fact offer them access as they can simply wriggle through heavy bronze portals or doors or armor.

Coming (un)Attraction

At first a Bronzeel appears as a sort of 'blemish' in the surface of some flat bronze surface. Over the course of a few hours (2d4) the 'blemish' grows more distinct and detailed. Eventually the 'blemish' rises to the surface and begins to peel itself free. It takes (1d4) minutes to accomplish this, during which time the Bronzeel is particularly vulnerable and unable to defend itself. Once it has wriggled itself loose, it begins life in this new world as a 1 HD creature with a voracious appetite for any and every form of encoded media available such as books, sacred texts, illuminated scrolls, tax rolls, records, political treatises, correspondence, memos, dispatches, hastily scribbled notes, journals, diaries, signs, graffitti, inscriptions, tapestries, billboards, posters, broadsheets, pamphlets, and so on. They can sense these things, detect them within a 60' radius, and will seek them out tirelessly.

Obscure Arts & Crafts

The tail of a Bronzeel is a dense, hard knob that it wields like a mace. The tail-knobs of Bronzeels of more than 3HD can be harvested and converted into +1 maces by suitably talented weapons-crafters. The smaller tail-knobs have sometimes been used as the basis for ornaments, brooches and even scarabs, but the odd chemistry of the things require the use of special reagents and solvents, as well as a firm knowledge of the intrinsic geometries involved, making this highly specialized knowledge. For the most part these techniques have been lost or forgotten, though there might be special treatises detailing the underlying principles and processes locked away within the dusty workshops of dead masters or buried alongside the ancient practitioners of such long-lost arts.

Second Thoughts

Illiterate and sleepless, they cannot be taught, will not be tamed. They have no language, and are not truly conscious in any sense recognizable by mammals. What spells they can cast, they do so randomly, wildly, without any rhyme or reason. Creatures of raw intuition and pure instinct, Bronzeels hunt out the brains of spell-casters with an obsessive zeal. They will avoid those who cannot cast spells when possible, preferring to by-pass these unpalatable sorts of beings in their endless, restless hunt for suitable brains. They will only strike non-spell casters out of self-defense, as they cannot gain proper nutrition from the brains of those incapable of casting spells.

Vestiges of Dubious Old Traditions

Nuisances and pests, much reviled by familiars, students and apprentices alike, the Bronzeel is a singular menace to those learned in the ways of spell-casting. It is for this reason that they are sometimes used to guard rooms or to discourage specific sorts of trespassers. There is a wide variety of enchanted effigies, binding-charms, and other such techniques that have been employed by various ancient cultures to ward off or to hold Bronzeels out of certain sections of their tomb complexes, even as there are other methods for keeping the things in-place, suspended or rendered inert until properly triggered as part of a trap. But such installations are uncommon for the most part.

Few want anything to do with such creatures, but they can be summoned. It just takes a flat section of bronze and a modified Summoning spell...

Bujilli: Episode 46

Previously...
The boat was leaving. Bortho's mate was on it. But there were Grunter scouts to be dealt with as well. Bujilli and Leeja split-up to hit the flanking pairs of scouts. Bortho ran towards the pier and the boat and his mate. That's when it all went wrong. Bujilli took a bad hit to the back. His armor kept him from being crippled, but it was ruined now. Leeja was bleeding. The scouts were done for, but it had taken more out of them both than either had counted on. They set off towards the fleeing boat. There was no sign of Bortho on the pier. Leeja ran and jumped from one moldering hulk to another. Bujilli hobbled along, painfully, getting his bow ready. A violet flash. The air pulsed ever so softly. The boat exploded...

"LEEJA!" Bujilli forced himself to go faster. His back was horribly bruised and stiff. He was lucky to be intact after the Grunter's axe struck him from behind. But none of that mattered any more.

Wreckage and debris rained down. Smoke billowed outwards from where the boat had been only moments before. Echoes of the explosion reverberated through the cavern.

Bujilli reached the pier. His armor scratched his back, lacerating it, adding insult to injury. He considered discarding it, but didn't want to take the time to do so, not just yet. He had to find Leeja.

Coughing. Sputtering. The distinctive hissing, yowling noises he knew oh so well came to him from the water just past one of the listing, mold-shrouded old boats that had foundered at anchor in the fortified cove.

She was alive.

Bujilli set down his bow and dug out a length of good climbing rope. He knotted the end into a loop as he made his way onto the awkwardly tilted boat's deck. Leeja caught it on the third attempt.

He watched her struggle towards the boat as he pulled on the rope.

She did not know how to swim. Only her frantic flailing about had kept her from drowning. Just barely.

Heave. Hold steady. The rope went slack. Fell to the deck. She was safe. Sputtering and spitting and cursing, but no longer drowning.

Bujilli wrung-out the rope and rewound it good and tight so it could hang on his belt to continue drying. He appreciated good rope. His life had depended on a reliable length of rope more than once.

"Thank you." Leeja croaked as she rose from the deck. She busied herself adjusting her clothing, her shabby armor, her boots--anything just so as not to look at Bujilli. "There was a flash of light. I lost my footing just as I jumped. Next thing I knew, I was in the water. Filthy, stagnant stuff. I hope I don't catch anything..."

Bujilli looked back across the water. There was a clear trail of darker, clearer water leading back to the boat that marked Leeja's course through the space between the boats. A crust of gray-green scum, almost scabrous looking stuff, rose and fell sluggishly in response to the ripples she'd made in her struggles. He wasn't sure, but something might have moved down there. In the water. It turned, undulated back beneath the scum.

"We need to get off of this thing." He went back along the listing rail to a rickety plank that led back onto the pier. It held his weight, despite sagging and creaking in protest. His back spasmed. He tottered. Wobbled. Righted himself mostly be force of will. Even so, he nearly fell into the water between the moored hulk and the stone pilings. Leeja leaped to steady him. she hissed in surprise when her hands came into contact with his broken armor.

They got back across without further incident. Bujilli bent down to retrieve his bow. He spat gravel out of his mouth. He'd fallen. Again. The damage to his back was worse than he'd thought. He lay there for a moment. Disoriented. Disconnected. Then the pain came back. It cut through the grogginess like a bucket of knives splashed across his back.

Leeja was examining his armor. He felt her deft hands tugging at lacings and shifting the ribs that supported the heavy, overlapping layers of felt and brocade. She worked on his armor, prying the broken portions apart where the overlapping panels were mangled, the support-struts snapped or splintered by the heavy axe blow they had only just barely stopped.

He grunted in pain as she lifted the broken sections along his back free and then re-did the ties to keep what was salvageable in-place as best she could. They were in potentially hostile territory. Whatever defense they could muster was better than nothing. As long as it didn't impede movement or restrict motion. That would be worse than foolish. It could potentially get them killed. Leeja wasn't a fool. She also had no intention of dying. Not down here. Not ever. If she could help it.

"You're badly bruised. I'm amazed you can even walk." Leeja tied the broken portions of his armor into a bundle. She had no intention of leaving it behind.

"We need to find Bortho..."

"And his mate. I know. But you're in no condition--"

"I can still fight." He levered himself back onto his feet, using the bow as a crutch. He knocked an arrow and stared at her, daring her to defy him.

"I can't swim..."

"I noticed. Neither can I, really. I grew up in the mountains. Forests. High, dry plateaus. Never had much chance to swim, except for cold, dark underground rivers or lake-grottoes...places best not to go swimming."

"So what do we do now?"

"We go down the pier until we're parallel with where the boat was when it blew up. Then we look for bodies."

Leeja nodded. No point in arguing.

They went less than three hundred feet along the pier before they heard the splashing and the gasping.

There were bodies in the water. Seven of eight of them. Three were moving. Wrestling. Fighting.

Bujilli drew back on his bow and tried to pick out a likely looking target.

"It's Bortho." Leeja whispered.

He nodded. But who were the other two?

"Take the rope." Bujilli shifted position to give himself the best vantage point he could get.

"Climb out on this boat," he gestured to the one nearest them; "Toss the rope out to them. Get their attention. Pull Bortho out of there."

Leeja nodded. She took the already wet rope from Bujilli's belt. Then she was off. He watched her go. His back ached terribly. He hoped he could stay alert long enough to be of some help.

The rope flew out into the midst of the thrashing, splashing bodies.

One of them grabbed the rope. Lean, lanky, almost fish-belly white; it clearly was not Bortho. Bujilli put an arrow in their hand. He had been aiming for their fore-arm. Either way they let go and slipped back into the foul water with a yowp of pain.

Another figure tried their luck with the rope. It was a woman. Bortho waved once, then resumed his fight with the pallid assailant. Leeja hauled the woman up onto the sharply tilted boat. She perched atop the slanted railing and undid the rope so it could be thrown to Bortho next.

Both figures were under the water. Ripples and bubbles troubled the surface. The fight was still going on.

The woman cried out in pain.

Leeja hissed.

Bujilli could smell blood. Fresh blood.

She was giving birth. Right there. Right now.

Bortho sputtered and splashed his way toward the side of the boat. He was dragging the limp form of his attacker with him.

The woman cried out once more.

Bortho abandoned his opponent.

He climbed up to the railing.

By the time he reached the railing, he was a father.

Something moved in the turbid water. Another something. Another.

Blood ran from the precarious perch atop the tilted railing right into the foul water below.

"You cannot stay there! Get them back here, to the pier. There's something in the water. The blood is attracting it!"

Leeja handed the new born infant to Bortho. She pointed to Bujilli and slapped him on the shoulder. Then she helped the mother onto her feet and got her moving. She was unsteady. Weak. Feverish.

Bortho looked up at Bujilli as he made his way toward the pier. He was wounded. Badly.

The child was quiet. Too quiet.

He was all but certain that the mother would fall, taking Leeja with her into the churning water below.

He knocked an arrow.

Bortho heaved himself onto the pier. He came up to Bujilli. Blood streamed from a dozen or more slashes, cuts or contusions. But he smiled. Proudly. He held the child out to Bujilli so he could see. It was a girl. Still crusted with her mother's blood. Her eyes bright, icy-gray and far more alert and focused than any child he'd ever seen previously.

"My child." Bortho coughed. Blood. He sank to one knee. It had been quite a fight.

Leeja helped the mother onto the pier.

She collapsed next to Bortho. They were both breathing heavily. She was still bleeding.

Bujilli scanned the perimeter. They seemed to be all alone in the cove. Except for whatever was down there in the water.

They needed rest. A chance to heal. It wasn't going to happen out in the open. Not with all the blood attracting whatever was down there splashing around.

The splashing noises grew louder. There was definitely more than one thing swimming, swarming down there. And they were rapidly becoming more agitated, aggressive, far less furtive than they had been originally.

"We need to get out of here." Bujilli slung his bow over his shoulder and started to help Bortho onto his feet.

"Now." Leeja assisted Bortho's mate back onto her feet. She reached out for her baby.

Somehow they managed to waddle, stumble and limp back to the fortified depot. Leeja shut the doors and set the bars and secured the place as best she could. Bujilli leaned against the cool wall and tried not to pass out. She gathered up the crystal torches and busied herself examining the depot while everyone else rested.

Bujilli woke up with a start.

Leeja was crouching down next to him. Her hand on his shoulder.

"Can you walk?" She tilted her head to the side so he could see Bortho and his family readying themselves for the trek back to Idvard's Keep.

He nodded. Getting back up from the cool gravel was harder than expected but he managed. One of the crystal torches made a reasonable crutch. Bortho was using one the same way.

They smiled at each other.

Then they got moving.

The sloping passage echoed with their foot-steps and heavy breathing as they made their way back to the Domed Chamber.

The three other Portcullises were locked in-place and secure. Leeja dropped the fourth Portcullis behind them once they were through. She wasn't taking any chances.

They made their way up along the spiraling ramp-way, past the stacked weapons Bortho had laid aside for his people. The weapons were still undisturbed.

Bujilli wasn't surprised.

Bortho's people hated going underground. They were afraid of...the Grunters...that was what they claimed. But the Grunters had only recently arrived down below. They were only now sending out scouts. Bujilli knew something of how Grunters operated. He'd run into them before. Had fought them. He knew then that something wasn't right about the story that Idvard had told them. Either the librarian was trying to deceive them, or he was in turn being misled by Bortho's people. But which? Why?

It wasn't Grunters that they were afraid of; that much he was sure about.

Six tall, thin, long-limbed insectile-looking figures stood before them. Urmigan's worker-drones. Only these drones wielded spears and shields. The drones stared at them. Impassive. Uncaring.

"Stand aside." Barked Bujilli. He was tired, hurting and not in any mood for stupid games.

"Ah. You must be the intrepid mercenaries our erstwhile host mentioned. Please, do come along. We have a great deal to discuss."

Leeja hissed. Her claws extended.

Bortho growled. His right hand clutching a spear of his own, retrieved from the stock-pile they had just passed.

The person addressing them from behind the armed drones was tall. Lean and lanky. Their face and hands were fish-belly white. There was nothing whatsoever reassuring about their predatory smile. Maybe it was all those pointed teeth. More likely it was the dozen or so armed guards behind them...

What should they do now?

Go along with these new-comers?

Maybe if they bide their time, there could be a few answers...

Like...

'Where is Idvard?'
or
'Who are these people?'
or
'What happened while we were gone?'

Should they stand and fight, even though they are out-numbered?
or
Turn around and attempt to flee down the spiraling ramp-way?

You Decide!

---

Previous                                            Next

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Series Indexes

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six

---

Starting Page  |  Central Index

---

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

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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

Naleseyo

Naleseyo
No. Enc.: 1 (1d4)
Alignment: Neutral
Movement: 120' (Levitation)
Armor Class: 6 (Immune to fire attacks)
Hit Dice: 5-10, possibly larger
Attacks: 1*
Damage: 3d4+
Save: F3
Morale: 12
Hoard Class: None

Abnormal, probably unnatural macrozoan lurkers, the Naleseyo wriggle through the air as though swimming. They seem to be sliding along, perhaps slowly migrating, from one Adjacent World to another. No one is certain where they originated.

Thrashing Fiends

When a Naleseyo attacks with its tentacles, it targets an area roughly ten feet in diameter (growing by 1 additional foot per HD), frenziedly pummeling everything within reach and spattering its victims with the slippery green goo in the process. They gain an additional 1d4 per HD over 5 and can split the damage they inflict between anyone caught within the area of effect for their attack.

Slippery Things

Naleseyo are speckled with glistening drops of milky-green fluid that clings to them like the morning dew or bubbles. Sticky, opaque bubbles of viscous stuff that follows their every movement, never getting more than a few feet away from them no matter how fast they move or how often they switch direction. The bubbles latch onto any and every form of metal, quickly forming a slick, oily layer over the entire exposed surface, making it extremely difficult to retain hold of anything so affected (Save or drop item).

Any weapon, tool or other metal object covered with this substance remains slippery for (1d4) minutes, after which time the fluid either evaporates or is absorbed into the metal--opinions vary considerably. One notable side-effect is that the metal comes away completely resistant to rust, corrosion or tarnishing for several weeks. Unfortunately the green fluid deteriorates into a stale-smelling waxy stain if removed from the Naleseyo for very long.

Untapped Potential

Incredibly difficult to trap or capture, no one has managed to domesticate the beasts yet. They will literally tear themselves to pieces whenever they are netted or otherwise restrained. Various self-professed experts have urged would-be Naleseyo-hunters to consider using quite a range of strategies, most of which have proven futile or worthless, much like lassooing a cougar. If someone were able to finally capture a few of these beasts, they could very well prove to be extremely useful...if there is some way to extract the green fluid from them safely and in sufficient quantity.

From Nagrothea (A Random Table...)

Items Suspected of Originating in Nagrothea (D20)

1. A monocle fashioned from faceted green glass. It adheres to your skin and won't be removed by anything less than using the Voorish Sign. It allows the wearer to clearly see Perdu, automatically Read Magic, and gain a +1 bonus to hit all invisible or insubstantial creatures with melee weapons or spells. However, it also has a distressing tendency to attract Unseen Beasts and Horla, which some feel is a bad bargain.
2. A delicately carved translucent bone flute that can be used to attract or repel Drab Jellies when played correctly.
3. One heavily creased, folded, mutilated and marked-up copy of Wilkinson's Expurgated Guide to Contemporary Aklo Grammar. Reduces casting time for all spells or rites arranged in Aklo by (1d20%).
4. (1d4) cut-glass alcohol lamps etched with layered demi-glyphs that are arranged so as to cast warding shadows across the walls of a small room. Acts like a randomly determined Scroll of Protection for as long as the alcohol lasts.
5. A battered and dented old Zoetrope fitted with a band depicting an incomplete set of Tarot cards that has been severely scribbled over and blotted out in part. Only four cards can be clearly identified and they belong to a macabre deck heretofore unknown to any serious collector or known authority.
6. A pristine copy of Aldermeir's Prospectus of Sublimation set in strict, orthodox Drugazian type. Unfortunately all the essential keys to the various esoteric sequences have been removed, rendering the book all but useless except as a door-stop.
7. A moth-eaten cloak of bat's wool that still carries a base 60% chance to render the wearer totally ignorable to lesser forms of undead.
8. A folio of poetry rendered by a fine, scribal hand in the utmost Positurri calligraphic style including a version of Keat's Lamia done entirely in the blood of the inscriber. Repeated reading of the piece carries a slight chance of either attracting a Lamia or of corrupting the reader into a passionate devotee to the ways of the Lamia-bound. There are those who claim that one reading performed under the proper conditions could grant some measure of skill in Poetry...but this could well just be a cruel lie circulated by the Lamia-spawn who find this all one exquisite joke.
9. The extremely rare Second Volume of Sonnets 37-68 of The Fungi From Yuggoth in the original Azodian. Originally this was a spurious forgery, at least according to most mainstream sources. There are others who claim that the book was recovered by a now-forgotten dreamer, a nameless oneiricist who specialized in retrieving unwritten books. Since only three copies have survived intact, they're still quite valuable. To the right collector. Having the book in one's possession tends to foment increasingly disturbing nightmares, requiring a Save once a night in order to avoid suffering a temporary -1 penalty to WIS. Anyone reaching 0 WIS wanders off into the night, most are never heard from again.
10. A stout, metal-bound dark wood box containing scores of banned dissertations. Anyone opening the box must Save or suffer a deep and abiding intellectual malaise persisting for 1d4 weeks during which time they will find it impossible to learn new spells, write anything original, or discuss anything in detail without growing entirely too bored to concentrate. Repeated attempts to examine the contents of this box could lead to a prolonged inability to cast spells above 6th level.
11. (1d4) Bottles of hand-blown blackened glass containing effervescent wines that can only be drunk in the middle of a dream.
12. A three-ring binder packed with uneven yellowed pages filled with a densely scratchy-scrawled manuscript of dream interpretations, all of them terribly, horribly wrong.
13. An elegantly filigreed bone tube fitted with triangular knobs on either end. Any scroll inserted into this case is re-written into a flawed version of Zaftigery that has been revised by a sadistic Morlock gourmand.
14. A wonderfully well-wrought platinum fountain pen that makes it entirely impossible to ever write a sonnet ever again, no Save allowed. If wielded as a stabbing weapon it is -1 to hit, +2 to damage, with a 25% chance to strike an opponent unable to read poetry ever again, should they fail to make a Save.
15. A grub-leather slipcase secured with red thread and a lead seal stamped with the wardent impramitur of Domdre Mergue is alleged to contain one of the only known copies of The Wermic Journal of the Transgressive Octovoid. It is to be noted that Mergue disappeared under suspicious circumstances involving some sort of negotiations with what is whimsically referred to as a 'cabal of Horla.' Everyone knows that such a thing is utterly impossible, absolutely preposterous.
16. A cover-less and beer-stained Etrurian-to-Aklo Dictionary missing the middle 80-or-so pages. On one of the remaining pages there is a set of hastily-written notes regarding some sort of Brazen Seal. Too bad the illustration accompanying the notes was ripped out of the book.
17. Three over-large and deformed penguin-skulls mounted atop a sturdy black handle wrapped in Marmoset-leather. Each of the skulls will bite for (2d4) damage when wielded as a weapon. The skulls also can be used in conjunction with Contact Other Plane spells, as well as in the casting of Summon/Banish Giant Albino Penguin, Protection From Penguin-kind, Reverberation of the White Cascade, Inflict Cataract, among other even more obscure and less well-known spells. At least one semi-reliable source asserts that this three-skulled tri-mace can also be set-up in a three-way crossroads and used to capture and interrogate spirits who can be bribed to teach some of the spells mentioned. Details of how to go about this particular rite are said to be encoded within a volume of the Liber Penguinus believed to be in the collection of a Triloo librarian known as Idvard.
18. A complete skull-extraction tool-kit hand-crafted from the finest stainless steel and platinum, each piece expertly balanced and lovingly embedded within a black lacquer case lined with crushed velvet. Three hidden, parallel drawers in the front slide out to reveal a set of anatomical diagrams, an illustrated guide to basic flensing, flaying and skinning techniques, and a pamphlet discussing how to fully clean and preserve a freshly extracted skull.
19. Delicate and demur, this elegant cameo carved from oily black stone grants the wearer the ability to see past the flesh to the bones beneath. The effect lingers for one month after removing or ridding one's self of the outre bit of jewelry, but having worn it even for a few minutes grants a permanent +1 to all CHAR reactions with Osteomorphs, Bone-Cullers and related cultists.
20. A small, tapered vial of lovely yellowed glass with a finger-bone stopper. It contains one full dose of the toxic substance used by the Moulders to reshape the bones of their victims. Upon contact with flesh the brownish paste actively burrows towards any calcium-deposits such as bones where it bonds with them and renders them stiffly malleable for the next (1d4) x10 minutes, during which time the bones can be manipulated and shaped like sculptor's putty. The changes remain permanent.

The place was dark and dusty and all but lost
Deep within tangled, twisted alleys near the high-quays,
Stinking of strange things brought in from the skies.
Reeking with foul, feral miasmas,
Speckled suspiciously by whimpering grimes,
The fog clinging to everything that walks.
Behind dimly lit windows,
Obscured by smog-grit and quivering slime,
Could be seen the books, in piles like twisted pillars,
Wormeaten, ragged and tattered, frayed and fraying,
Rotted and rotting, arrayed from floor to roof;
Grimoires from Ganderkan and Mokthay,
Tomes of esoteristry not even the Dol-men have tried,
Battered old Almanacs from far river bank towns,
Manuscripts, folios, private editions, banned dissertations,
Hundreds and hundreds, score upon score of peculiar and forgotten lore,
All that crumbling wisdom was available at so little cost.
A few coins and a soul,
and it could all be yours in a trice.

Lithus Sector Map: Now Available as a Poster

Lithus Sector Map by hereticwerks
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Bujilli: Episode 45

Previously...
Exploring the rooms, chambers and passages beneath Idvard's Keep was supposed to be a short, simple job. Really. But it was becoming more complicated all the time. not only were they searching for Bortho's missing mate, Bujilli discovered that she was pregnant. There was a horde of Grunters down one of the main passage ways. The Grunters had sent out scouting parties to explore the Keep from below. They were not sure how many of the Grunters were out there, down the passage...but it sounded like a substantial force.

Bujilli, Leeja and Bortho inadvertently disrupted the plans of a Fungal Tyrant when they hacked-down a small group of infected Grunter scouts on their way back to the Horde. The insidious fungal Undermind intended to send the spore-riddled walking corpses of the Grunter scouts back to their horde, there to spread deadly toxic spores from within their ranks. Now that Leeja had decapitated most of the scouts, the spore-carrying cadavers shambled onward with less of a chance at surprising the Horde.

Not trusting the fungus, nor wishing to be trapped with a horde of Grunters behind them, Bujilli, Leeja and Bortho dropped the Portcullises at three of the four Stations. This cut off one party of Grunter scouts from rejoining the Horde. It also blocked the Horde from coming any farther. Hopefully.

Following the trail picked out by Bujilli's Counsel, the trio traveled down a sloping passage to a fortified depot overlooking an underground river. Down along a crude pier were some moldering, rusted-out boats. One was leaving. It carried Bortho's mate...

Stamping hooves. Heavy things clomped up the path to the right. Grunters.

The boat was slowly wending its way through the maze of decaying and defunct boats in the cove.

There were still two Grunters on the pathway to the left. They would have the high ground and a clear shot at Bujilli and his companions if they ran headlong down the center path. The one that led to the boat. the boat that carried Bortho's mate.

Bujilli smiled.

"We did come her to hunt." He looked at Leeja. She smiled sweetly, almost innocently.

"But of course." She purred.

"You go left. I go right. Eliminate these scouts. We can't leave them behind us. Then we go after the boat--"

"Bortho see. Go Boat. Now." And he was off and running full-tilt down the ramp-like roadway to the fleeing boat.

Leeja struggled to suppress her laughter as she jammed her crystal torch into the sandy gravel of the road. She wouldn't need it where she was going. She turned and ran along the left-hand road. Her talons gleamed in the gloom. Bujilli watched her go for a moment. Sleek. Graceful. Deadly. There was something elemental about his partner.

Still smiling, Bujilli readied his hand-axe and tulwar, then he too ran to meet his opponents.

They were far closer than he'd expected.

SLASH! chop. HaCK! Sand flew from where battle-axes chunked into the road surface.

He struck one along it's jowls with the tulwar. Blocked a follow-up blow with his hand-axe. Whirled. slammed the point of his tulwar into the throat of the second Grunter.

Then a heavy, tearing pain flared through his back.

The breath went out of him.

He hit the road. Hard.

His tulwar slipped from his hand.

There was blood in his mouth from where he'd bit his lip.

He had to move. Now.

Couldn't.

Cruel laughter. The Grunter hefted his heavy axe for the finishing blow.

Bujilli rolled. Swung wildly. His arm stopped abruptly. Jarring. Painful.

The Grunter squealed in pain. Collapsed to it's knees in the gravel.

Bujilli lay there. Panting. So hard to move.

He used his hand-axe to leverage himself upright.

His back was a stiffening mass of pain.

He couldn't bend enough to retrieve his tulwar.

So he used the hand-axe.

Hot blood gushed over his hand. It was stuck. The Grunter slumped forwards.

Bujilli started to sit down. He woke up sprawled on the sand. His back was terribly bruised.

He tried to sit up.

It took four tries.

He could hear the snap and rustle of the bamboo and bone slats reinforcing his armor as they shifted improperly. His armor was ruined. But it had protected his spine from the Grunter's axe. He was lucky to be alive, let alone not crippled.

Thankfully the Grunter's axe was dull. Bujilli looked the weapon lying next to him. The blade was flattened, split, curled back in places as if it had been used as a make-shift hammer or maul. It was an awkward club now, due to this heavy mis-use. He wondered what the Grunters had been up to that they would abuse their weapons so badly.

But there wasn't time for such idle speculation.

Bujilli shifted himself around until he was kneeling on the gravel. He moved his arms, flexed his back. As far as he could tell his armor would work for now, at least until he found some suitable replacement. There didn't seem to be any bleeding. Just one massive bruised spot. He considered the armor that the Grunters wore. Some kind of chain-mail over stout leather. Bulky. Far too big around the torso for him. It might as well be made of solid gold; it was too big, too heavy, too clunky: it'd do him no good.

He got up. Picked up his tulwar. Took another look at the Grunters. They were brutish, short but wide and stocky humanoids. Thick-skinned, yet clearly marked by traces of several different exotic poxes their bodies had eventually shrugged off. Heavily hooved. Severely snouted. Bestial things that only walked upright so they could wield weapons. He'd seen these piggish things before. Kalkendru. The Blade Maze. DuKushKa. He spat in disgust at the memory of the sorceress who'd nearly enslaved him.

His back hurt badly.

Made it difficult to brood on the dead past.

He made sure both Grunters were dead. Uninfected by spores. One had been carrying a pouch of dried jerky and tubers. The other had a dented canteen of stale, flat beer. It smelled skunky. He left it behind.

Leeja limped up to meet him. She was carrying two Grunter heads.

"We need to catch up to Bortho--"

She was off and running.

Shaking his head, Bujilli followed. A bit more slowly. He put away the tulwar and slid the hand-axe back onto his belt. this seemed like a good time to try out his new-found short-bow. He pulled it free and restrung it as he walked along the ramp-like road. He knocked an arrow. Tested the pull. It felt good. A decent weapon.

He picked up his pace.

The boat was stopped short of the entrance to the cove.

He couldn't see Bortho.

Leeja was jumping from boat to boat. She was laughing.

A lurid violet flash.

The boat exploded...

Who -- or what -- caused the explosion?
Did Bortho or his mate survive?
Is Leeja still alive?
What should Bujilli do now?

You Decide!

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Previous                                                      Next

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Series Indexes

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six

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Starting Page  |  Central Index

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

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

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

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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)

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Labyrinth Lord   |   Advanced Edition Companion

New Poster: Fungal Tyrant

Fungal Tyrant Poster by hereticwerks
Browse additional posters and prints from zazzle.com.

We detailed the Fungal Tyrant for use in Labyrinth Lord,
and one has popped-up in a few episodes of Bujilli as well...

Little Green Bag (Random Table, Any System)

Little Green Bag (I)
You find a little green bag. In it there might be...

1. (3d4) severed human hands. All of them extremely well-preserved, pliant and slightly warm to the touch. They have all but healed at the point where they were removed from their original bodies. One of the hands is wearing a milky jade ring carved into the likeness of three vigorously entwined serpents.
2. A partridge mounted on a deftly trimmed section of a branch lovingly cut from a pear tree. There are (1d4) pears dangling from the section of branch. Each of them cure 3d4 damage if eaten within an hour of being plucked from the branch. When the last pear is removed, the taxidermied bird emits a faint squawk of indignation and flies off stiffly.
3. Six used scalpels (as knives: very short reach, -1 to hit, X2 damage), a crumpled and blood-soaked map of some large metropolitan area with (2d6) spots marked-out with a black grease pencil, and someone's kidney wrapped-up in a cheap silk scarf.
4. Eighteen pounds of dead, dried-out cockroaches.
5. (3d4) assorted batteries of various types. Some of them are leaking various caustic substances.
6. A cracked faux-malachite bowling ball encrusted with something Squick and/or Ickorous.
7. A Gronk sword that won't fit back into the bag once it is removed.
8. A really, really angry squirrel.
9. Eight yellowed and curiously stained 3"x4" index cards detailing Eight Magical Weapons, alas there is no information provided as to where these items might be found.
10. Five cans of off-brand 10w30 motor oil.
11. All the raw components necessary for a Jaladari to craft a few dozen minor wards or charms. There might be a reward for the return of this stuff...if you can find the right charm-peddler.
12. The journal of Aloysius Hemlock. Each entry is written backwards in a recursive magical-cypher requiring it to be read in a mirror in moonlight. There may be (1d4) odd, reversed variant spells interspersed through the text as well as a few vague references that sound quite portentous but lack all context. At the moment.
13. A well-carved bit of blue-green ivory that is half-way to becoming a very elegant wand. Too bad whomever was working on it was interrupted. There's a base 30% chance that there are some well-used carving tools in the bag as well.
14. A sleeping squid sealed within a large, heavy glass jar. Now that you've woken it up, it stares expectantly at you.
15. (2d4) Bruthem toe-nails.
16. Buried beneath hundreds of small teeth is a hand-written Gothic manuscript of decidedly grotesque character. It gives off the scent of patchouli and storax. There are cat teeth mixed in with the rest, but this isn't noticeable until after the manuscript has been removed.
17. Four dozen tiny blue ferns, each one with its roots individually wrapped tightly in a burlap ball that has been treated with a solution of some sort that preserves them until they are removed, after which they begin to rot if not planted or potted in 1d6 hours.
18. (6d6) exotic tulip bulbs.
19. This bag is empty, however it also suffers from having been imprinted with a form of the Triple Shadow spell, making it slightly conspicuous, depending on the company you keep.
20. Sixty-three tin whistles and one kazoo. All of them covered in spit and reeking of cheap beer.
21. A crudely-drawn diagram sketched-out on a tattered piece of badly-frayed sail-cloth showing the proper way to butcher a Giant Albino Penguin.
22. Four hundred glass marbles in six different sizes, all of exceptional quality.
23. Several disparate pieces of silverware and three napkin-rings of carved soapstone that may or may not be blasphemous but are certainly obscene.
24. Three bundles of unused postcards depicting a variety of clowns from Little Carcosa and a dog-eared copy of The Mundy Guide to the City: A Comprehensive Guide to the Five Baronies of the Metropolis. Too bad the majority of the pages are stuck together by blood and some tarry substance that may still be moving if you look closely enough at it for long enough. Someone has sketched out a rough map on the inside of a book of matches that purportedly shows the way to a derelict barber shop. The matches have been ruined by exposure to the black stuff.
25. A small actinic torch sans batteries and a pair of Doctor Bronson's patented Wermpliers.
26. (1d4) random non-powered hand-tools.
27. The complete rigging of a schooner, including every line, rope or piece of sail, all expertly rolled-up, tightly folded, and packed neatly into the bag in such a way that simply boggles the mind.
28. Two gallons of wort from a long-lost brewery sloshing about in a pair of matching hermetically-sealed containers. To someone with a good knowledge of Zymurgy, this stuff is worth its weight in gold, or better.
29. Six pounds of raw Cacao, a dozen seed-pods and (1d4) pounds of 'cocoa powder.'
30. A nicely sculpted figurine cast in black bronze of a Grobbly-Bonk that can either be used to summon, bind or ward-off one of the nasty things depending upon how well you know your Aklo...

You might also find some use for the Questionable Trinkets & Trash Tables or some of our other Alternative Treasure tables.

And then there is Porky's excellent 100 Items Lost or Found on the Rogue Spacer table, which we highly recommend.

Varney Revisited/Remix

It is quite possibly the absolute worst novel of the Nineteenth Century. At 667,000 words (220 chapters) it's a hefty pile of Penny Dreadful that could give you a hernia if you're not careful.

Varney the Vampire first appeared in 1845 and the series ran for close to two years, covering well over 800+ pages. It is a dense but fast-paced tale rife with contradictions, multiple overlapping story-lines, and a monster who transforms over time into something of a tragic figure as much victim as predator by the end. This novel has had an immense impact upon many, many more people than will probably ever read it. Varney is where a lot of the tropes we've all come to know and loathe either first appeared or were nailed-down and set-up for everyone to copy ever since.

Before Varney there were dozens and dozens (more like hundreds and hundreds really) of wildly different types of vampires lying restlessly in their graves just waiting to be used in fiction...but after Varney, vampires were pretty much expected to have fangs, gnaw on victims' arms or necks, possess a fascinating gaze, lift locomotives (or maybe just over-turn coaches) and comport themselves as aristocratic upper-class gentlemen. However, to be fair, unlike many of his literary descendants, Varney also walked around in broad daylight, ate or drank regular food and wine (of course this is all 'part of his disguise,' and the food/wine does give him an upset stomach), and crucifixes don't really bother him. He's okay with garlic, too, it seems. In fact, Varney's particular form of vampirism seems to be more like a fit or seizure sort of thing, something more akin to the way that the Incredible Hulk gets all green and muscly when Banner gets angry. In that respect Varney's affliction has a bit in common with how lycanthropy used to be portrayed, as an almost berserker-style fit of madness that suddenly comes over him and forces him to commit heinous acts. There is almost a strange sort of Jekyll-Hyde thing going on...but Varney saw print decades before R. L. Stevenson's tale came out...

The novel is interesting in how it portrays Varney as a thoroughly nasty, bloodthirsty beast of a posthuman who increasingly comes to loathe, regret and despair of his undead lot in life and who ultimately commits suicide. By jumping into a volcano. Like much Gothic fiction , or even some early pulp fiction , this is not terribly uplifting stuff. Though the time that a medical student (Dr. Chillingworth) brings Varney back from the dead by applying galvanism to his corpse is an interesting, almost Roger Corman-esque riff on Mrs. Shelley's Frankenstein. But this is only one of many times when Varney comes back from the dead. He does that a lot.

Even without the sparkles, the tortured soul/Sympathetic Vampire schtick gets old before the end of the novel and this was centuries before Anne Rice or Joss Whedon or Stephanie Meyers rode this particular well-worn trope into the ground and back again. In some respects, one could perhaps blame Varney for the downward spiral that has resulted in the 'romantification' of vampires as much as any of the more recent suspects who often get blamed or named. Not that it would do much good. Besides, some sympathetic vampires, like Barnabas Collins, are cool.

Varney is in some respects one of the Ur-Vampires of contemporary Western vampire literature. For better or worse, Varney helped to set the standard for what a vampire was supposed to be, or act like. Varney is considered to have had at least some measure of influence upon Bram Stoker, though Polydori's aristocratic Lord Ruthven and Le Fanu's Carmilla certainly had an impact on his development of Dracula as well. One of the best discussions of the literary line of vampiric succession is Dracula's Forefathers over at the Skulls in the Stars blog. (There's also a good review of Varney there, if you don't have a few weeks to read the novel itself.) There are plenty of other essays and opinions out there, including the academic fist-fight over who really wrote the thing; James Malcolm Rymer--who is often credited with having invented Sweeney Todd--or Thomas Preskett Prest...who might also have invented Sweeney, as well as Varney. Maybe they wrote it together, they did collaborate on The String of Pearls, didn't they? Or did they? So far most sources seem to hedging their bets...maybe Jack has the answer?

ahem.

But why dig up old Varney's still smoldering bones from beneath the ashes of Vesuvius? You mean besides it being only a few weeks until Halloween? That's simple.

Take your Best Shot at Rewriting a Page from Varney's Book

The nice people over at Mediabistro are hosting The World’s Longest Literary  Vampire Remix writing contest as part of their promotion of their upcoming Media App Summit.

If you follow this link to the sign-up page, you too can register to receive One Page from Varney The Vampire that you can then re-write, reinterpret, revise or convert into a comic or whatever you like. They will be sending out the pages to everyone who registers on October 8th. You have until the 31st to send your remixed-page back to them. They plan on compiling all the pages submitted into a free digital book (complete with Victorian-era illustrations) that anyone can download. If you participate you will get a byline as well as a short biography and a website link in the remixed novel.

There's also a pair of Grand Prizes up for grabs, so go check out the Mediabistro site here to find out more details.

Or Not...

In the meantime, if you want to take a look at Varney the Vampire before it gets remixed, you can find a free version of the novel in multiple formats at Project Gutenberg, or you can check out the full text (in three volumes) at the University of Virginia, or maybe you'd rather listen to a free audio-book version of the thing courtesy of Libri Vox. There is also an abridged version available. Which is handy.  A quick search will turn up versions of the novel all over the place. If you're curious, you can get just the pictures, or you could just go watch the Night Gallery episode A Feast of Blood that has nothing to do with Varney...which may be a good thing...