Sunday Summary: Our Posts for the Week of 10/28 to 11/2, 2013

Here's a quick summary of what we've posted to the blog for the week of  Monday 10/28 to Saturday 11/1, 2013.

Monday

What the Glandculler is Selling Today...
A table of twenty options covering a wide range of glandular modifications available to anyone who can meet the Glandculler's price. We'll have the Peculiar Organs and Glands Table to go with this one for those of you still looking for it since it was first mentioned in the first Almas write-up. We're going back over the old entries and compiling a master list of everything that needs to get posted or published so it's available...then we get to go back into everything and update and adjust the links...

Later on Monday we posted about the wonderfully weird Those Aren't Worms table for Wermspittle over at Dungeon of Signs. The table is great stuff, but take a look at that blog--it is simply amazing and packed with great things. We're big fans of the Flying Monkey monster/character class for Labyrinth Lord, and the whole H. M. S. Appollyon series/setting is incredible. Highly recommended!

We also posted a set of Six Secret Spells to accompany the grotesquely beautiful Wizard-Frog posted over at the Last Gasp blog. Another blog we highly recommend...even though it might not always be entirely safe for work...it's always thought provoking and beautifully executed.

Tuesday

Distracting and Disturbing Sounds, a table of twenty odd noises that lead into a variety of encounters or adventure hooks or situations in need of resolution, perfect for those times when the player characters think that they're going to get a night's sleep or some much needed rest. Ha! Not in Wermspittle...dreaming can be deadly and sleep can kill in this wretched place...

Wednesday

Ten Werm-Riddled Manuscripts available from the more disreputable and questionable book-sellers and manuscript-peddlers in Wermspittle. Don't see what you're looking for? No problem. There are more on the way...

Thursday

Bujilli: Episode 66. Answers aren't always solutions, nor is knowledge necessarily comforting. Bujilli gets a long desired glimpse of the truth of things. So many lies that he's been raised to believe fall away. His father stands before him. The confrontation he was ready for wasn't the one he got, but it was the one he perhaps needed. Then the real confrontation begins! There's a poll at the end of the Episode so be sure to vote for what you think Bujilli ought to do next. After all: You Decide!

Friday

We took a break from regularly-scheduled stuff to play around a bit with a Spell Design Challenge that was posted to the Swords & Wizardry Discussion Group on G+. We still don't do very much with G+, yet, but this just sounded like it would be fun, so we did it. We drafted three new first-level spells that summon up a minor demon-thingy, equal in over-all firepower to a Magic Missile, with a chance of the things breaking loose...as per the terms of the Challenge. How did we do?

Saturday

We plugged Gorgonmilk's excellent new OSR zine: Underworld Lore. It's cool, it has wicked fungi in it, and it's FREE. So go check it out. With luck, we'll have something in the second issue, and if you're so inclined, you can contribute to the effort as well.

You might also have spotted some of our artwork over at FATE SF for the Silver Cobwebs and Things Found in the Zone - List A. If you haven't checked out FATE SF yet, click over and take a look at all the great stuff there. The beauty of the FATE rpg  is that you can easily tack-on whatever other rules you want to the descriptions, so practically everything there is very easy to adapt to OSR usage. We highly recommend the FATE Bestiary over there--some really excellent critters!

Next Week?
More Manuscripts, a new monster, the continuing adventures of Bujilli, more spells and something else that can remain nameless for now.

Underworld Lore, Issue #1

Click over to Gorgonmilk's blog and download a Free copy of Underworld Lore.
You'll be glad you did. The mushrooms in particular are quite tasty...

Spell Design Challenge

ASpell Design Challenge from G+: Please invent for my game a 1st level magic-user spell that summons a very, very weak demon. It's OK to invent a new monster. The spell must keep game balance; it should be on par with magic missile. Bonus points: Spell enables fun role-playing and is "showy". Stretch goal: Demon has very slight chance to "break free" and/or dominate/make unconscious the caster.

---

Calling Up Minor Demon-Thingies for Fun & Profit

First off, let's take a look at Magic Missile...

Magic Missile
Spell Level: Magic-User, 1st Level
Range: 150 feet
Duration: Immediate
A magical missile flies where the caster directs, with a range of 150 feet. At the Referee's discretion, this spell may have one of two effects:

1. The Magic-User must roll to hit the target with a +1 bonus to the roll. The missile inflicts 1d6+1 points of damage.
2. The missile hits automatically, doing 1d4+1 points of damage.

In either case, the Magic-User casts an additional two missiles for every 5 levels of experience. Thus, at 5th level, the caster is able to hurl 3 magic missiles, and 5 missiles at 10th level.

Excerpted From: Swords & Wizardry Complete (Free version available in the D20SWSRD entry.)

So any spell we make for this Challenge needs to be First Level, on par with Magic Missile, and summon up a very minor demon-thingy. There's a bonus if the spell is somehow 'showy,' and enables fun role-playing, and it would be cool if the summoned critter has a chance to break free also. The spell needs to retain whatever this 'Game Balance' thing is that they're talking about. Okay. Hold my drink while I try this out...


Xongir's Fingerling
Spell Level: Magic-User, 1st Level
Range: 150 feet
Duration: Immediate
A smoldering scarlet tendril of wicked energy streaks out from the caster's outstretched hand to a range of 150 feet. The Magic-User rolls to hit (there's a +1 bonus) and if successful, the smoldering tendril lashes out at a victim of the caster's choosing, within the 150' range. The victim rolls to Save. If they fail, they lose a finger to the tendril (taking 1d6+1 damage, the stump is cauterized), if they succeed the tendril snaps back and severs one of the caster's fingers and the caster takes the damage. In the end, we are left with a shriveled and charred finger-bone which will slowly transform into a tiny demonlet over the next 1d6 hours. The caster gains a +1 bonus to all Loyalty Checks in regards to any Fingerling Demonlet they create via this spell. This bonus increases by an additional +1 every 3 levels of experience. If for any reason a Fingerling Demonlet has a negative reaction to their master, the horrid little thing will begin to connive and scheme to destroy them.
Loyalty check: Roll 1D%, any score over 70% means the Servitor becomes disloyal.

[Fingerling Demonlet: HD 1; AC 5[14]; Atk 1 claw or bite (1d2 x2  or 1d4); Move 6; Save 17; AL C; CL/XP 1/15. Special: Cast one first-level spell per day.]


Sidgwick's Scabrous Servitor
Spell Level: Magic-User, 1st Level
Range: Touch
Duration: 1 hour
A most unsanitary spell, once cast upon the designated recipient it can only be removed by a Cure Disease or Dispel Magic. Over the duration of the spell, every time the recipient takes any damage that produces bleeding, they suffer an additional 1 point of damage that goes into a clotted mass of scabs that forms near the wound(s). When the scab-clots have been able to acquire a total of 6 hit points, they tear themselves loose (inflicting 1d4 on the victim), and quickly form-up into a single, scabrous mass 1d4 inches in diameter. The Scabrous Servitor is mindless and follows the Magic-User who created it, always remaining within  3 feet of them. Unless fed each night directly from the Magic-User's own veins, the Servitor gains a cumulative bonus of +1 on their nightly Loyalty Check (roll 1D%, any score over 80% results in the Scabrous Servitor going rogue). They are most likely to attempt to escape, rather than attack their former master for fear that they will be exposed to their master's blood and brought back under control again.

[Scabrous Servitor: HD 1; AC 7[12]; Atk 1 (1d4); Move 6; Save 17; AL C; CL/XP 1/15. Special: Servitor can stop bleeding once per day by sacrificing 1 hit point to heal 1d4. Servitor regains hit points by immersing itself in fresh blood. Servitor takes double damage from alcohol.]


Squiggling Suppurating Sores of Salamak
Spell Level: Magic-User, 1st Level
Range: Touch
Duration: 1 hour (6 rounds)
Temporarily disfiguring and very uncomfortable, this spell causes a terribly itchy rash of weeping sores to spread across the victim's skin. The rash makes movement unpleasant, so the victim suffers a -1 penalty to all attacks while suffering from this spell. A set of 1d4+1 sores erupt from the reddest, most painful portions of the rash, each one inflicting 1 point of damage. Each of the sores appear like wet, greedy mouths chewing their grisly way out of the victim's flesh. At the end of the spell, each of the sores will finally chew themselves free and drop to the ground in order to squiggle away like so many flabby, blind worms. The Magic-User casting this spell can collect the Squiggling Sores, if they avoid direct contact with the things. They must feed upon diseased flesh every night, or else they will attack their creator. These things have no loyalty, only hunger.

[Squiggling Sores: (1d4+1) HD 1; AC 7[12]; Atk 1 bite (1d2); Move 4; Save 9; AL C; CL/XP 1/10. Special: Automatically Detect Disease at will. Immune to all mind-influencing attacks--they are completely mindless.]

Bujilli: Episode 66

Previously...
Assisted by the Ghost of the Grandmaster of the Antazzic Order, Bujilli has summoned forth his father, Lyhydris, intending to confront him once and for all...

---

Last Episode's Poll Results
6 votes total. 3 votes for 'Cast Shield and try to talk to his father.' 2 votes for 'Talk to his father first.' and 1 vote for 'Cast Confusion then attack.' There were also some excellent suggestions made in last episodes' comments section as well as 2 more FATE Cards drawn at random from the Deck of FATE by John Till from FATE SF: 'They Were Slow,' and 'Well Read.'

Bujilli shivered. Cold. Bloodied. Standing alone in a deep dark place. Only this time he was accompanied by a ghost. It was like so much of his childhood all over again. Even if his wounding was only superficial and by his own hand. This time.

He called out his father's name a second time.

Arcane Geometries swirled through weird sequences of no discernible order.

A third call.

It was working. He could feel it in his bones. Or was that his Counsel somehow letting him know the spell was effective? Did it matter?

He began to cast Shield. It was the accepted form, what most sorcerers would expect. Then he considered Zone of Normality, one of the spells he'd learned from the Gem of Muktra. He felt the loop of white hair around his finger. He wasn't alone in this dark place. Not really. Not this time.

Smiling, he cast Zone of Normality and remembered how he had felt in Wermspittle. Alongside her. Running across rooftops with his partner. Fighting beside the girl with the long white hair. Leeja.

He began to cast Shield, if only as a formality of sorts. Good manners. He got half-way.

"Who Dares!" roared a malevolent voice.

The geometries flickered. Locked down into a spiral of overlapping triangles that blurred into a circle of green light.

A figure stood at the heart of the circle. A grim silhouette. Bujilli thought he'd be taller.

The light shifted from crisp light green to wavering deep violet.

"I am Bujilli. I called you here. Father." He had trouble not spitting in disgust from the foul taste of the word.

"Not without help. Not without goading." Accused the dark figure of Lyhydris.

"That is beside the point--"

"That is precisely the point! Why else would I have answered your summons?"

"You would have summoned me, sooner or later, if I had not acted first--"

"Your Uncle does you no favors my son--"

"Who are you to call me son?" Bujilli spat in anger.

"Do you have another father? I think not."

"I'd rather be an orphan that your son.."

"And yet you summoned me here. Why?"

"My Uncle said--"

"That lying sack of dung. And has he told you how he infected your mother with a hateful mold and sent her to kill me on my last night among her people?"

"What? What are you saying? You killed her. I know you did. You can't deny it--"

"Of course I killed her. She was no longer truly herself any longer. Her mind was driven from her body. The mold controlled her flesh. It acted under your Uncle's orders. I destroyed the corrupted shell. Released her from her torment."

"But..."

"You're surprised. Shocked even. Obviously your Uncle intended for you to be so full of righteous indignation, so blinded by long nurtured hatred and anger that you would strike out at me before we might talk. That's how he works. Clever, conniving bastard. He killed the woman I loved, the woman who gave you birth, even as you blame me for her death, if not more so."

"I..."

"This is no quarrel for us. Unless you would persist in your ignorance and blame me for what had to be done. Would you rather I had allowed your mother to persist as a slave of the mold, a puppet in service to your Uncle?"

"No. But how do I know you are telling the truth?"

"I could tell you to examine your own heart or some gnoph-shit like that of course, but I won't. Have you some spell in your repertoire that will allow you to verify my veracity in this matter?"

Bujilli nodded. He'd read through every one of his Uncle's grimoires that he'd been able to sneak out from under the old sorcerer. For a neglected and abused child, Bujilli was surprisingly well-read, especially in terms of sorcery. He knew a spell that ought to work. He cast ESP (LL, p. 31). He looked across the dim Chamber of Summoning at his father's dark form and peered deep into the man's thoughts. Down to the core where emotions seethed and tossed like a turbulent black sun. He spoke truthfully, but the reality of his sorrow over the loss of his dear Yllorria was overwhelming, a wound that affected him deeply, that he carried out of guilt and regret. Regret. Shame. Remorse. He could see his father's long held belief that their son was dead. Murdered by Ylloria's brother. Then the connection was severed. There was only so much of this sort of thing any man can bear.

They both stood in silence. Each having looked deeply into the other's mind, heart, soul.

"I knew I couldn't rely on the brat. Ahtrishka warned me not to trust to his anger. He's always been a disappointment to me. Weak. Like his mother."

Three green tendrils of smoky non-light struck the ghost of the Grandmaster. Bujilli felt the ghost's screams as the spell unraveled the layers of its auric shells, stripped it of it's last vestiges of identity. It was gone. Destroyed. The spell left a lingering bitterness in the air behind it.

A dozen or more Yeren corpses shuffled into the Chamber behind Bujilli's Uncle. Each glared at Bujilli through green-lit eyes and gnashed their yellow teeth in rigidly restrained anger. His Uncle's influence was unmistakable. Pieces of a puzzle clicked into place. Dozens of encounters with unnatural tings, shambling masses, lesser demons and worse all took on a very different character. The words of the Lichipede* slithered across his mind one last time: 'Stupid little puppet.'

"You were the one who commanded the Yeren..."

"That'd be pretty obvious wouldn't it? Half-wit." His Uncle spit on the floor in disgust. It felt weird to see that gesture being done in front of him for a change.

He needed a new way to display his disgust.

"You dug up my mother's corpse. Gave her body over to that demon-bitch."

"Yes, yes, yes; a thousand times yes and so fucking what about it pup?"

"You bastard!"

"Yawn. Get over yourself you sentimental tyke. I've done all that you say and more, far more and much worse besides. So what?" His Uncle clutched his pot belly and laughed at Bujilli. His eyes radiated a deep resentment, a smoldering hatred he'd been forced to hold back for too damn long and now and this was his chance to end things once and for all. The old Almas was finally revealing his true feelings once and for all.

Bujilli could feel his stomach twist in disgust. All his life he'd been raised to be his Uncle's pawn. A twisted reflection of the vile old Alma's own self loathing.

"Release me. I would settle our score--"

"No. He's mine."

---

Roll 1d6 for initiative. (Labyrinth Lord, p. 50)

You Decide what Bujilli does next:

What Does Bujilli Do Next?

Cast Confusion on his Uncle, then attack.Cast Magic Missile on his Uncle, then attack.Open the way to Leeja while distracting his Uncle.Release his Father, then attack his Uncle.Attempt to cast Violet Fractal Weirdstorm on his Uncle. (see Episode 60)Charge his Uncle using Stril's hand-axe and the tulwar that hates the old Almas, hopefully striking Something else, please outline your suggestion in the comments below.

pollcode.com free polls

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* From the short story: 'Purple Wrath', to be available shortly.

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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

October 30...Where Are Those Martians?

In case of invasion, click the war-machine above.

Transmission ends---

Werm-Riddled Manuscripts (Wermspittle)

There was a formula—a sort of list of things to say and do—which I recognised as something black and forbidden; something which I had read of before in furtive paragraphs of mixed abhorrence and fascination penned by those strange ancient delvers into the universe’s guarded secrets whose decaying texts I loved to absorb. It was a key—a guide—to certain gateways and transitions of which mystics have dreamed and whispered since the race was young, and which lead to freedoms and discoveries beyond the three dimensions and realms of life and matter that we know. Not for centuries had any man recalled its vital substance or known where to find it, but this book was very old indeed. No printing-press, but the hand of some half-crazed monk, had traced these ominous Latin phrases in uncials of awesome antiquity.

The Book,

by H. P. Lovecraft

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(10) Werm-Riddled Manuscripts: Probably Forbidden, Mostly Nameless and Otherwise Suspiciously Cheap...

1. Torn and smelly, this wad of crumbling old ages is secured into a messy sheaf by a rusty pin that has been driven through the entire stack of pages as though by a hammer or lump of dense rock. None of the pages are in consecutive order and whatever sequence seems to be in effect changes from reading to reading. The thing self-randomizes, switching languages even as it takes on a different page order, even the number of pages tends to change. It costs the permanent sacrifice of one 4th Level spell slot to read this manuscript all the way through in one evening, and doing so prematurely ages the reader by 4d10 years. What the reader gains...is the ability to claim one randomly determined spell in their personal repertoire as an At Will Ability that can be used as many times in a given 26-hour period as they have levels as a spell-caster.
2. Forty-three blank pages of high-quality paper all clipped together and affixed with a note written in blood-stained Garadic script, very neatly penned with a crisp nib. The note references Thumallian's Third Trance-State. Apparently, if the reader attempts to read this manuscript while in this particular trance-state, it will reveal its secret text.
3. Sixty-seven pages torn from a madman's diary or personal journal.  Each one contains the same sequence of tight, spidery non-letters that sprawl across the page in a most disturbing, unsavory manner. The curious script employed in this manuscript cannot be read by a rational mind. One must be mad in the first place in order to decipher the thing.
4. Five neatly-folded comics sections taken from a newspaper over a hundred years out of date. The paper is yellowing from more than just aging badly. Wrapped-up in those comics is an editorial section written in one of the most vile forms of Yellow Journalism. The very paper itself is saturated in the effluent left-over from the production of Yellow Wallpaper. This is highly toxic stuff, gone even more rancid and pernicious with age.
   

   [Reading/handling the crumbling Comics Pages require a Save at -1, failure inflicts Confusion on the reader for the next 3d6 hours. Success halves the duration. Examination of the Editorial Section requires a Save at -4, failure instills a very visceral -4 Charisma reaction against all members of a particular ethnic or political group. Success imprints the victim with a -2 Reaction Modifier against two such groups. In either case, the reader's hands are permanently stained a distinct yellowish tint, they are more prone to experiencing a distracting sort of melancholy when exposed to anything political (Save or 'lose' 1d10 minutes in a distracted state, unless engaged in vigorous activity), and they suffer a permanent -1 penalty on all Saves in relation to all White Powder derivatives.]

5. An old broadsheet advertising Doktor Malinkorov's Marvelous Medicinal Mortifactant. On the back someone has carefully illustrated all the steps required to fashion a set of Illudrian bone-lamellar armor, including how to properly attune the rig to various spectra of necromantic energies that Nagrothean Censors tend to expurgate from all modern texts.
6. Twenty-Six Hundred cardamom-scented foolscap pages packed into a heavy cardboard box reinforced with thin metal bands. Each page is densely scribbled upon and most who look upon these translucent pages for the first time are tempted to pass them over as meaningless. Those who persist in their examination go on to discover that each page contains a single self-contained statement drawn-out in one continuous line.
   

   [Upon initial examination, roll an Attribute Check against INT; need to succeed to go any further. Each set of 1d20 pages examined after a successful INT check grants the reader a cumulative 1% bonus to comprehend the secrets embedded in these labyrinth-like pages. The reader may attempt to comprehend the manuscript any time they like, rolling a D% and adding-on whatever bonus they've accumulated. Success means that they are now immune to the effects of the Maze spell. Failure means that they've been trapped within the manuscript itself for as many days as they have INT. Each day trapped within the manuscript costs them 1d12 months of aging. Once a reader has failed to comprehend this manuscript, further study is considered pointless. However there are hints whispered between certain book-sellers and librarians and those who seek after strange secrets that if one were to persist to the very end that there indeed are deep secrets buried in this manuscript. Whether or not there actually are, remains a matter of speculation. At least until someone conclusively makes it through the entire thing successfully.]

7. Nine black pages edged with gold. The first three are empty. Wiped clean by tears. Do you dare to read the fourth page to find out why?
8. Mold-stained and horribly creased, this manuscript has been stuffed into a rotten canvas courier bag for several years. Only thirty-five pages remain in the bag. The rest have been lost. There is no index, no table of contents, no title page. Half the pages are illegible. What remains appear to be diagrams and formulae for attracting the attentions of some sort of extra-dimensional form of sentient mold. Each page that gets handled inflicts a cumulative -1 penalty on the reader's Save against being poisoned. The mold on these pages will require a fresh Save after every 1d4 pages examined. Should the reader fail their Save, the mold spreads into their skin. Or rather under their skin. This mold isn't particularly sentient, at least not yet, but now that someone has volunteered to be its host, it will slowly devour their INT and WIS and CHAR until it achieves a cold, cruel form of consciousness that will replace everything they lose to the process.
   

   [This is no simple parasite. It is a symbiotic organism. One that gives as good as it gets, if not better. The victim feels no pain from the process whatsoever. If anything they feel more clear-headed and awake than ever before in their life, even gaining a +1 bonus to all INT & WIS checks, and Immunity to all forms of illusion, charms and hypnosis. The mold integrates itself into the host's flesh, eventually replacing their entire skin and giving them a very distinctive appearance, one apprentice has described as being akin to "...a waxy coating over mottled patches of lint, ashes and chalk dust." Each week from the moment of infection, the host must make a Save, failure meaning that they suffer a loss of 1 CHAR point, success causes them 1d4 damage and intermittent but intense vertigo that somehow only strikes whenever they attempt to cast a spell or try to read. Upon reaching a CHAR score of 3, the host's mind, brain and body have been completely consumed, they get to re-roll all their stats and begin life as a new being. It is unclear whether their soul survives this transformation, or if it is somehow destroyed, displaced or simply replaced. The new entity that is produced by this process does seem to possess a soul, but it is definitely not the original host's, that much was proven in a battery of experiments conducted by Franidar, Murleff and Clevong under the aegis of the Grenavior Occupation. Unfortunately, most of their records were subsequently lost in the course of their trial for war crimes.]

9. Sixteen feet of coarsely-knotted rough twine securely holds together a stack of rough-edged sheets of pressed yellow-green seaweed, block-printed with a range of grotesque trapezoidal glyphs unlike anything most bibliophiles are ever likely to see in the waking world. The ink is thick upon the fibrous pages. Redolent of Purple Amber. The glyphs are generally indecipherable as they are not rational constructs, but rather a complex cluster of praeterhuman oneiro-tactile intuition-stimulae with a tendency to unlock deeply repressed memories and long suppressed trauma in those who brood upon them for more than a few minutes quick glance. The glyphs have been bound into the loose pages of this manuscript well past their tolerance for such things. They desire to be set free. Will you release them?
10. One Hundred pages of poor quality typewriter-paper wrapped-up in the entrails of three large toads. The whole thing reeks of burnt flesh -- the typewriter ribbon used for this manuscript was derived from Black Smoke. Roughly a third of the pages have been ruined by exposure to water. What remains is a first-person account of the siege of Tarlonna composed by a Morlock combat-engineer who lost more than just their left arm at that historic battle. Perusing these pages will require experience with a great deal of intellectually opaque Morlock military slang, hence why the seven publishers it was submitted to all rejected it out of hand. The rejection slips are interspersed randomly through the manuscript as bookmarks denoting sections requiring extra attention, editing and revision.

Distracting and Disturbing Sounds (Wermspittle)

I
was pretty well accustomed in my Jermyn Street chambers to passing sounds; usually I did not concern myself, sleeping or waking, with the doings, however noisy, of my neighbours. But this noise was too continuous, too insistent, too imperative to be ignored. There was some active intelligence behind that ceaseless sound; and some stress or need behind the intelligence. I was not altogether selfish, and at the thought of someone's need I was, without premeditation, out of bed...

The Jewel of the Seven Stars, by Bram Stoker

(1912 edition, available via the official Bram Stoker site.)

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What Was That Sound?

1. A dull, ticking noise echoes softly, yet monotonously from beneath the floorboards. This time it's (2d4) Deathwatch Beetles. You were expecting something else perhaps? Live specimens can be bartered to Nagrothean Refugees for various illicit ointments and contraband salves. Do you think that they eat them?
2. The severed hand of a poet scratches out the verses of an obscure sonnet in Old Cazigillian. Thirty-Six lines. Repeated, repeated, and repeated again and again. Each letter formed one after another, smeared with necrotic debris and infused with a palpable sense of lingering anguish. The particular dialect used is particularly troublesome to translate, even for an accomplished academic. One line will render itself more clearly sensible with a modest effort: 'Let the dead past bury itself!'
3. Voices. Garbled and garrulous. They urge you to extinguish your lights before someone sees you. 'Hurry you fools. They're coming.' Then nothing.
4. A tap, tap, tapping in the night, as though someone were rap, rap, rapping on a window, followed with the flash and over-loud 'BANG!' of a blunderbuss. You're not sure whether you heard a squawk just prior to the incident, but it is quiet now. Very quiet indeed.
5. (1d4) Schrillers have clustered along the eaves of an abandoned property. Their horrid calls weft and wend their way past the waxed-up gaps in storm-windows and most other domestic precautions to torment sleepers with restless insomnia.
6. Somewhere overhead a Harpy screeches in frustration as it is forced from its comfortable perch.
7. The faded echoes of a lunatic's ravings can still be heard, if you know which alley to go to and listen for them. One of the younger Street Urchins will lead you to the alley in question, for a small consideration. Perhaps it's just some cohort of the would-be guide that's making the noises in order to pique the interest of the gullible. However, when you find the body of another Street Urchin sprawled across the rubbish piled-up along the side of the alley, you begin to wonder. Have they been murdered? Or are they suffering from 'The Gurgles?'
8. Crumbling, tumbling stones, or broken brick? Sifting, shifting, a long, low creaking shivers through the walls and floors. You feel the tremor, more and more clearly with each passing breath; the roof is collapsing!
9. (1d6) Caco-Zombies thrash and smash, lash and gnash wildly, madly, obscenely in dozens of languages. Each one argues vehemently with the other voices spilling from its twisted and decaying lips. Not one of them can agree on a course of action. Perhaps, with luck, they will remain so involved until the Sewer Militia can arrive and take care of them properly.
10. Some blasted idiot is playing a medley of distinctively discordant folk tunes from Ullijoz on what one suspects can only be the traditional femurbone flute.
11. Wet, slurping noises seep upwards through the floor-boards as a Corpuscular Sludge oozes into the someone's room. Did the occupant wake in time to escape? Are they calling for help? Or is it their screams that you hear now?
12. Sniveling. It just keeps on. Just on the very edge of perception. It might as well be wordless for all that you can understand of it. But the tone. The very timbre and quality of the seemingly endless whining right at the threshold of your hearing is really getting on your nerves. Everyone else claims that they can't hear anything of the sort. But you know better. It's not all in your head. Somebody, somewhere out there is sniveling plaintively and pathetically and it is driving you mad. Maybe that's what your so-called friends want. Maybe they're all in this together. Lying about not hearing the whining. Trying to get you to crack up. That's it. You're certain now. They're trying to make you think that you're crazy. But why? What are they trying to get from you? Revenge for something you've forgotten? Perhaps they're just jealous. Whatever it is, you need to figure it out and do something before they succeed in driving you out of your mind with this unrelenting noise they all claim not to hear.
13. A terrible, long drawn-out fart shudders and rattles out from the broken windows of a nearby cellar. Quickly, everyone in the immediate area extinguish all open flames and the call goes out for the Sewer Militia. A plucky one-eyed vagrant, just a child really, scurries out from another cellar window and jabbers at anyone who will listen to her: 'Gobb-gobb. Gobb-gobb.' Her lank, dirty hair reeks of Red Weed. You can tell from the off-kilter cut of her colorfully dyed clothes and tiny brass bells stitched into her too-long scarf that she's most likely another refugee from Xalmicar. Most by-standers ignore the girl and her idiot pantomime until an old man tries to force open the outside door to the cellar. It collapses on top of him and his screams are cut short by a massive surge of foul-smelling flesh rolling out of the cellar. It's a Type IV Gobbling Grout. A big one.
14. The locals have been complaining about strange lights and some clumsy bastard plinking away on a badly tuned harpsichord in the boarded-up ruins of an old bordello. The one where the antique chandelier fell onto a huge party of revelers three or four years ago last Spring. Whomever they are, they play the same handful of bawdy tunes, very badly, over again and again, for hours on end. The Street Patrol along this stretch have taken to referring to it as 'The Phantom.' It's a nuisance, but so far no one has offered enough of a reward to make it worthwhile for anyone to go in after the Phantom. Especially since some of the locals are afraid it may well be some sort of demented geist or restless spirit haunting the place, and no one wants to attract the (expensive) attention of a zealot or karcist; they tend to be bad for business, especially when they tarry overlong in a place and start to get all preachy or demanding tithes and extorting payments for 'ongoing spiritual protection.'
15. The Bells are ringing. Someone nearby seems to think that there's an army out there. No one is sure which army. Nor if it's a real siege battalion or just another group of half-starved soldiers cut-off from the front-lines and wandering about lost. Someone else is certain that it's a long over-due caravan, the one their daughter is riding with from out of Lesser Balzin. Another man grows increasingly hysterical and begins to run about wildly, screaming about a fire no one sees. People let him go. Maybe he's right.
16. (4d4) Feral Children in torn and ragged cast-off clothes scavenged from unguarded clotheslines and elsewhere are bickering and wrestling over some sort of carved wooden box. There are at least two distinct factions involved in this dispute. One group follows the commands the black-haired girl who carries a rotting pig's head skewered upon a Jelzian bayonet. She is opposed by a Yellow Kid who claims to have discovered the box while scrounging through the attic of a nearby Unclaimed Property. The box reeks of old magic. It contains the still-beating heart of a Terrible Old Man whom no one remembers any more*.
17. Scraping noises shiver up from below. Muffled voices mutter and swear in a coarse jargon most people would recognize as Morlock Ditch-Cant. Another tunnel? Here? Is that a good idea?
18. A high-pitched screech. Three rapid shots taken in desperation. Some one falls to the street yelling for someone to grab their hand damn it. A meaty thud. Another screech--cut short by an over-charged gonne. Fragments of what used to be a gargoyle rain down across two roofs, clanking and pinging as they bounce off of the eaves and clatter onto the cobbles of the street below. Amateurs.
19. Voices. Arguing. Heated and vociferous. Excessively foul language punctuated by terrifying, gurgly screams. You're not the only one to hear the noise and come out to investigate. The sounds only get louder as you pursue their source. Some moron caged-up a blatherer in the downstairs privy. It isn't funny.
20. >POP!< The noise-ward fails. A herd of red-speckled black penguins panics, breaking loose from their rickety pens in a local attic. The plump birds stampede down the stairs of a half-vacant boarding house, leaving the stairs a slippery mess of trampled bodies, feathers and bird shit. The teenager hired to watch the old Tsalalian blacksmith's unlicensed flock wakes up in the midst of this "penguingeddon" only to get carried downstairs and out into the street by the tumultuous tide of screeching, flapping, frightened birds who quickly scatter in every direction. Looks like practically everyone but the owners of the flock will be eating penguin tonight.

*Some of the local Old-Timers might recognize the box, but they're probably mistaken or lying. If you take it to Schroedinger & Cave, they will offer you 1,000 open-looped silver sestrii on the spot. Then they will call the Red Watch and immediately turn evidence against you for being involved with a notorious war criminal known only as 'The Vulture.'

Secret Spells of the Wizard-Frog

The nice people at Last Gasp have posted a wonderfully wicked six-armed Frog-Wizard as a gesture of appreciation and thanks to various other gameratin' and bloggeratin' folks that have been encouraging and supportive of their efforts, including us. It could be a relative of Tsthahoggua. We didn't ask. Wizard-Frogs can be sensitive about such things. In any case, you should click over and take a look. It's very cool.

Below are a few spells you might be able to acquire from a Hexapedal Wizard-Frog, should your characters ever get the opportunity to make the acquaintance of one.

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1d8 Secret Wizard-Frog Spells

Arcane Adumbration
Level: 2
Duration: 6 Turns
Range: 0
The shapes of things to come are revealed in a flurry of sketchy outlines and faint images produced by this spell. The general default configuration is usually attuned to depict the classical symbol associated with any of the 4,200 Common Spells all Wizard-Frogs claim to know. Any competent caster can adjust the spell to instead give themselves some foreshadowing of relatively immediately impending events, but such rejiggering of things is left to the student as an exercise.

Bawd-Breath of Tsthathogguri-Malamala
Level: 6
Duration: 4 rounds + 1d4 rounds
Range: 30'
The caster exhales a pungent pink fog that quickly fills a thirty-foot radius. The vapors distort the senses of everyone caught up within their swirly sphere of effect, causing them to see everyone--and everything--within the pink haze as supremely beautiful, desirable and attractive. Victims can opt to Save against the effects of the pink vapors, but doing so either costs them 1 point of CHAR (permanent) or renders them sterile for 1d6 years, player's choice. This particular spell costs double.

Cloud of Tasty Flies
Level: 2
Duration: 6 Turns
Range: 120'
Flies, flies and more flies of every type, sort and hue swarm madly about the caster, providing a delicious repast for a famished Wizard-Frog. Lesser beings suffer 1d4 points of damage per turn  spent within the area of effect of the spell. Save for half damage.

Gestural Globs
Level: 2
Duration: 6 Turns
Range: 90'
The caster forms a small mass of dermal mucous in their middle-left hand. The mucous forms a thin, but pliable film that holds it together like a water balloon. With a single gesture, but a flick of the wrist, the globular mass is sent streaking out towards any target specified by the caster. Any creature under 4 HD must Save or suffocate as the gooey mucous infiltrates their mouth, nostrils and air passages. Those who make their Save do not suffocate, but instead have their movement reduced to half normal for the next 3d4 rounds. This mucous is alcohol-soluble. Some sources say it can be used in preparing a sort of absinthe-like concoction.

Jiggly Scribbles
Level: 3
Duration: 6 Turns
Range: 120'
With a few quick movements, the caster sketches out a series of swoopy, curvy lines and spirals that quickly takes on a sort of life all its own and rushes forth to swarm all over the designated target who must make a Save or become disoriented (60%) or immobilized from intense nausea and vomiting (40%). While under the effects of this spell, the victim must roll randomly to determine their target, should they attempt an attack.

Humble Murmurings
Level: 1
Duration: 6 Turns
Range: 10'
During the duration of this spell, the target cannot say anything negative about the caster, including cast any sort of damage-dealing spell. The victim is required to make a Save, failure means that they gain a -1 penalty on all Saves versus the caster's spells for the next 6 turns. A successful Save reduces the duration by half.

Pruscoorm's Palpitation
Level: 4
Duration: 12 Turns
Range: 120'
The victim sprouts a host of wriggling pink growths from randomly determined parts of their body. The writhing, fleshy growths are harmless, but distort the victim's bodily shape so much that armor, clothes, rings and the like no longer fit and must be removed or discarded. The victim will suffer 1 hit point of damage per item retained over the course of the spell, their movement is reduced to half, and all their attacks suffer a -2 penalty. Once the spell subsides, the victim must make a CHAR check or else retain some lingering sign of the pink pulpy bits that once deformed their frame. Again, they are harmless, and only have a mildly cosmetic effect, and require a slight adjustment in one's clothing.

Transmute Liquor
Level: 2
Duration: Instantaneous
Range: Touch
Caster transmutes a quantity (up to one gallon/every 3 levels) of one type of liquor into the same quantity of another form of liquor, as specified at the moment the spell is cast.

Those Aren't Worms...A Table for Wermspittle at Dungeon of Signs

The one-and-only Gus L. over at Dungeon of Signs has created a very special table for Wermspittle:

Those Aren't Worms!

It's a Frikkin' Great Table, packed with some really nightmarish things that fit all too well in Wermspittle, or perhaps in some other broken-down, disreputable town, city or enclave your local band of adventuring ne'er-do-wells frequent in-between bouts of burglarizing vacant temples and the obligatory grave-robbing so prevalent in most old school derived/influenced FRPGs.

His Geist Hosts are an absolutely perfect fit for Wermspittle, and some of those Angler Crabs might show up in our upcoming Cellar Inspector scenario at Con of the North this February...those are some seriously sneaky crustaceans! (But they're probably good eatin'...)

Thanks Gus! We love the table and will return the favor shortly.