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Sunday, June 22, 2014
Mr. Nemor Arrives in Wermspittle
Portion of suppressed aethertype purported to depict a so-called 'Nemor Machine' in operation.
'When certain crystals, salt, for example, or sugar, are placed in water they dissolve and disappear. You would not know that they have ever been there. Then by evaporation or otherwise you lessen the amount of water, and lo! there are your crystals again, visible once more and the same as before. Can you conceive a process by which you, an organic being, are in the same way dissolved into the cosmos, and then by a subtle reversal of the conditions reassembled once more?'
The Disintegration Machine
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
They found the raving lunatic wandering about the White Orchard. He showed the tell-tale yellow eyes that came with prolonged exposure to Yellow Wallpaper or the printing industry--both quite unsavory implications. Upon examination by the Zinn Woodsmen, all they could gather from his incoherent babbling was that he wasn't from around there. So he was turned over to the Academy as a foreign scientist, after registering a report on him with the appropriate authorities as a possible subversive or agitator.
The Administrative personnel at the Academy soon realized that the strange man dropped in their laps by those rusty bumpkins was indeed some sort of mechanic or technician. So they set him to taking the usual classroom tests for a first-year student. He excelled at mathematics and quickly revised his answers as he learned to read proper Franzik.
Suspecting they might have a late-bloomer Prodigy on their hands, they handed him over to the Medical Review board who examined him to see if he was Odd, or just precocious. The results were inconclusive when the Senior Academics learned about the situation through their various snitches, spies and the usual channels.
Those were dark days back then. The international situation was rapidly deteriorating. Civil unrest escalated into all-out civil war in Aman Utal. Plague decimated the populations of Naris, Karlogne, Kaismar and a host of other cities. With war looming on the immediate horizon the Regents decided that they could use a mad man to help them prepare for the worst. Wermspittle was suffering under the Second Pruztian Occupation then. The Academy was under the strict discipline of the Imperial Science Apparatus. The Military Governor appointed by the High Chancellery was most enthusiastic about picking the brain of this new-found foreign genius.
Inspiration: The Disintegration Machine by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is the last of the Professor Challenger stories written by Doyle himself and can be found at Project Gutenberg (Australia), among other places such as Classic Literature Library. Also there is a bit of Robert W. Chamber's 'Lethal Chambers' as mentioned in his excellent story The Repairer of Reputations, which is included in The King in Yellow, available at Project Gutenberg. There is also a slight connection to HPL's The Case of Charles Dexter Ward...
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Have A Free Mini-Adventure from Hereticwerks
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| Click Here to Download |
Have a free PDF of the first level of Clatterdelve from Hereticwerks.
Inside you will find some new monsters, new spells, new magic items, and almost everything you need to make a first foray into Clatterdelve. You'll still need to bring your imagination, dice and some players to the table, but we did the heavy lifting for you.
We assembled this thing in under 16 hours as a personal challenge...if you spot any typos or glaring omissions, let us know and we'll update the thing.
Have fun and Game On!
Jody & Jim / Hereticwerks
Friday, June 20, 2014
Thumbling (Red Bestiary)
They tell a story down in the Low-Lands
about how there once was a couple living alone in a small but
well-hidden enclave that had been hit hard by a plague that seeped up
through the wells and killed everyone else off one autumn. The old
couple only had to survive until spring, then they could either
hire-on new hands or abandon the place and move on to the East. The
months went by slowly as they waited out the bad weather, the biters
and the mobs.
The old farm-steader sat and poked at
the remains of their cooking fire one winter evening. His wife sat
and spun wermfuzz into workable fiber. He leaned back in his creaking
chair and sighed deeply. The wife, who still carried the scars of
having battled muckwerms and stabberlings and still worse things in
the defense of their modest enclave for most of her life stopped her
spinning and glared at him with her one good eye. The silence
lingered like a fart between them. Finally he cleared his throat and
said; “I think it is sad that we have had no children.”
“Ach—but it has not been for lack
of trying.” She scowled at him, then dismissed the matter and went
back to her spinning. But the idea stuck I her mind; “Even if we did
have one, there's not much of a life here for such a young one—they'd
have to leave before they grew very big. You know they'd have to go
on into the city like all the others.”
“I know.” He stopped poking the
fire and went out to check the barricades and fences.
That night the wife fell ill. She was
bed-ridden with fever and convulsions. In the space of fewer than
seven nights she wasted practically away to skin and bone, save for
her belly which swelled-up like a tumor that writhed and gurgled and
tormented her badly.
On the seventh night she died as her
belly ruptured and a viscous, bloody mass spilled forth. Six
Thumblings, they had devoured the seventh while still inside the old
woman, pulled themselves free of the gory mess and quickly scampered
into hiding to lie in wait for the old farmer to return. They
ambushed him. Ate him. Took his thumbs. They've been on the prowl
ever since.
The story may or may not be true. Most people agree that it is, if anything, too gentle and too forgiving in its depiction of these once feared and now greatly despised and hated little people.
The story may or may not be true. Most people agree that it is, if anything, too gentle and too forgiving in its depiction of these once feared and now greatly despised and hated little people.
ThumblingNo. Enc.: 3d6 (5d20+)
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 60' (20')
Armor Class: 7 (A few may wear armor)
Hit Dice: 1d4 hit points
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1d4 or weapon-1
Save: F2
Morale: 7
Tiny, dirty-minded, evilly disposed and vicious little people no taller than a grown-man's thumb, these wicked little folk lurk within the small spaces and out-of-the-way places, coming forth at night to cut off the thumb of their victims. During the Achuin Occupation hundreds of Thumblings served as 'Street Sweepers' who terrorized their former neighbors and persecuted their rivals. They switched sides prior to the First Pruztian Occupation, during which time a small cadre of Thumblings were used as special interrogators and operatives by the Military Governor. The Thumblings are hated and reviled for their collaboration with the occupying powers and they are the frequent targets of Todtenhilzig revenge-killings in retaliation for the extreme persecution they inflicted the doll-makers whom they tended to single out for torture and re-education.
Source: Thumbling is from German folklore, and has two stories, Thumbling and Thumbling's Travels (also known as Thumbling as Journeyman) that were collected and added to the Grimm Brother's 'Household Tales' collection of fairy tales. These nasty little things do have a few minor similarities to Johnathan Swift's Lilliputians as well as the sort of Little People Mr. Machen featured in his excellent story The White People, but any such resemblance is purely superficial and unintentional on the part of the Thumblings.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Bujilli: Episode 94
Previously...
Bujilli has become aware that Lemuel needs his help urgently...just as he received a strange thimble from a mysterious Seamstress in the middle of the Spring Farm Market. Several goblins are attempting to persuade him to trade the trinket away to them...
Leeja and Mishka meet a Middle Sized Bear wearing a monocle and are surrounded by a larger band of Voormis than they at first realized might be in this place...
Bujilli closed his fingers over the thimble. He didn't have the thing for even a minute before the offers started rolling in...he wondered why...what made this thimble so special?
The reek of radishes and the unwholesome halitosis of the goblins jabbeirng at him with increasingly ridiculous and grandiose sounding offers was getting to him. He stepped out from under the tarp and let the cool Spring rain wash over him. The goblins kept to their master's selling stall, which was a relief. He looked back at the goblins. They were capering and cavorting about their master's stall, noisily trying to connive and convince any and all passersby to come look at their wares, to trade with them while their master slept. He re-visualized the steps involved in forming an Oneiric Bubble again.*
The goblins scurried and hopped, skipped and jumped to get as far away from Bujilli and the hateful spell as they could, but not one of them crossed the line marked out by their master's tarpaulin. None of them were willing, or able, to cross the threshold into the rain. Then he saw the tell-tale glimmer. These goblins were still hollow, mere nightmare-shells summoned to serve the Oneirist. None of them had managed to devour enough flesh to make themselves more real than their master had already allowed. At least not yet. But goblins were mischievous, nasty little things; they'd find a way to subvert the restrictions placed on them, one way or another. Time was on their side. Time and human gullibility, greed and just plain ignorance.
Bujilli considered using the Oneiric Bubble to expunge the goblins from the Market. He knew he could do it, but he wasn't keen on using such a spell in the middle of such a crowded place. He wasn't sure how others might react, what sort of attention he might attract. Suddenly he disliked the very notion of making any sort of impression or being noted or spotted at all. Old reflexes asserted themselves; he felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise like hackles. Someone was watching him. Stalking him.
He left the goblins alone. He had other matters to attend to, like figuring out why the goblins had wanted his thimble so very badly...and why some old Seamstress would hand it to him in the first place.**
The thimble was silver-plated, formed from the yellow metal of the Morlocks and beaten into shape by a hammer that left overlapping spiral impressions in the metal. It was engraved.
Three lines.
One in Aklo that he read as 'There is no one coming.'
Another in Franzik that he guessed meant something like 'No one can save anyone.'
The third was in Etrurian and was even more opaque; 'A stitch in time saves nine.'
Cryptic gibberish. He was half-tempted to spit.
The thimble had cut into the palm of his hand when the weird crone passed it on to him. He had seen his own blood seep into the creepy thing. It was more than just some peculiar bauble. This thimble felt heavy. Dense. Very real. Not like the goblins at all.
But it didn't make any sense to him. He had come to the Market in search of some answers. He knew he was close to something, some deep realization or sudden insight that would help him make sense of it all. He was so close it hurt.
But the cool Spring rain felt good on his face.
He remembered the weather rolling into the mountain passes and hidden valleys he had prowled as a child. Clouds swarming past giant black trees and warped old rocks. Wild sheep and feral goats that were the offspring of runaway that had escaped their tenders and were too much trouble to re-catch. He had watched the rams leap from ridge to ridge and wondered what it might be like to run away like they had...
He closed his fist around the thimble, not wanting to take a chance by slipping it into his belt pouch. No sense letting some thief snatch it away before he could figure out what it was first. He put some distance between himself and the goblins. And his recollections.
Man-height Tripods reeking of green smoke pulled along small wagons and carts laden with produce, preserves and other products that were not available in the Winter. Bujilli watched as farm kids haggled with their customers over smoked hams, loops and string of real sausages, rashers of bacon. A feral girl wearing densely-rolled burlap over a light leather smock nearly ran into him--she was too caught up in directing a clumsy-looking and much overladen mollusc towards a group of cheering yet discretely hooded women from Urdiz. The mollusc looked sickly, the girl skinny; something was not quite right--then he caught the scent of Hard Candy from the girl's breath before she excused herself and continued on through the light rain.
He watched the women tend to the creature, unload the brightly wrapped packages and bales that had been heaped upon its load-bearing flanges. They all wore the ankle-cuffs of factory-workers. Conscripts not much better than slaves who had been sentenced to one of the three remaining mills. They rewarded the girl with a rag doll that she clutched tightly as she ran off, back to wherever her gang had staked-out a place to call their own. The doll snapped its teeth at everyone that got in her way.
The rain slackened, almost by not quite stopped. Bujilli shook the water out of his hair. The Market amazed him. It was colorful, noisy, busy, filled with rich scents, exotic flavors and abundant food; everything that Winter in Wermspittle was not.
A tremor of desperation ran through Bujilli. Lemuel*** was struggling to reach him. The boy was in trouble.
Bujilli could feel Lemuel's fear bleeding through the psychic link they shared. The boy was in trouble. Scared badly. Alone. In a dark place.
The thimble throbbed once. Sharply. Just enough that it was unmistakable. He felt a slight trickle of blood in the palm of his hand. The blood was quickly absorbed by the thimble.
He went around to the back of a wagon piled with deep red bamboo. It was as quiet, as private a spot as he was likely to find in the immediate vicinity. It wasn't ideal, but then what ever is? Bujilli closed his eyes and examined the psychic link to Lemuel. When he was certain it was authentic he acknowledged the boy's attempt to communicate. Allowed the link to open minutely, at first.
Torrents of impressions, raw emotions, garbled images, distorted sounds all cascaded through the link. Bujilli forced the link shut, then extended his own message through the wild and unfocused cavalcade of disconnected information. It took perseverance and determination, but finally he got past the echoing cacophony emanating from the boy's psyche.
"Lemuel; calm yourself. I'm here. What is happening? why have you reached out to me?"
"Bujilli! I'm in big trouble!" The boy practically shouted through the link..
"Where are you?"
"Through the East Gate. Hedrard had to meet with someone beyond the Inner Ramparts. It was a trap. They overwhelmed the others. Took the two of us through the ruined city. Weak Points. Look for a broken griffin. Third Greenhell on the right--"
Shocking pain spattered across Bujilli's head, heart and hands. He nearly dropped the thimble.
Sheering and muttering obscenities under its breath, a purple-eyed stranger stood over him wielding a galvanic prod.
The mud. Bujilli rose back to his feet. He was coated in mud where he had spasmed and rolled about under the ungentle caress of the sizzling, snapping prod. The link with Lemuel was shut down. Sudden, unexpected pain can do that.
Bujilli laughed. This boy in gaudy, baggy clothes with the galvanic prod reminded him of Ilzinna+ and her brother Ahven. It was the eyes that did it. Oily, swirling purple irises that resembled troubling clouds wrapped around a bottomless pit of a pupil; it was not a look one would easily forget.
"I don't have time for this..."
* See Episode 92.
** Bujilli received a silver thimble from a strange crone in Episode 93.
*** Lemuel first appeared in Episode 21, fought with Bujilli in Episode 22, collapsed in the throes of a hideous transformation brought on by abuse of Hard Candy in Episode 23, was lent a helping hand by Bujilli in Episode 24, became something of a 'blood-brother' to Bujilli in Episode 25. We've seen Lemuel off and on since then. He seems to have made some significant progress in becoming more human and less a shapeless, loathsome mass of corruption. We last saw Lemuel in Episode 81.
+ Ilzinna's body was discovered in Episode 82. Her brother Ahven showed up in Episode 83, and killed himself in the course of spewing forth a Purple Wisp that had been ritually bound into his body in Episode 86, preventing Bujilli from learning anything important and nearly killing Leeja in the process. Both of them were Half-Umbri and had ties to the Purple Horde, and were sent after Bujilli by someone they claimed to be their 'Grandfather.' Ilzinna was possessed by the spirit residing in an ivory mask; the mask was destroyed, but the spirit fled.
Meanwhile...
"I am so glad that you missed." The bear squinted at Leeja and Mishka through its dusty monocle.
Mishka snapped-open her heirloom pepperbox pistol and quickly re-loaded. Her eyes never once left the bear. Her hands shook slightly, but she didn't let that stop her. Fear only ever worked if you let it stop you from doing something. Her mother had taught her that. One sharp lesson after another until she'd learned it in her bones.
Leeja looked at the Voormi warrior standing less than three feet from her. It, too, was staring at the bear.
"Ingglak vasha naatu ber jut..." The Voormi snarled and whined at the bear.
The Middle Sized Bear listened intently, nodded sagely; considered the Voormis words very carefully.
Click. Mishka readied herself for the worst. Her gutting knife gleamed in the dim light. She intended to sell her life dearly.
"Trespassing is a curious thing to be accused of by those with no better claim on a place such as this than what the Voormis have. After all, I was here before either of you, even before the unpleasant couple who used to dwell upstairs or the terrible old man down in the basement." The bear snuffled and lowered its head to examine Leeja more closely, more directly; "I am of the opinion that the recent bit of unpleasantness between yourself and the Voormis was merely a spontaneous incident born from both parties' fear and uncertainty and sparked into violence based on a mutual appreciation for self defense. I don't think either of you ought to be holding any grudges. Do you agree?"
Leeja nodded. "Yes. I do." She almost reached out to restrain Mishka but quickly thought better of it.
"Excellent. The Voormis in this particular band are not such bad sports as the tumor-mongers I had to drive out a few months ago, and they do keep the pigeons honest." The bear nodded its huge head enthusiastically then began to respond to the Voormis in kind. The Voormis was reluctant to give ground, at first, but the bear's sheer erudition and impressive volume overcame the warrior's wounded ego and distrust of strangers.
The snouted warrior glared at Mishka. His pronounced canines protruded over his black bottom lip. He was clearly agitated.
"Ah, the brave young warrior here has a point we few, we happy few, need to resolve before we can all go forth in blissful equilibrium, each to follow their own star to its inevitable end."
"What point?" Mishka glared back at the Voormi. Their mutual antipathy flared out from them like a fluctuating magnetic field between two poles. They eyed each other with bad intent and both looked ready to go after the other with everything they could muster.
"The Voormis claim this building as their clannish dominion. You have intruded upon them, as they see it, and injured several of their warriors--"
"We acted as necessary, in self-defense."
"Most assuredly. However, you have seriously injured several of their warriors and disgraced the other members of this fine fellow's little hunting group..."
"They should know better than to waylay strangers. It's a dangerous business. Not something well-suited to the inept...or the weak." Mishka put as much contempt into her words as possible. The Voormi might not understand the language she spoke, but he did get the gist of the insult. They were highly sensitive to tonality, the Voormis; their own language tended to carry as much information buried in the overtones and harmonics as in the word-sounds.
"Sound advice. No doubt. However--"
"Excuse me," Leeja stepped closer to the Middle Sized Bear; "We are passing through this place. If the Voormis allow us to leave peacefully, we'll not trouble them again." She smiled sweetly.
"And if they insist on--"
"If they do not have the courage, the confidence, the good sense to let us pass...then we will have no choice but to make them regret their decision for several generations to come."
The bear balked. Growled under its breath. Looked deep into Leeja's gold-green eyes and began to rattle off a series of harsh barks and commands to the Voormi.
The Voormi warrior faced Leeja. Nodded once, solemnly. He drew forth a heavily-carved bone flute and set it before her. Then he turned and left without another word.
"Congratulations young lady. You've not only managed to disgrace the chief's only living son, and severely injure his two major rivals, you've now given him the ultimate prestige a Voormi could ask for--he has successfully negotiated the withdrawal of a terrifying demoness and her slave who was on the verge of wiping out the entire tribe. He'll be made chief within a week or less, I imagine."
"And this thing?" Leeja gestured to the bone flute.
"All such dealings must have a token."
"I see." Leeja reached down into her utility belt. Her fingers bumped against a couple of smooth, oblong things. She opened the pouch and looked inside. The little Slasher spawnling she had adopted back at Idvard's old attic-library had deposited four eggs before it died. She drew out one of the eggs and placed it next on the dusty floor as she picked-up the bone flute.
"This might prove useful to the little chieftain. It is a Slasher's egg. It seems inert right now..."
"But it will become very active once it is soaked in fresh blood. An excellent gift. I will see to it that he receives it. Might I also confer your blessing upon his impending chieftain-hood?"
"Yes. Please do."
"Good. So you'll be leaving now?"
"Yes."
"That is good too. I do not wish to be rude, however, if you were to leave from the West entrance, through the old freight elevator, you will be able to avoid a great deal of unnecessary bloodshed and violence."
"Thank you. We'll do as you suggest."
The Middle-Sized Bear nodded wisely, bowed slightly, scooped up the little egg oh so delicately in its claws and waddled off towards the Voormis' barricaded section of the old building.
Leeja got back on the elevator. Mishka hesitated.
"You meant it, didn't you?"
"Of course."
"You would have massacred their entire tribe?"
"Only those that didn't immediately surrender."
"You scare me."
"Good."
Leeja started to close the gate. Mishka got onboard and pushed the button for the basement. She barely suppressed a shiver.
They descended together through the dimly lit atrium. Down past balustrades and arches. Behind walls and windows. Finally the elevator stopped in the basement. It was well lit. The walls were spottily white-washed and a gritty coating of borax or something similar covered the floor to a depth well past their ankles.
Leeja stepped off the elevator and started walking. She quickly found a wide corridor running the length of the basement. Huge arches were set every couple hundred feet. Behind each were pallets, crates, racks of boxes; storage and supplies from the old days. Beady little red, green and yellow eyes scampered or hopped about in the darkness beyond the arches. Rats and other things. This was now their domain, for the most part.
The elevators were marked in Franzik, with small plaques of some cheap substance screwed into place underneath repeating the designation in Pruztian. They quickly found the West elevator and set it into motion. The heavily reinforced doors overhead parted and they emerged into a light rain. Leeja pushed the 'down' button and sent the elevator back. The freight-doors closed. She didn't want to leave them open for just anyone. The Bear had been very civil, after all.
"This way." Mishka started off through the rain.
Leeja followed her guide. The girl was a study in contradictions. No doubt she mystified her nearly as much, or more.
They entered some sort of festival. No. It was a market of some kind.
Mishka veered and wound her way through the crowds, avoiding the large moving objects and dodging the smaller, more insistent shapes. They passed a stall where a gaggle of goblins yelled, hooted and tried to get her attention but Mishka did not stop nor slow down, so she kept going.
"There!" Mishka pointed to some silly bastard rolling around in the mud next to a cart-load of red bamboo.
"I've done what Mama Rudta asked. I'm going back to camp now."
"Thank you." Leeja offered the girl her hand.
She shook her head; "We're Wanderers; we never say good-bye. We're far more likely to run into people you bid farewell than those you don't, or so our elders like to tell us. Either way, I don't wish to cross paths with you again Leeja...not without good reason." Mishka turned and quickly was gone, seemingly swallowed up bu the riotous throngs and moving masses of produce and people in the Market.
Leeja went to Bujilli. He was facing some boy in baggy clothes, all decked-out with fancy chains, ear-rings, a terribly looking cape edged with a tasteless orange fringe. He reminded her of Ahven. He also has a galvanic prod and was obviously moving to strike Bujilli with it.
Leeja...
[You Decide!]
++ Leeja first found the spawnling in Episode 38.
Bujilli and Leeja are now reunited.
Initiative: Roll 1d6 each for (1) Leeja, (2) Bujilli, (3) The Boy, (4) Some Random Passerby.
Reaction: Now we could use a Reaction roll for the boy with the galvanic prod. Roll 2d6, apply a penalty of -2, and check the result against the Monster Reaction Table on p. 52 of Labyrinth Lord.
As always, if you have questions or suggestions let me know in the comments, or via email.
What happens next is up to you, the readers.
You Decide!
Initiative: Roll 1d6 each for (1) Leeja, (2) Bujilli, (3) The Boy, (4) Some Random Passerby.
Reaction: Now we could use a Reaction roll for the boy with the galvanic prod. Roll 2d6, apply a penalty of -2, and check the result against the Monster Reaction Table on p. 52 of Labyrinth Lord.
As always, if you have questions or suggestions let me know in the comments, or via email.
What happens next is up to you, the readers.
You Decide!
Series Indexes
About Bujilli (What is This?) | Who is Bujilli? | How to Play
Bujilli's Character Sheet | Leeja's Character Sheet | Cast of Characters
Bujilli's Spells | Little Brown Journals | Loot Tally | House Rules
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
Series Six(Episodes 100-ongoing)
Labyrinth Lord | Advanced Edition Companion
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
ANGSOC Revisionists
Brother O [confirm spelling]: There were, of course, others who preceded us, some of whom came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just round the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that.
Ambassadorial Interviewer One: And what are you like then?
Brother O: Much like yourselves, I believe. We both know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it.
Ambassadorial Interviewer Two: An excellent observation. Go on...
Brother O: Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power...
His Excellency: On behalf of His Imperial Majesty and as the Head of His forces stationed in this festering hinterland, I wish to welcome you and your people to Wermspittle. I can see that you and I have much to discuss...
Secret Transcript of ANGSOC Interview (Series Two, Room 101)
Originally transcribed by blind-typists working for the Pruztian Ambassadorial Korps at Wermspittle.
These records were confiscated, deciphered and released to the papers after the end of the First Occupation by undisclosed members of the Resistance.
Ambassadorial Interviewer One: And what are you like then?
Brother O: Much like yourselves, I believe. We both know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it.
Ambassadorial Interviewer Two: An excellent observation. Go on...
Brother O: Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power...
His Excellency: On behalf of His Imperial Majesty and as the Head of His forces stationed in this festering hinterland, I wish to welcome you and your people to Wermspittle. I can see that you and I have much to discuss...
Secret Transcript of ANGSOC Interview (Series Two, Room 101)
Originally transcribed by blind-typists working for the Pruztian Ambassadorial Korps at Wermspittle.
These records were confiscated, deciphered and released to the papers after the end of the First Occupation by undisclosed members of the Resistance.
Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past
They seemed to be interested in history. Actually, they were fairly obsessed with it. Everyone of their party seemed to possess an inordinately well-developed sense of bureaucracy and a flair for administrative busy-work. Those who lacked such qualifications were left behind. This only served to endear them to the Pruztian Ambassadorial Mission, while it was still called by that particular euphemism.
During the Occupation, the ANGSOC refugees really came into their own. Many took on Pruztian commissions and a special 'Administrative Division' composed entirely of ANGSOC personnel was formed with the mandate to 'Reform the Libraries, Book Depositories and Archives of Wermspittle,' and to 'Update these institutions in the name of efficiency and the cause of truth.'
The book burnings began almost immediately. More than half the Puritans in the city entered into service to the ANGSOC forces as provisional 'Outer Party Members.' The Puritans were used as stormtroopers until casualties escalated too far and Morlock janissaries were hired-on to replenish their numbers. The Ex-Puritans would not serve next to Morlocks, so this proved more of a tactical disaster than any kind of a solution, but eventually the Party Leadership was able to get things adjusted by the liberal application of rat-cages, mezmerism and ruthless executions for cowardice and betrayal of the Party. The Ex-Puritans quickly towed the line, though friction between them and the Morlocks continue to the present and any commander worth their salt knows to always maintain a strict separation of these two forces. To do otherwise is just asking for desertions, murders and worse trouble.
The ANGSOC Administrative Division also served as the exclusive recruiting ground for the Secret Police.
When the Occupation ended, the ANGSOC unit was abandoned by the Ambassadorial Korps in their withdrawal from the city. The ANGSOC forces took extremely heavy losses.
The hared-pressed ANGSOC survivors, branded 'war criminals' by the provisional government, went underground. Their numbers severely depleted, they negotiated a merger with another group of fanatics obsessed with cultural hygiene and censorship--the so-called Scarlet Letter Society--and formed a revised and hybridized composite group that took the name EINSOC.
The area claimed by EINSOC is well-patrolled by Ex-Puritan mercenaries who are more than a little disgruntled that their previous service to ANGSOC is being counted against them and that their 'probationary period' has been indefinitely extended. Since they were anathematized upon their initial defection, they have nowhere else to go. So they patrol the area and take out their frustrations on anyone that gives them trouble.
War is Peace; Freedom is Slavery; Ignorance is Strength.
Inspiration: 1984 by George Orwell, as adulterated with the mixing-in of Mr. Hawthorne's infamous Scarlet Letter for the heck of it. The ANGSOC logo above was based on the ubiquitous Ingsoc graphic used throughout the movie with Sir Richard Burton that had the soundtrack by Eurythmics that was actually released in 1984. You can watch the movie online at YouTube...for a small fee.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Breathless
There are sacraments of evil as well as of good about us, and we live and move to my belief in an unknown world, a place where there are caves and shadows and dwellers in twilight...
Arthur Machen
Breathless
No. Enc.: 1d4
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 60' (20') [12' (40') when within Purple Smog, Haze or Cloud area of effect]
Armor Class: 6
Hit Dice: 3
Attacks: 1
Damage: 2d4 (Strangulation)
Save: F3
Morale: 6 [12 when within Purple Smog, Haze or Cloud area of effect]
Lost souls who have been claimed by the Deep Purple Smog, the Breathless are undead beings who serve the Purple Clouds as minions. Horribly altered, with their humanity stripped from them, they have been driven insane by their ordeal. They caper and prance within the toxic vapors of the Deep Purple Smog and attempt to strangle all who still breathe--for they shall never draw breath again. The Breathless Move Silently (80%) and are Turned as 6HD creatures while within the area of effect of a Purple Smog, Haze or Cloud.
Purple Amber repels the breathless much in the way that garlic, holy water or religious icons drive off some forms of vampires and other revenants. Any edged weapon treated with oil or some other substance derived from Purple Amber inflicts double damage on these things.
Valdeer Salittan, a former member of the Wall Guard, he declines to be termed a deserter since his unit has all but been destroyed, has published a set of daugherrotypes and complimentary ectographs depicting a trio of abdead revenants that he claims to have encountered along the Number Seven Road, while on patrol from the Western Guard House of the Inner Ramparts. According to Salittan, these particular revenants were '...notable for their distinctive purplish stains and the peculiar miasma-like haze surrounding them'. Some critics have written this off as a desperate attempt to attract attention, others think it a stupid hoax, but a few scholars are deeply troubled by what they fear may be some sort of harbinger of things to come. Perhaps there is some sort of a connection between these things and the sudden, marked increase in reports of miasmas and the like of late...
Jarpha
"Heaven take it away! Hippopotami should not have human hands and carry torches..."
Under the Pyramids
by H.P. Lovecraft and Harry Houdini
Jarpha (Grunt)
No. Enc.: 3d4 (6d4)
Alignment: Neutral
Movement: 60' (20')
Armor Class: 5
Hit Dice: 4+1
Attacks: 1 (weapon)
Damage: 1d6+1 or by weapon
Save: F5
Morale: 4 (Improves by +1 per each pay upgrade)
The Jarpha have spread outwards across myriad worlds and realms. Mercenaries without a world of their own, the Jarpha have a fearsome reputation based on the glories and atrocities of a distant age that their leaders attempt to milk for all its worth. They serve many masters for payment, but only one cause stirs their hearts and gets them to stop complaining or grumbling for a brief moment and that is their devotion to someday claiming a place of their own and settling down to quiet, rustic villages to raise crops, bear real children (not vat-clones), and to pursue various quaint hobbies...none of which any of them have the slightest idea of how to do. No one really knows if it's all some sort of vestigial imprinting left in their systems from their progenitors or something else...
The Jarpha first appeared in Riskail and most recently have been pursuing Zeelia. There are a few knocking about beneath Wermspittle ever since their unit got separated and wandered through a Weak Point. They have been sighted in other settings and campaigns as well...
Monday, June 16, 2014
Todtenhilzig (Nasty Little People)
Twilight had fallen by the time they came to the trees, beneath which were the black, circular objects they had marked from a distance. Dozens of them were scattered around and Dorothy bent near to one, which was about as tall as she was, to examine it more closely. As she did so the top flew open and out popped a dusky creature, rising its length into the air and then plumping down upon the ground just beside the little girl. Another and another popped out of the circular, pot-like dwelling, while from all the other black objects came popping more creatures—very like jumping-jacks when their boxes are unhooked—until fully a hundred stood gathered around our little group of travelers...
by L. Frank Baum
Todtenhilzig
No. Enc.: 5d20
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 30' (10')
Armor Class: 6
Hit Dice: 1d4 hit points
Attacks: 1 (bite or by weapon)
Damage: 1d6 or by weapon [most often 1d4 Biting Dolls]
Save: F2
Morale: 6
Special: Todtenhilzig are very strong for their size, being able to lift approximately three times their own body weight with ease. Their bite is the equivalent of a +1 weapon for both 'to hit' and damage purposes. Anyone devoured by these things is rendered physically unrecoverable, as if that needed to be said...
Nocturnal, tiny and curiously formed little people with wrinkly, leathery skin that appears like some sort of husk or loose wrapping, the Todtenhilzig appear mischievous and playful...even comical...until they have their intended victim surrounded. Then they strike in a mad, hooting and hollering wave of snapping teeth and slashing blades. They prefer to attack only when they have the means to overwhelm a victim, but being hot-blooded and impatient folk, they can sometimes be a bit premature in their all-out assaults.
Merciless, murderous abhuman creatures, the Todtenhilzig crave human flesh above all other meat except perhaps Grimflesh and of course Thumblings, whose flesh they desire over all else. They wear the tanned and painted hides of their former victims and are very skilled in the crafting of bone implements, weapons and adornments, including various talismans and charms cunningly contrived from shards of human bone that they will offer to sell to an unwary traveler whom they are not prepared to ambush quite yet. They are incredibly gifted as doll-makers and are notorious for the 'Biting Dolls' that they make to serve them as guards and weapons.
Todtenhilzig spell-casters construct vicious iron-toothed 'biting dolls' that they send after their enemies among the Thumblings, Lillipts or others, such as those larger folk who manage to escape one of their ambushes. These are a vicious, vengeful people, who exchange torture tips with Bogles and have been known to swap prisoners with certain of the Comprachicos, or one of their agents, on the basis of an equal amount of meat by body-weight basis, of course.
All their spells tend to involve skinning their prey and molding bones into useful shapes, regardless of whether the bones have been removed from their target's body or not. In fact, they have a few spells for the removal of bones that can help with that as well, but they are loathe to teach their spells to outsiders, though they can be bribed with sufficient quantities of fresh meat and strong drink.
Of all the amorphous horrors to be found within Wermspittle, the bone-dissolving Gelbores are of especial interest to the Todtenhilzig. They have allowed trespassers to leave unmolested upon giving the nasty little people very detailed directions to the location of a Gelbore--once the directions were proven to be accurate, of course. No one knows just what the Todtenhilzig do with the Gelbores they capture. It's probably better not to ask...
They dwell in cast iron domes converted from old cauldrons. Presenting a group of Todtenhilzig with a cauldron will earn their friendship and prevent them from attempting to ambush and/or devour such a generous person for at least a few hours. The only thing that would gain a stranger even more acclaim and renown, not to mention good favor among the Todtenhilzig would be to deliver unto them a few Thumbling prisoners. They delight in tormenting, dismembering and ultimately devouring Thumblings more than any other creature. Their hatred for the Thumblings stems from the days Achuin Occupation when roving bands of Thumblings took up the yellow banner and hunted down and killed as many of the Todtenhilzig as they could. Then the Thumblings took over their jobs in the local toy-makers and doll factories. When the Pruztians drove out the Achuin forces, the Thumblings switched sides and served the Pruztians, which allowed them to continue to harass and persecute the Todtenhilzig. Now there is no one to protect their one-time tormentors and the Todtenhilzig are out for revenge...
1d6 Lesser Biting Dolls
- The severed head and one arm of a celluloid-based doll are mounted on an old broom-stick. The doll's jaws have been extended with wired-together sections of bone and wood. Instead of teeth, this doll's gaping maw is filled with dozens upon dozens of rusty nails. The arm flaps around but cannot grip anything now that all its fingers have been hacked off.
Doll-Head Stick [AL C, MV n/a, AC 7, HD 2 (16hp), #AT 1, DG 1d4+2 (Strikes as +2 weapon), SV F1, ML 3+Wielder's CHAR Mod. Special: Takes double damage from fire.]
Control Mechanism: Wielder must invest 1 hit point to wield this weaponized-doll each time they pick it up, failure or refusal to do so results in the thing attacking them at +2 to hit for three consecutive attempts. at the end of the third attempt, if the thing has not drawn blood by way of its attacks, it goes inert until someone, anyone, invests one hit point of their own blood into the thing. Also, each time this thing achieves a natural 20 on the To Hit dice in combat it will require one additional hit point of damage invested to keep it working for the current wielder.
- A rag doll soaked in Spectral Brine, it's insides are a viscous black jelly and the thing spews corrosive tar-like gunk in-between biting attacks. The gunk clings to most surfaces and is highly flammable in addition to causing 1d4 damage per turn for the next 4 turns.
Control Mechanism: A square button carved from walrus ivory. The button must be stitched into the clothing of the would-be master. They then must squeeze the button between two fingers while giving the doll simple commands of three words or less in Urzine or some related dialect.
Pukey Doll [AL C, MV 30' (10'), AC 7, HD 2 (11hp), #AT 1 (Bite or Spewage), DG 1d4/1d6 (+1d4 per Turn for next 4 Turns), SV F1, ML 3+Master's CHAR Mod., Special: On a successful bite attack the doll will attempt to latch onto its victim, gaining a +2 bonus to hit on its next attack, which if successful inflicts double damage. However, once it accomplishes this special attack, the doll slips free and must try again.]
Control Mechanism: A ring of laminated bone. Wearer gains a +6 bonus to dominate the doll psychically. The doll has an Ego/Psyche of 12. Each time the doll takes damage, the ring-wearer takes 1 hit point of damage as well.
- Garishly re-painted porcelain-headed doll in a miniature hoop-skirt. The fabric body is packed with a mixture of gunpowder and Achromic Powder. Someone has thoughtfully wired a torch into the thing's tiny little hands and it appears very happy to see you. [Explodes as a Fireball spell.]
Dolly-BoomBoom [AL C, MV 60' (20'), AC 7, HD 1 (4hp), #AT 1, DG 4d6 damage in 30' radius blast, SV F1, ML 3+Master's CHAR Mod. If doll fails Morale check, it has a 30% chance to run crying back to Master.]
Control Mechanism: A tear-drop shaped 'gem' formed from a lacquered blob of gray jelly containing a substantial quantity of gunpowder and attached to a slender Horla-hide cord. The wearer can command the doll up to a distance of 20', even though the blast radius is 30'.
- Papier mache coated with lacquer, this doll has the bulging eyes of a grizzled veteran from the fighting pits lovingly glued into its too-small sockets. The thing's nose is the pick-end of a broken warhammer (does 1d6, but breaks loose in wound) and it's teeth are ice-picks and bodkins stolen from failed revolutionaries.
Pick-Nose Doll [AL C, MV n/a (Legs are actually the handle of a warhammer), AC 7, HD 2 (14hp), #AT 1 (Bite), DG 1d4+1, SV F1, ML 3+Wielder's CHAR Mod. Takes triple damage from fire.]
Control Mechanism: Whomever wishes to control this doll must carefully insert an appropriate bodkin or ice-pick into its over-sized jaws. Doing so grants you complete control of the thing for the next 36 hours, after which time it rebels and either runs away (60%) or attacks (40%). It can be destroyed by driving another ice-pick through its head, or held at bay by reciting revolutionary doctrine and press releases in a suitably sonorous and monotonous voice for so long as the recitation continues uninterrupted.
- Headless Cutie Doll. It's body is hollow, but filled with 3d6 green-speckled centipedes that swarm out of the gaping hole where its head ought to be.
Headless Cutie-Doll [AL C, MV 30' (10'), AC 7, HD 2 (9hp), #AT 1, DG Special, SV F1, ML 3+Master's CHAR Mod. Special: Contains 3d6 venomous vermin that will attack if disturbed.]
Green-Speckled Centipedes [AL C, MV 90' (30'), AC 6, HD 1+1, #AT 1, DG 1d4+Poison, SV F1, ML 5. Special: Save +1 versus Poison or suffer -4 penalty to Initiative, half movement, -2 penalty to hit and lose any DEX bonus to AC for next 1d4 Turns. effects Are cumulative.]
Control Mechanism: A bent stick carved with lazy spirals is given to the would-be owner or controller. Wherever you point the stick, the doll will move towards that direction. This effect is continual and cannot be paused or stopped. Letting go of the stick causes the doll to come after whoever held it last.
- Grotesquely carved from wood and bone, this warrior-doll has an over-sized nutcracker-like mouth fitted with many, many triangular iron teeth. It also has multiple bloody scalps affixed to its head; each one chewed off of the head of a past victim.
Biting Doll (Scalper) [AL C, MV 60' (20'), AC 6, HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d4+3 (Strikes as +1 weapon), SV F4, ML 10, Special: Limited to a 120' radius around master. Every scalp taken has a 20% chance to grant the doll 1 additional point of Ego (as magical/sapient sword).]
Control Mechanism: A small leather bag that contains several wadded-up and bloody scalps. The exterior is picked-out with crude bead-work, with the beads being human teeth. holding the bag allows you to direct the doll, but your influence wanes the longer it goes without committing an act of violence. There is no set formula or measure to how this functions, only a never-ending need by the doll to be biting, tearing, hurting things that the 'master' must accommodate, or else the doll will turn on them.
Inspiration: The Todtenhitzig were inspired by a desire to replace Mr. Baum's 'tiny and curiously formed' little people, the Tottenhots of Oz with something that wasn't quite so stupidly racist, so I re-imagined them as a truly nasty type of 'lower form of humanity,' with ancestral ties back to the wicked Voorish Domes in Deep Dendo as rivals and competitors (and hunters) of the Thumblings. Thus we manage to mash-up The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum with The White People of Arthur Machen...and find out who really makes those evil little fetish dolls with the oh so sharp iron teeth...
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