Hereticwerks

Monday, May 19, 2014

Vhoorlian (Old Sketches)

Deep Purple Smog (Red Bestiary)

"...infectious diseases, as we all know, have spread beyond limit; in several towns the police seem to have disappeared, and, in nearly all, every vestige of decency; the results following upon the sudden release of the convicts appear to be monstrous in the respective districts; and within three short months Hell seems to have acquired this entire planet, sending forth Horror, like a rabid wolf, and Despair, like a disastrous sky, to devour and confound her..."

The Purple Cloud
by M. P. Shiel

Deep Purple Smog
Malevolent forces of rampant moral decay, grandiose delusion and pernicious toxicity, Deep Purple Smog is a constant threat within the tunnels, sewers and Low Streets of Wermspittle, spurring the formation of public Smog Shelters and the Smog Bells set atop heavy metal platforms at strategic points along the major streets and avenues.

A typical Smog Event lasts for 1d4 hours, during which time an area ranging from a few dozen square feet to a space encompassing several blocks becomes occluded and murky with normal fog that eventually takes on a purplish appearance as the Deep Purple Smog mixes and mingles with it. In most instances, there are roughly twenty minutes to reach shelter or to get out of the area affected once the Smog Bells begin to sound the alarm. Many people report smelling something like burned molasses, both smoky and incredibly sweet, right before a Smog Event, however this remains anecdotal and is not considered a safe nor reliable method for detecting the onset of the Smog.

Those caught in the Deep Purple Smog must make a Save or are effectively blinded and quickly become disoriented as sounds tend to echo and distort oddly in the Smog. The smog itself is poisonous and intoxicating, causing 1d4 physical and 1d4 morale damage each round. Those exposed can attempt to resist the effects of the Deep Purple Smog by making a Save for either the physical or the morale damage, a successful Save reducing that particular damage type by half, however they then become blinded and disoriented by the swirling purple vapors that provoke a violent, ecstatic response causing those affected to suffer intense delusions, lowered inhibitions and a reversion to highly irrational base instincts. Emotions are intensified, all the repressed and suppressed contents of the unconscious are vomited forth and people become howling, gibbering, screaming and laughing orgiastic mobs as debased and debauched as they are destructive. The sheer utter madness and raw horror that takes place during these Events is beyond belief and mercifully takes place behind the swirling, billowing masses of richly tinted vapors that obscure such things from the view of those who huddle together within the shelters or other places of refuge.

Purple Amber repels all forms of purple miasmas.

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. It is possible that man may sometimes return on the track of evolution, and it is my belief that an awful lore is not yet dead...

The Great God Pan
by Arthur Machen

A Temporary Mob...
Anyone having their Morale reduced to zero while within the Deep Purple Smog becomes a Smog Thrall until their morale is restored to normal, either by spell, potion or device. Morale damage inflicted by the Deep Purple Smog is recovered at one third the normal rate (3 hours to regain 1 point). During the time of their Thralldom, the victim is under the control of the Deep Purple Smog. Those taken over by the Smog as a Thrall gain an additional Save for every half hour they spend outside the bounds of a Smog Event. Former thralls retain no conscious memory of their servitude, but often report vivid and disturbing nightmares and flashbacks. They also revert back to their Thralldom state if reduced to zero Morale and then failing a Save during the next six weeks.

Smog Thralls (1d4) [AL N, MV 120', AC 7, HD 1+, #AT 1, DG 1d6, SV F1, ML 12 (While within Deep Purple Smog)/3 (Outside Smog). Special: Immune to Charm, Hypnosis, Sleep and ESP effects, however they are extremely susceptible to illusions, phantasmal forces and ventriloquism. Smog Thralls gibber and gnash their teeth, roll their eyes, and are prone to remove most of their clothing and armor in order to run about mostly naked. They attack with bare hands and their teeth.]

An Involuntary Congregation...
Those unlucky souls who are reduced to zero hit points by exposure to the Deep Purple Smog disappear with the Smog. It is believed that they reappear at each subsequent Smog Event as a sort of horribly transformed congregation of undead figures who serve the whims and desires of the Deep Purple Smog forever more.

Purple Congregants (1d6) [AL N, MV 90', AC 6, HD 3+, #AT 1, DG 2d4, SV F3+, ML 12 (While within Deep Purple Smog)/3 (Outside Smog). Special: Take 1 point of damage per round outside the vapors of a Smog Event. Turned as a 4HD Undead creature. Immune to Charm, Hypnosis, Sleep and ESP effects, however they are extremely susceptible to illusions, phantasmal forces and ventriloquism. Anyone actually seeing a Purple Congregant must Save or suffer 1d6 Morale Damage and run away screaming at full movement rate for as 3+ rounds (based on HD of the creature).]

A Blasphemous Communion...
Various competing cults seek out the frenzied gnosis their leaders preach about and goad them into experiencing as a rite of passage. Most such demagogues refrain from descending into the miasmic inferno they venerate, but there are those driven mad with devotion who embrace the Deep Purple Smog body and soul...and it is rumored that some of these become transformed in the midst of their demented adorations, becoming twisted purple things that only ever come forth during the vaporous cacophony of a Smog Event.

Purple Proselytes (1d4) [AL N, MV 30', AC 4, HD 5+, #AT 1, DG 3d4, SV CL5+, ML 12 (While within Deep Purple Smog). Special: Immune to Charm, Hypnosis, Sleep and ESP effects, however they are extremely susceptible to illusions, phantasmal forces and ventriloquism. Regenerate 1 hit point per minute while within bounds of a Smog Event, however, they are automatically destroyed if they leave the bounds of a Smog Event for any reason. Cannot be Turned, only Destroyed as a 7 HD Undead creature. They can divide all damage they inflict between physical or morale damage as they will. They have the spell-casting and other abilities of a Cleric at a level half their current HD. There are rumors that these beings acquire a number of exceptionally vicious spells by way of their devotion and connection to the Deep Purple Smog...]

Survivor Guilt
Not everyone dies, is driven mad, or becomes a slave of the Deep Purple Smog. In fact, quite a few survive the effects of a Smog Event, though none who have tasted the pungent aerial-liquor of these malign miasmas walk away unscathed. Those who make it through a Smog Event retain no conscious memory of what occurred within the billowing purple miasma, but each survivor carries a nagging sense of nameless, wordless, ambiguous guilt that worries away at them, tainting their days with a persistent melancholy and causing them to suffer a -1 penalty on all Saves versus mind affecting spells, effects or items and a permanent reduction of -1 to their Morale.

Merciful Memory Loss
Clairvoyance, Remote Viewing, ESP and all such forms of spells, telepathy, empathy and so on do not function within the area affected by the Deep Purple Smog. Hypnosis, Mesmerism, Phrenological Surgery and related techniques cannot recover the memories of those who stumble out of the last gaseous tatters of a Smog Event. Whatever happens within the Deep Purple Smog is indelibly imprinted within the psyche and soul of its victims, but it is not something they can ever share or describe. It remains a very personal thing that no words can ever adequately describe or capture. It is this elusively inexpressible quality of the experience that drives Yellow Journalists, Accursed Poets and others to willfully enter Smog Events in order to attempt to be the first person to successfully describe, explain or capture the essence of the thing for posterity, and their eternal fame. Despite many a misguided attempt, none have succeeded to this day.

It Leaves a Mark...
Those who survive the Deep Purple Smog are often marked by their experience in a physical manner, in addition to the psychic scars they bear. Some exhibit a faint purplish tint or streaks in their hair or upon their skin, others have had their teeth turned vivid purple. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to this process and it may in fact be entirely random.

**Lingering Marks of Purple Smog Exposure**
d8	Mark	Effect	Duration
1	Teeth turn light purple.	-1 Penalty to Reaction Roll.	Save (1d4 days) or Permanent.
2	Streak of vivid purple in hair.	Possible social stigma. Gain +1 bonus to all Saves within Smog Events.	Save (1d4 weeks) or Permanent.
3	Small, easy to cover-up splotches of purplish discoloration on skin.	-1 penalty to CHAR if attempting to hide the discolorations, +1 on all Saves if left exposed.	Save (2d6 weeks) or Permanent.
4	Most of one limb is discolored by a distinctive purple mottling.	-1 to all Saves within area of effect of Smog Events, +1 bonus to all saves on outside.	Save (3d6 days) or Permanent.
5	All your finger and toe nails take on a lustrous purple coloration.	Gain clairvoyant ability to predict Smog Events up to 1d4 hours ahead of time.	Save (3d6 Weeks) or Permanent.
6	Lips and tongue become dark purple.	Must make Save each time they wake up or speech is garbled into some unintelligible gibberish.	Effect persists for 1d6 days.
7	Majority of skin turns purple.	Become invisible within Smog Events, however retains a dim purplish glimmer in normal darkness making Hide in Shadows impossible.	Save (2d6 days) or Permanent.
8	Blood becomes purple.	Immune to Morale Damage from all Miasmas, +1 on all Saves versus miasma-effects, take only half damage from Miasmas, gain ability to Turn Miasmas as Cleric one level below current level.	Save (3d6 days) or Permanent.

"The time would be easy to know, for then mankind would have become as the Great Old Ones; free and wild and beyond good and evil, with laws and morals thrown aside and all men shouting and killing and revelling in joy. Then the liberated Old Ones would teach them new ways to shout and kill and revel and enjoy themselves, and all the earth would flame with a holocaust of ecstasy and freedom.

The Call of Cthulhu
by H. P. Lovecraft

Centers of Pestilence
At the end of a Smog Event the swirling vapors do not disperse like most normal miasmas, but rather the Deep Purple Smog coalesces and recedes back to some central point where it condenses down into a gritty, granular purplish residue that settles like snow over a small section of some alley, back-street or neglected avenue. This dense, richly colorful material exudes a foul stench that exacerbates all infections, toxins and diseases, causing them to become twice as virulent as usual and inflicting a -1 penalty on all Saves versus disease, poison or similar things within a 20' radius. This stuff lingers for weeks, if not months, in places where it isn't exposed to sunlight or washed away by the rain. It is rumored that the longer a patch of this purple residue is allowed to fester and rot in the shadows, the more toxic the fumes it exudes and the greater the area it can affect with various forms of mysterious illnesses. Those areas where this sort of residue have become a persistent problem are designated 'Sick Spots,' and are usually quarantined by local authorities. Daring bands of medical adventurers have isolated more than six dozen different strains of pestilential residue retrieved from various sick spots where strange fevers, peculiar infections and bizarre afflictions have been reported. Some of these professionals, and quite a few enthusiastic and enterprising amateurs have attempted to come up with serums, pills and strange devices intended to mitigate the effects of the sick spots, combat the various forms of residue, or to provide relief to those suffering the lingering after-effects of exposure to these horrid hazards of the dim and neglected spaces.

The purple residue granules have sometimes been used in the creation of various forms of poison gas, skin irritants, psychoactive serums, purple powder and similar weapons by Cranley-Essen Chemowerks prior to the outbreak of hostilities between Pruztia and Franzikan Empire. There used to be a few attempts to research non-toxic/non-weaponized applications of the Deep Purple Smog residue, but those programs lapsed due to a lack of support or funding.

Sick Spots [Area of Effect: 10-40' radius, All forms of healing are reduced in effectiveness by half; all poisons, toxins, diseases and similar things are twice as effective as normal; all Saves suffer a -1 penalty. Cause Disease, Sicken, Breath of Pestilence and related spells become permanent environmental effects on a roll of 18-20 on a d20. All Cause Wounds spells gain a 30% chance to become infected.]

Purple Residue [AL N, MV n/a (Static), AC 5, HD 4+, #AT 1, DG (Special), SV F8+, ML n/a (Mindless). Special: Cause 1d6 damage on touch. Exude toxic fumes that produce Sick Spots (see above).]

Up From the Depths
The Deep Purple Smog originates deep underground, possibly within one of the pocket-caverns adjacent to the Hardwigg, Wysession or Lidenbrock Deep Reservoirs, but attempts to verify this have been unsuccessful due to interference by the Sewer Militia who control the Hardwigg and Wysession Reservoirs, and the Unterkorps who have laid claim to the Lidenbrock Resevoir. Neither group has been willing to allow independent expeditions to examine the perimeter caverns and chambers surrounding these very strategic areas. Seers working under the auspices of the Office of Independent Inquiry, a public-private partnership between a defunct governmental agency established under the Second Pruztian Occupation and the Academy, have reportedly uncovered a completely other and previously unsuspected point of origin for the Purple Clouds and all their derivatives, including the Deep Purple Smog. Details have not been forthcoming, possibly due to some sort of inter-departmental academic squabble.

A recent daring raid on the O.I.I. offices by Yellow Journalists has made several dozen previously classified files open to the reading public. One of which, labelled 'Purple Veil,' has been featured in a weekly series of articles detailing the efforts of a previously covert group of adventurers known as the Fabulous Five who have not been heard from since leaving to investigate mysterious ruins in a possible 'fourth reservoir.' The newspaper accounts are crammed with excess hyperbole and wild speculation, as always, but could there really be a fourth such reservoir? Could this be the birth-place of the various purple-tinted miasmas?

Sources of inspiration: Deep Purple Smog was inspired by M.P. Shiel's The Purple Cloud, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Poison Belt, and The Comet by W. E. B. DuBois...with a particularly distinctive guitar riff playing in the background. You can find a copy of The Purple Cloud via Project Gutenberg, if you're interested, or you might like to try to listen to the audiobook version via LibriVox. The Poison Belt is the second Professor Challenger story and is also available at Wikisource. The Comet is included in Dark Water: Voices From Within the Veil available at Project Gutenberg. All three stories are highly recommended.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Purple Wisps

...I am strongly in favour of using poisoned gas against uncivilised tribes. The moral effect should be so good that the loss of life should be reduced to a minimum. It is not necessary to use only the most deadly gasses: gasses can be used which cause great inconvenience and would spread a lively terror and yet would leave no serious permanent effects on most of those affected...

Winston Churchill: departmental minutes
(Churchill papers: 16/16)
12 May 1919 War Office

Purple Wisps (Vile Vapors)
No. Enc.: 1
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 10' (gaseous form)
Armor Class: 7 (Cannot be harmed by non-magical weapons)
Hit Dice: 2
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1d4 per round due to poison
Save: F2
Morale: 11

Silent but deadly little miasmas, Purple Wisps reek of rancid peaches, leaving behind a powerful stench of burnt peaches that lingers wherever they've poisoned the air in a roughly 10' radius with their toxic exudations. They tend to lurk at the terminus of dead end streets or cul de sacs, drifting along disused by-ways and alleys, looming over forgotten stairs and the like, where they fester in their own hate and malice.

Purple Wisps are deplorable, despicable things, seemingly bent on the destruction of all life, however they have been known to enter into unholy alliances with those members of the Purple Horde who have entered into a pact with them by way of certain proscribed rituals known only among the Desert Fathers and the peculiar sect known as 'The Breathless' of the Ledaan. One such ritual is known as the Pending Exhalation and it allows the person submitting to it to breathe in a Purple Wisp and carry the vile thing deep within their lungs, gaining a number of special abilities in exchange for acting as a host to the foul being, including the ability to spew forth the Purple Wisp as a final act of contrition.

Source of Inspiration: Purple Wisps are inspired by M.P. Shiel's The Purple Cloud. You can find a copy of The Purple Cloud via Project Gutenberg, if you're interested, or you might like to try to listen to the audiobook version via LibriVox. There was a Purple Wisp encountered in Episode 86 of Bujilli...when Ahven made use of the Pending Exhalation to poison Leeja...

Saturday, May 17, 2014

I just don't see it...

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Bujilli: Episode 89

Previously...
Bujilli has left Mama Rudta's alley-camp to go to the Farmer's Market with Mishka. Niobe and Leeja have stayed behind with Mama Rudta who has just been stabbed by an unseen assailant....

"Only a fool..." taunted an unseen woman's voice.

Firelight glinted from the edges of a steely knife. Leeja rose from her cushion instantly. The blade tilted, glimmered like glass, flicked towards Mama Rudta like a mirrored serpent's tongue. Leeja couldn't deflect the thing.

Blood.

Mama Rudta wasn't laughing any more. Her hand were clutched to her ample bosom. The wire-bound handle of the dagger jutted out from between her veiny hands. She had a dumbfounded look on her face that made Niobe laugh. Leeja rushed to Mama Rudta.

Then the screaming started. One of the guards collapsed, their throat slit cleanly to the vertebrae. Another.

Leeja ignored the chaos surrounded her and focused on Mama Rudta. The dagger was some sort of medical thermometer, sharpened and reformed into a killing weapon. One that left glass and mercury, if not other things behind in the wound it made.

She cast Pale Shelter, if only to buy Mama Rudta and herself some extra time. Stilletto in-hand, she set about removing the nasty debris befor it could do any more damage. The old woman remained standing. Stoically silent. Her eyes fixed on a point behind Leeja, following...something.

Leeja spun and flung. Her stilletto stopped abruptly in mid-air with a muffled grunt. The section of the blade embedded within invisible flesh distorted as though under water. Leeja barked forth a choking cloud of Charnel Breath and lunged towards the unseen assailant. The cloud had a slight purplish tint to it, but she didn't pay it any attention; instead she concentrated on wrapping her tendril-like hair around the assassin. She could hear them coughing, gagging, so she tightened her hair where it caught around their torso.

She yanked-out her stilletto, twisting it ever so slightly as it withdrew from their flesh. It came away wet, slick with transparent blood. The assassin screamed, but their voice was muffled. A quick check gave Leeja the impression of some sort of scarf wrapped multiple times around their face, a sort of mask, composed of invisible silk.

Leeja tore away the unseen mask as best she could manage. Ripped it free. Flung it away.

"I'll tell you nothing..." Their oath was cut off by a fit of coughing. Charnel Breath could play havoc with people's lungs. It should have paralyzed them. But it didn't. That bothered Leeja. A lot.

"You don't have to." Niobe laughed.

Leeja looked up at her sister. Niobe made a mocking face at her momentarily dumbfounded sister; "Mama Rudta can learn all sorts of useful things from this one's blood. We don't need to keep them alive."

Leeja looked back at Mama Rudta. The old woman slumped down on her cushions. The wound had been less serious than she had feared. The old woman nodded grimly; "It is as your sister says...however...there might be value in this one, perhaps a ransom of sorts?" Her contemplation of their options was interrupted with a coughing fit. She looked drawn. Far too sweaty and pale for Leeja's liking. There was blood on her lips from the coughing. Never a good sign.

"I'll die first--" The invisible assassin struggled to get their hands free.

Leeja grabbed hold of the assassin's invisible face then slammed the pommel of her stilletto down upon what she believed was their temple. It took a second try as they squirmed, then slumped unconscious. For now.

She stood up. Dragged the body along with her toward Mama Rudta. Niobe was removing the bits of glass and wiping at the wound with a clean rag.

"Nasty business." Niobe shook her head as she worked on the wound.

"Who would send this," she gestured at the figure bound up in her hair; "sort of thing after you?"

Mama Rudta grimaced. Coughed wetly, then yelled; "Malza! Bind this would-be killer!"

Another girl, very similar to Mishka only daubed in blue-green and wielding a slim, almost whip-like scimitar silently acknowledged the command, sheathed her blade and ran off after some cordage or the like.

Leeja looked out past the dying fire. It was quiet.

A tall, heavily-built old man with a wild shock of white hair came into the circle of fire-light. Only just.

"They're gone now. We killed one other. They slew six before escaping. We cannot stay here any longer."

"I know that as well as you do Razga. They would never have come after us in the old countries. The pact is broken, or in abeyance, either way it is not too very good for us here. Pass the word to break camp. We leave this place immediately."

"But you can't--"

"Can and will." Mama Rudta gestured Leeja to come closer, placed her wrinkled claw-like hand on her arm gently; "There's no place for us here. Not any longer. they killed six of our children tonight. They have nearly taken my life as well. It is better to take our chances along the Cold Roads...or perhaps we can arrange to have one of the rafters to take us through the marshes..."

"But it is raining still..."

"It is Spring, child; of course it is raining. The lichen-scrapers look to their attics now, there will be a new harvest of fungi and such things now. The fish, frogs and crabs will be spawning in the cellars. Plow Grubs will be waking up out in the Low Lands. The flocks are returning to the Tulgey Wood. This is a good time. Winter is done, for now."

"But..."

"You need not worry about us child. We know the ways of many roads, many routes. Not all the worlds surrounding us are necessarily dead. We will find our way, under the cover of darkness and rain if need be."

"There is so much I do not understand..."

"You are young. You have not been here very long. Answers take time. Knowledge takes effort. Experience comes at a price. This one--" Mama Rudta waved towards the invisible form wrapped in Leeja's white hair; "This one might have some things to tell you, if you wish to ask. I can reveal to you the answers carried in their blood, but such things will not set you at ease. Such things will only pull you further into their master's orbit to cross paths you do not even suspect as yet. People fear the unknown for good reason. but if you like, I can pull back the veil slightly and give you what I am able."

Meanwhile...

Bujilli jogged along the muddy side-street. Mishka had not waited for him. She slipped through the rain like a phantom he could only barely keep in sight. Down a rain-slick ramp. Switchback stairs. Across a bramble-choked forest confined by black iron fences, what was once a park of some sort. through a debris-clogged passage between blackened and crumbling buildings. Over a make-shift bridge suspended over a deep crater in the middle of a street. Over mounds of rubble, treacherously slippery in the rain. He caught up with the girl on the half-caved-in verandah of a dead hotel overlooking the Low Streets. Two-thirds of the walls in this place were missing, as if sheared off by a gigantic knife. Surprisingly, the remaining sections were still mostly upright, only a few had collapsed after the place had been gutted.

"There," she pointed along the defunct funicular railway.

He looked out across the night. Tried to see what she was pointing at but it was next to impossible with the steady fall of the night-time rain. The streetlights were all dead in this area, which didn't help as much as he might have hoped. There were lights down below, galvanic lamps, gas lamps, some other luminous things. It was a messy and uneven patchwork competing light-sources interspersed with random patches of darkness. Bujilli's eyes were drawn to the jagged black shapes of another Burned Over District, a section of the city that had been bombed, blasted, burned into a mangled and malevolent wilderness of curdled shadows and stone. He looked away. It might have been possible to pick out specific neighborhoods or notorious regions, if one knew the place that well, but he did not.

"I'm not sure..."

"It's right there at the foot of the rail. In the old days people bought a ticket and rolled down the ramp and did their shopping right there, never straying too far from the walls surrounding their fancy homes up here. Back before the bombs. When the airships still came here. Just follow the rails and you can't miss it. Keep an eye out for the blue tile stalls and you'll be fine."

Bujilli nodded. It was clear that the girl was anxious to get back to her people. It was better that he proceed without her. He needed to travel quickly, quietly, carefully.

"Thank you." She was off and running before he finished saying it. He watched her until she disappeared around a corner.

Bujilli turned back. The railing ended less than three yards to his left. Sheared off cleanly by whatever had struck the old hotel. Lightning flashed across the roiling black clouds overhead. A great crash shattered the night as a bolt struck somewhere back behind him, towards the Academy. Another. Then another. some sort of tower was rising from a gap in the rooftop along the West Wing. Some sort of giant lightning rod?

He followed the street towards the ticket office. The signs along this section were replaced with baroque lozenges of yellow metal extruded in a semi-organic mockery of flowers, bulbs and vines. The street names were dimly picked-out in shimmering green and handily repeated in three languages, including a stylized dialect of Etrurian that he recognized and could mostly read.

The ticket office was a hollow shell of its former glory. The slotted ticket-window was shattered. The register overturned and broken-open by vandals. Red Weed tendrils were growing over everything. He climbed over the vine-bound turnstile. There were two cars. One was two-thirds of the way back up to the top. The other one was dangling off the side less than twenty feet from the street below. Neither were in service any longer.

Bujilli sat down on a yellow metal bench that wasn't quite completely overtaken by the spirally vines. The rain was coming in heavier now, with no sign that the storm was letting up any time soon. He considered searching out an alternative route but dismissed the idea out of hand. He had business down below. He did not intend to waste time running around looking for another way down there.

He spotted a sign that he thought read 'Maintenance.'

That sounded promising.

The door gave way on the third push. He called up his Gloomlight Glyph and started exploring the narrow space. There was a slanting corkscrew-stairwell leading downwards. He took it. One step at a time. Minimizing the noise of his boots on the metal rungs as best he could. He was too impatient to take off the boots and pad along bare-foot, which would have been quieter, but decidedly less safe.

He wasn't keen on stepping into a gore puddle or a patch of stair-sludge. There were quite a selection of Jellies prowling about in these sorts of places. He wasn't going to run into any such thing barefoot. Having nearly lost a few toes to a centipede had made Bujilli a firm believer in a pair of good, stout boots.

Crunch.

Bujilli froze in place.

Scrutch.

Something was moving around down below.

Rutch.

He had six rungs to go before he could step off onto the top platform, quite a few more rungs to get down before he got to the bottom platform, at least as far as he could make-out in the dim gloom.

Whatever it was seemed to be down on the bottom platform, so he moved down the remaining six rungs ever so carefully and --

His foot slipped.

Someone please roll 1d20 for a Saving Throw, and while we're at it, we could also use a 4d6 Dex Check.

So...now Leeja has a big decision to make. Does she have Mama Rudta interrogate the invisible assassin's blood? Or does she perhaps ask for some other boon?

Should Leeja then head back to the Academy, or go looking for Bujilli?

Speaking of Bujilli...if he catches hold of the upper platform he'll need a 4d6 Strength Check to see if he can pull himself up onto the platform. Failing that STR check means that he will fall down the stairwell to the platform below, taking 2d4 damage and needing another Save to avoid getting conked unconscious on the way down.

Failing the DEX Check has him falling down the stairwell as above. Ouch.

Then, once Bujilli is back on his feet, we'll need to roll his initiative...and another 1d20 roll would also be appreciated...

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

What happens next is up to you, the readers.

You Decide!

Previous Next

Series Indexes

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six

Starting Page | Central Index

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

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

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

Episode Guides
Series One (Episodes 1-19)

Series Two (Episode 20-36)

Series Three (Episodes 37-49)

Series Four (Episodes 50-68)

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

Labyrinth Lord | Advanced Edition Companion

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

20 Unsightly Stains

"Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness."

Samuel Beckett

Not every monstrous thing gallops forth or squishes past the boundaries to assault the minds, bodies and spirits of its victims. Some things that lurk in the dark places and abandoned spaces wait patiently, mindlessly, for someone to witness them like a crime frozen in time, a scar upon the wall or floor, some strange and terrible stain that conceals damning traces even as it reveals peculiar spoor...

Black and Red Streaks. Gritty, chalky, dirty streaks left by violent contact with some massive, irregular object. The area surrounding it appears cracked and often times partly melted, as if exposed to great heat in the past. The streaks radiate a faint magical aura, gleaming a lurid red in the darkness when exposed to a Detect Magic or similar such spell.

[AL N, MV 3' (1'), AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d4 per round of contact, SV F4, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Highly flammable, burst into sickly blood-red flames in a 20' radius inflicting 3d4 damage on all caught within the area for 1d4 rounds. These stains are crumbly and if handled carefully so as to avoid sparks, can be scraped off of the walls and used to treat special torches or lanterns left behind as traps for the unwary, a favorite trick of certain Foragers. There is interest in studying samples of this material as it may have applications in weapons manufacture.]
Smeared Bloody Hand-Print. It might be blood. It could be some sort of nasty sludge. There is a mucousy sort of viscousness to the stuff, like congealed petroleum jelly mingled with blood and other bodily fluids. Whoever made this hand-print was clearly in distress. You can just barely sense the lingering echoes of their screams quivering through the stain...

[AL N, MV n/a, AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 1, #AT 1, DG 1d4 per round of contact, SV F4, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Can only be destroyed by fire, however burning it produces a 20'x20' cloud of poisonous green smoke that inflicts 3d4 damage on everyone who comes into contact with the stuff. The smoke clears in about half an hour. The hand-print will be indelibly burned into whatever surface it was smeared upon.]
Lumpy Mess. It resembles a pile of vomited oatmeal stuck on the ceiling or high up on a wall.

[AL N, MV 9' (3'), AC 9, HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d4+Poison, SV F4, ML 12 (mindless). Special: These things cling to ceilings and the tops of doorways, waiting to pounce, or rather drip down upon, likely victims. They secrete a weak paralytic toxin that incurs a cumulative -1 to all Saves with each attack, until either the stain is destroyed or the victim is in fact paralyzed. The toxin has never been successfully collected from a specimen in captivity, but perhaps one might have better luck in the wild? It is conjectured by several leading authorities that these 'stains' are in fact bacterial colony-creatures, however due to the lack of legitimate scholarship they remain classified as a type of stain.]
Burn Marks. Blistered, black shapes imprinted deeply into the surrounding walls. Each one unique and distinctly troubling in its distorted proportions, disturbing elongations and profane implications.

[AL N, MV 6' (3'), AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d4 burning damage on contact. Special: Rapidly deplete all oxygen in 30' radius when exposed to open flames. Those remaining within the 30' radius of effect suffer double damage as they suffocate and their skin slowly blackens and crisps into charcoal. Anyone reduced to zero hit points within this area of effect is reduced to charcoal and is non-recoverable, at least physically...]
Gore Puddles. Dry, blackened vestiges of puddles of blood left behind by past incidents of violence. These stains become refreshed anew by so much as a single drop of blood.

[AL C, MV n/a (Reach: 12'), AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 1d4, #AT 1, DG 1d4 per HD, SV F1d4, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Anyone exposed to one of these stains suffers a slowed-down healing response, regaining hit points at half the normal rate and only gaining half of any effect from healing spells or potions. This effect persists for 3d4 days unless alleviated by Remove Curse or Cure Affliction.]
Green Spatter. Desiccated green blotches outlined with rings of increasingly faint residue. The rancid green centers of these stains seem to almost throb in anticipation.

[AL N, MV 1' (1'), AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 1, #AT 1, DG 2d4, SV F1, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Touching these stains causes the victim's shadow to take on a green tint and reduces all subsequent Saves versus Umbral or shadow-based magics to suffer a permanent -1 penalty. These stains are an essential component in crafting the elixir for Green Eyes, a serum granting the user an expansion of their visual perception across more than a dozen closely-related resonant layers. It is unclear at present if these stains are in any way connected to Green Fire. There are cultists who make it their business to kill anyone who defiles these stains...]
Wall Scabs. Nasty clusters of flaky scab-like patches of pseudoflesh that fester in the dark, hungrily lying in wait for their chance to latch onto a living host.

[AL C, MV 12' (4'), AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d2 (itchiness) or 1d4, SV zero-level-human, ML 12 (mindless), Special: These stains lurk in the dimness, waiting for an opportunity to slither onto the exposed skin of an unconscious or immobilized victim. If a patch of Wall Scabs is allowed to take root within a victim's flesh, the victim permanently loses 1 point of CHAR. Even if removed by Dissolve, Excision, or some other spell, the scarring this stuff leaves behind permanently disfigures the victim. The cult of the dramageist has been known to use Wall Scabs to torment some of their more recalcitrant victims, as well as to blackmail certain well-known performers.]
Salty Residue. Dry, white crystalline encrustations cover wide swaths of the walls, floor and ceiling. There is a dismal grayish layer just beneath the milky crystals. You are thirsty. Incredibly, impossibly thirsty...

[AL N, MV n/a, AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d4 per round within 20' radius, SV zero-level-human, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Within minutes of encountering this stain those exposed stop sweating. All wounds stop bleeding and quickly crust over. All liquids begin to evaporate, the seals on wine-skins crack, wax turns to dust, cork crumbles. Potions are ruined within 1d6 rounds, wine is lost in 1d4 rounds, water is lost in 1d2 rounds. Those who die while exposed to this stuff quickly dries-out and becomes a brittle, mummified corpse. Morlocks seek these sorts of stains out in order to collect the residue for use in their abbatoirs. This residue is alleged to cause double damage to corporeal undead, but this has not been proven under reliable circumstances.]
Gray Scum aka 'Ring Around the Room'. A foul gray scum that broods in the dark as it slowly poisons everything.

[AL N, MV n/a, AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 3, #AT 1, DG 2d4 per round of contact, SV F6, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Fire-proof, even the hottest magical flames only do half damage, and then only if it fails a Save. Incredibly toxic, this stuff kills off all fungi, mold, slimes or jellies in its immediate area, which suggest that it might be useful as some sort of antiseptic, however it also poisons everything else that comes into contact with it. There is no known antidote for this toxin at this time.]
Sepia Striations. Light brown stripes that slowly shiver with a disturbing life-like pulsation that mimics the heart-beat of the nearest observer. The stuff spatters if struck and drizzles down the wall and ceiling if subjected to violent contact. It emanates a soft, sepia haze when exposed to magic.

[AL C, MV 1' (1'), AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 3, #AT 1, DG 1d4, Special: Contact with this stain causes the victim to lose color vision; they see everything in tints of sepia. A successful Save means this is only temporary. The effect can be removed by Remove Curse or Cure Serious Affliction. Those suffering from Sepia Vision have all of their prismatic and color-oriented spells converted into sepia variants while under the influence of this affliction. They must also make a Save to read anything, failure meaning they cannot see the ink.]
Yellow Whorls. Curlicue trails of amber-tinted slime dried into multi-layered patterns scrawled across walls and windows, this stuff is not the leavings of snails, slugs nor any other living creature.

[AL C, MV n/a, AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d12, SV F2, ML 12 (mindless), Special: This stain is some sort of cross-planar residue that is believed to have some sort of connection to various geists and incorporeal undead, none of which will cross through a wall covered with these stains. When exposed to yellow Wallpaper, these stains turn inky black and remain wet, running and dripping all down the walls, inflicting triple damage. Burning the stuff produces a virulent smoke that doubles the damage of either stain. Foragers set out yellow spirals to mark the locations of these stains so they can be avoided.]
Curdled Air. A foul, dim semi-translucent sludge that explosively evaporates when subjected to open flame. It typically congeals along the ceilings of cramped passages.

[AL N, MV n/a, AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 1d8, #AT 1, DG 1d4 per round of contact, SV F1, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Explodes in a 10x10' radius for 1d4 per HD when exposed to open flame.]
Scrudge. Distasteful dishwater-dun drippings dribbling down doors.

[AL N, MV 15' (5'), AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 3, #AT 1, DG 1d4, SV MU 3, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Neutralized by formaldehyde or formic acid. Never seems to completely dry-out. Reeks of spoilt pork. Causes all open wounds exposed to it to heal at 1/2 normal rate. Sometimes smeared on darts or needles by low-dwellers.]
Tiny Brown Crystals. Minute, coffee-colored crystalline encrustations that rapidly cover large sections of floors and other horizontal surfaces, especially steps and stairs.

[AL C, MV n/a, AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 2d4, #AT 1, DG 1d4 per round of contact (see below), SV F8, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Spreads across flat spaces at a rate of roughly one square foot per HD. Immune to fire and poison. Most solvents actually heal 1d4 damage. All leather, wood and natural fabrics such as cotton or wool that come into contact with this stuff must make a Save or be ruined by exposure to these crystals; however the crystals go inert for 1d4 turns per each article of leather or fabric so sacrificed.]
Dark Orange Deposits. You know these things are near-by when someone's skin starts to turn vivid, dark orange...

[AL N, MV n/a, AC 7, HD 4, #AT 1, DG 1d6 within 20' radius, SV MU 4, ML 12 (mindless), Special: Peculiar, opaque granules noted for a vivid orange coloration, these things give off a pernicious, colorless vapor that slowly dissolves all flesh exposed to it. Expert delvers and Near Deep guides are notorious for their home-brewed remedies for this condition, few of which have any merit beyond extorting money from their clients. What they dislike to admit is that the deleterious effects quickly diminish once one withdraws from the area of effect.]
Rancid Seepage. Vile, viscous stuff dripping from the ceiling. You just can't seem to get away from it...

[AL C, MV 1' per HD, AC 5, HD 1d6, #AT 1, DG 1d4 per HD, SV F4, ML 12 (mindless), Special: This stuff follows light-sources, wriggling across the ceiling to position itself directly over the brightest lamp, lantern or glow-orb.]
Criss-Crossing Slime-Trails. It appears to be tracks of mucous left behind by slugs, snails or the like...only is seems to slither ever so slightly all of its own volition...the things also seem to extend all around you, as though they were not entirely visible or noticeable until just now...

[AL N, MV 3' (but only when unobserved), AC 6, HD 2d4, #AT 1, DG 1pt per HD, SV zero-level-human, ML 12 (mindless). Special: Highly flammable, these things burst into flame at the slightest touch of a fire-source, causing 1d6 damage per turn to anyone exposed to the flames that run along the entire length of the tracks. This will not harm these things in the least, but will cause them to slither more rapidly into place so as to trap and damage everyone within reach for as long as the flames persist (typically they will burn for 1d4 turns, plus 1 turn per HD).]
Waxy Wall-Ripples. Whether it is plaster, mortared stone or brickwork, this section of the wall has the appearance of having been somehow melted and retains the impression of ripples...

[AL N, MV (see below), AC 7, HD 1, #AT 1, DG 1d6, SV F1, ML 12 (mindless), Special: The area affected by this stain has a waxy composition, allowing it to melt and even burn like wax, though it is actually stone, brick, plaster, etc. The 'ripples' remain immobile unless exposed to magical light sources, then they spread outward, away from the light at a rate of 12' per turn. These stains will move only far enough to escape the light and no farther. This may be some sort of after-effect of certain proscribed spells.]
Dried Werm Drool. Very disgusting looking splotches of greenish filth that give off a putrid scent of ammonia and fish entrails. It is almost never found while still wet, leading some experts to surmise that it is transparent or invisible until it dries into this form, but this has yet to be confirmed.

[AL C, MV 1', AC n/a (no roll needed), HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d4 +Green Rust, SV F2, ML 12 (mindless), Special: All metals (including yellow metal) must make a Save or become corroded and pitted by contact with this stuff. If ingested it causes debilitating constipation and permanently makes the victim unable to digest any form of cheese whatsoever. The Ulgrik folk are rumored to make especially toxic kill-candles from this stuff, but they do not reveal trade secrets to outsiders, so no one is entirely certain if that is true or not.]
Colorless Patch. Dreary and devoid of all color, there is a faint metallic tang to the air near this dry patch...

[AL C, MV 6' (2'), AC 4, HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d4 per round of contact, SV F2, ML 12, Special: Permanently drains all color from whatever comes into contact with it. The Lears Company hires orphans and others to gather this stuff with special gloves, scrapers and buckets for use in making their special soaps.]

You might also find Wet Spots, Sallow Stains, Spectral Brine and possibly Loathsome Masses somewhat similar, parallel hazards and horrors one might encounter in Wermspittle, and occasionally elsewhere. We'll have a few more Amorphous Horrors coming along soon as we swamp-out our old files and note-books.

Monday, May 12, 2014

Squirmy-Gurgle (Red Bestiary)

“Men will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.”

Denis Diderot

Squirmy-Gurgle
No. Enc.: 1
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 90' (30')
Armor Class: 7*
Hit Dice: 2+1
Attacks: 1
Damage: 1d4, Special
Save: C4
Morale: 11

Special: Detect Royalty, Levitate, Locate Lineage, Sense Status, Passwall at will. Immune to all visual and olfactory stimuli. Can hear/feel even the faintest heartbeat at 600 paces. Gains +3 bonus to defense against all non-magic melee weapons due to 'hunches.'

Strangle Attack: On any attack roll of 18 or better, the Squirmy-Gurgle latches onto the victim and attempts to strangle them, gaining an automatic hit for each subsequent attack and inflicting double damage until either dislodged or destroyed.

Vulnerabilities: Squirmy-Gurgles take double damage from cheap liquor and can be Turned as 5 HD creatures, but only by ecclesiastics/monastics that have taken vows of poverty.

Squirmy-Gurgles were originally necromantic terror-weapons intended to strike down tyrants, aristocrats, nobles and the like. However the discriminatory faculties of these creatures, such as they are, have drifted, even degenerated over time to become more democratic in their choice of victims. They still have a taste for tracking down members of noble and ignoble lineages and killing royalty, but these days they're as likely to assassinate a rich merchant or some other so-called authority figure who has no claim to any hereditary title or office.

Deliberately created by radical anti-monarchists and other enemies of the would-be elites, Squirmy-Gurgles are formed from the entrails of summarily abducted and sorcerously executed priests who were disemboweled in the course of blasphemous, heretical rites nearly every major and most minor sects have attempted to suppress, ban, censor or eliminate over the years, but somehow versions of the rites still crop up from time to time, often in the unlikeliest of places. Conspiracy theories surround these creatures as thickly as the swarms of flies they tend to attract.

Slippery, slimy heaps of mindless entrails that ooze and wriggle through walls, these things never rest, never sleep, never give up in their pursuit of their victims. However, some are not quite so straight-forward in the execution of their chosen victims, opting instead to wriggle about within the walls, between the floor-boards, and beneath the beds of their victims, as though taking a great deal of pleasure in driving their victims mad with fright whenever possible. This behavior is as rare as it is troublesome, as it indicates that some of these things may somehow have retained some measure of intelligence, or perhaps they are becoming tainted or twisted by malign spirits...

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Bujilli: Episode 88

Previously...
Bujilli carried Leeja into the alley-camp of Mama Rudta and her small group of survivors. Despite Mishka's misgivings, Bujilli won over Mama Rudta and wound up singing for the dead, both her folks and his own...then a Franzikaner-style cannister-grenade plonked right into their midst...

Thunk.
A cannister-grenade landed not far from the cooking fire. The middle section rotated into position, driven by tightly-wound coil-springs.

Click.
The slots in the outer sleeve lined-up with the openings on the inside.
Bujilli looked at the hateful thing. For a moment he wasn't sure what it was...

Click.
The inner-workings snapped into place, breaking glass vials and causing chemicals to mix. The cannister began to fizz sullenly.
Bujilli opened his mouth to shout out some sort of warning as he rose from the cushions and lurched towards Leeja.

CLICK.
The cannister jumped four feet into the air as Black Smoke began to pour out of the slots.
Bujilli looked into Mama Rudta's eyes, for only an instant.
He stopped.

"We do not run from this. Not this time." Mama Rudta gestured dismissively at the Black Smoke grenade with her gnarled cane. A young woman with a fragile-looking cage-like false arm ran over to the cooking fire, took-up the empty cauldron and slammed it down over the sputtering, fuming cannister. A small boy with an elaborately-carved amber eye in place of the one ruined by his previous exposure to the Black Smoke quickly tugged guy-lines and ropes, shifting the sloping canvas of the camp's tent-like roofs, bringing in the rain water to diminish the Black Smoke.

Thack!

Huck!

Fighting sounds broke through the rain from at least three different directions. No; four.

Bujilli strained to hear what was going on, unsure which direction to go in order to be of help to the Ulpri.

Mishka sauntered back into the camp with a steel arbalest over her shoulder. The flickering fire light made her red-smeared face gory and grotesque. She set the weapon down before Mama Rudta, then took-up her place beside her elder.

Four more fighters, two adolescent girls and a pair of boys with matching white hair carried a crossbow apiece to add to the pile, bowed to Mama Rudta, then loped off into the rain to re-take their positions as guards and watchers.

The last fighter carried three crossbows. She had luxurious white hair that writhed like silky flames in her wake. Niobe*.

"You!" Bujilli felt Mama Rudta's gristly hand clench down on his wrist before he could draw a weapon.

"Hold. She is a friend to us. Known. Spoken for. Proven." Mama Rudta pointed to the stack of crossbows.

"The mongrel. How funny. I thought you and my sister were supposed to be up at the Academy, taking classes and 'learning things' these days..." Niobe froze. Her green-gold eyes narrowed in recognition of her sister lying amid the cushions next to Mama Rudta.

"What have you done now you filthy animal?" Niobe was across the fire and her talons closed upon Bujilli's throat.

"She has inhaled the Purple--" Mama Rudta began to explain.

"Let the mongrel speak for himself." Niobe hissed.

"You did not get very far--"

"No. I did not. Now tell me what happened to my sister before I tear out your throat."

"No."

"What?!?" Niobe screeched in outrage.

"Let me go and we can have an intelligent conversation. Otherwise..." Bujilli looked down at the manticore pistol pointed directly into Niobe's belly. The pistol growled softly in anticipation.

Niobe glared at Bujilli. He grinned. She shook herself as though on the verge of a tremendous scream. Let go of his throat. Stepped back. Shook her head.

"You take a perverse pleasure in thwarting me, don't you?"

"Not really. It just sort of happens, I guess. You've lost your fancy armor..."

"I needed to raise some money quickly. Unfortunately, this place doesn't know the value of anything other than fresh meat."

"Come. Sit down. Talk." Mama Rudta commanded. Raised her cane. Issued a few other commands in clipped wanderer-cant.

The awnings went back into place. Three small boys dragged in a cinder bucket and began mopping and sweeping-up the remains of the Black Smoke. a girl with blood-red hair down to her scrawny knees tipped-up the cauldron and carried off the cannister.

Bujilli sat down next to Leeja. Niobe took her place on the other side of Mama Rudta.

"We were sent off on an errand for the Headmistress--"

"You've made your way up in the world, haven't you then? Running errands for the Headmistress herself. How is our aunt faring these days?"

"So you know--"

"Leeja ran off, I didn't get the opportunity, not after falling into--let's just say that I stayed in touch with the family for a bit longer than she did and leave it at that."

"Of course. We were returning from the Atheanaeum--"

"You went to see Morquin? This gets more interesting..."

"We headed back toward the Academy along the roof-tops--"

"Let me guess; that was my dear sister's bright idea, wasn't it?"

"Yes. We found a place, an abandoned property and took refuge from the storm."

"Oh but of course. You sap."

"What?"

"Did it ever occur to you that she planned your little respite?"

"Planned?"

"You truly are that naieve." Niobe laughed.

"I do not under--"

"You will. Sooner, rather than later, I would guess. But I'm not interested in my sister's sordid liaisons and breeding experiments. This 'errand' you were handling for Shael--what can you tell me about it?"

"We delivered a message."

"To Morquin? Really? You apparently lack any appreciation for how exceptional that particular turn of events truly is; and how did Morquin respond to your mistresses' so-called 'message,' if I might ask?"

"I...think it all went well..." Bujilli felt his guts lurch with a sense of dread. There was too much going on that he didn't know enough about. He looked over at Niobe. She stared back at him.

"No." She smiled; "I will not act as your instructor in politics. You've made some friends, not just enemies; go talk to them. Besides, I'm leaving this place."

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere. I thought of crossing the Kalaramar Drifts, maybe I'll head down to the South and the Vast Wall or I might make my way to the flooded coast and the cold sea. I haven't decided.

"There's trouble brewing in this place. The sort of trouble that makes money for mercenaries..."

"Very true. So you would encourage me to stay, to become a sell-sword, even if that pitted us against one another?"

"You couldn't talk to your aunt?"

"You are incredible. You really are that ignorant. No. I cannot. Unlike my sister, I have the Mark upon me, and my aunt cannot take my service; only my head, my soul or my life."

"Because you killed your father?"

"Oh I did far more than simply killed the old bastard. I ate his heart. As is our way." Niobe whispered the last.

"And because of this--"

"I am even more outcast than ever before."

"But you served--"

"I was allowed to serve Radizan of Molgravio because it amused him, and his legal staff were able to exploit certain loop-holes in the old laws. Now, thanks to you, or rather Ajjmae, that treacherous shit, that particular option is closed to me. If I were still within comfortable reach of Aman Utal, I would be under constant threat of assassination or worse. As it is, the maledictions hurled at me by my former Lord's curserers and hexigosters are so many mumbled imprecations signifying little. But even so, I cannot return to Dendo, nor the underworlds I knew as a child."

"I'm sorr--"

"No. You are not. Nor am I, honestly--my sister and I were never welcome among our supposed people, our so-called family. Much like yourself, we were the products of some sort of experiment, weapons bred to a particular use, never children. We ran away all the time. They sent their servitors after us, until we learned how to elude them. Then...things got more difficult. More painful. But we kept escaping. Getting caught. Brought back. Punished. Running away again. Finally we discovered a tomb..."

"Beneath Zurugossa." Leeja sat up on her cushions.

"You live." Niobe challenged.

"I still live." Leeja nodded solemnly.

"Let them rot..."

"We will be free." Leeja coughed; "What are you doing here sister?"

"I suffered a few set-backs, nearly ran afoul of the Confectioners and their masters--it was all just a misunderstanding, of course--and met-up with Mama Rudta's folk on a night not too dissimilar to this one. I've stayed with them while I prepared to leave this place..."

"And how is that going for you?"

"Poorly."

"I can see that you lost your armor."

"Pawned for a handful of tokens, ration-coupons and what turned out to be counterfeit bills."

"A shame."

"No. The shame was that my armor was gone when I found the conniving fool who tried to cheat me. I took what he had that was worth anything, left the rest to the cockroaches and spiders."

"I spoke to aunt Shael."

"Spoke? I gather you've been running errands for the bitch."

"Yes. But only because it confounds her."

"I can well imagine...but you were always her favorite."

"A meaningless distinction and you well know it."

"So you are in her service?"

"No. We are under the auspices of our mentor, Gnosiomandus. He allowed us to carry out the Headmistresses' errand as a favor to the Headmistress, not Shael; he respects the office, if not the one holding it currently."

"You've gotten deeply embroiled in the politics here."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not deeply enough."

"You can't trust Shael..."

"I know that. But we don't need to trust her; we can trust the office. We can trust the Headmistress, despite whomever currently holds that office. Shael is bound to the office, to the Academy, in ways that she might not have considered possible before-hand."

"A dangerous game..."

"Run away if you are afraid."

"I'd watch my tongue if I were you--"

"Spare me. We both know you wouldn't still be talking if you didn't need something that you cannot simply take for yourself."

Niobe looked into the fire.

Mama Rudta clapped her hands, laughing softly at the two white-haired sisters. She gestured with her cane, rattled off a chain of commands in the guttural dialect she had used before. Children came out from the makeshift tents. The cauldron that had covered the grenade was carried out of sight to be scrubbed. A heavy tripod was set-up over the cooking fire and a larger cauldron was swung into place on square-linked chains taken from an artillery carriage. Cabbages, onions and mushrooms were tossed into the pot, along with liberal splashes of liquor and buckets of rain-water. More children came and went, each carrying a turnip or radish or small clump of herbs to add to the pot. A tall, thin girl in a stained smock stirred the pot with a rifle-barrel that had been hammered into a sort of crude spoon.

"Now that you're not going to kill one another, we can prepare food for our new friends."

"I wish I knew--"

"No." Mama Rudta jabbed Bujilli in his chest; "No. You do not need to know all the details. that way leads to paralysis and letting evil take root. Too much waiting is no good. You can always make more preparations, make more plans, make more excuses. Is false notion; you never know everything. All you can do is make good choices based on what you do know and keep going."

Bujilli sat back. He disliked not knowing what what going on around him. Raised to be a hunter and a scavenger, to always be vigilant and aware of his surroundings, he realized that he had allowed himself to get distracted by the noise and nonsense surrounding him. He wasn't paying attention to what mattered, but was getting caught-up in the misdirection and obfuscation swirling through this place like a perpetual social miasma.

Passivity did not suit him very well.

Nor did it serve his interests.

But what were his interests?

Bujilli watched the crippled and maimed children, the bandaged and mangled adults, mostly women, who moved about the alley-camp. They all sang as they tended to various tasks. Some laughed. Small children played. Older ones took care of chores. The smells of roasting roots and hearty stew filled the place.

Bujilli stood up. Leeja had been talking. She went silent. Stared at him. Niobe watched him with a curious expression on her face.

"Mama Ruda; where does this food come from?"

She laughed heartily. Nodded to herself. called out to Mishka who appeared next to Niobe.

"Mishka; take our friend here to the Farmer's Market."

The girl nodded once. Turned and started walking off into the darkness.

Bujilli looked to Leeja; "Get your rest. Maybe you can get your sister to tell you something useful."

Leeja nodded. Smiled. Clasped his hand briefly.

"What are you up to little mongrel?" Niobe wondered aloud.

"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything." Bujilli rushed after Mishka.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Mama Rudta leaned forward on her gnarled cane and addressed both of the sisters in a stern voice; "That is a good man. With a good heart. That makes him a very dangerous man in a very bad place."

"But what is he up to?" Niobe growled.

"Things don't have to stay the way they are..." Leeja's eyes went wide in sudden realization.

"Only a fool would believe that they could change this place--" Niobe scoffed.

"Only a fool can change things; the wise-ones are too caught-up in their games and schemes, their politics." Mama Rudta laughed softly.

"Only a fool..." taunted an unseen woman's voice.

Firelight glinted from the edges of a steely knife.

Blood.

Mama Rudta wasn't laughing any more.

Then the screaming started...

* Niobe is Leeja's sister, last seen in Episode 48.

Roll for Initiative!

What is Bujilli up to? Will Mama Rudta survive this cowardly sneak-attack? Who is behind it all? There will be blood and maybe answers next week...

We need to roll initiative for Leeja, Niobe and the alley-camp in general. A roll for Mama Rudta would also be good. The attacker already has her initiative pre-rolled.

Then we need a roll for Mishka and Bujilli. As well as a d6 roll, and a couple of d20s. It would also be good to get a d100 roll to see how far away Bujilli & Mishka got before the attack took place.

Niobe will be rushing after the Abseen assassin, but what will Leeja do? You tell me!

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!