Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Red Herring


In late Spring and early Autumn, on nights when the fog rolls in as thick as soup and every window glows with the soft yellow light of candles long forgotten, that is when people take to the roofs to dangle baited hooks while others stumble through alleys and backstreets swooping make-shift nets or seines through the dim twilight murk in the hopes of snaring a few fog fish.

Midwives and mothers warn their children of the goonch and dogfish, eavespike and a dozen varieties of catfish; all wide-mawed or sharp-toothed and quick to swallow-up the unwary or the unlucky. Especially the very young and the smaller in stature. Old-timers warn of the dangerous sting of carpetfish that tends to linger on after the fog has faded. Every bar and tavern has trophies of particularly gruesome or toothsome specimens stuffed and mounted over their mantles, both as a warning of what might enter a carelessly open window and as a source of bragging rights for those who finally and successfully wrestled the beasts into submission and into a cooking pot, canning jar or skillet.

But of all the biting, stinging, gulping things that flutter and flitter through the swirling, whirling gloomy effluvium the most notorious by far are the Red Herring. Shimmering, shiny little fish with no bite, no sting; they flash and flicker through the haze taunting those that try to capture them. Beguiling and tempting little morsels, they seem to take a will-o-the-wisp's cruel pleasure in evading capture while leading would-be fishers into any and every hole, pit, obstacle or hazard in the immediate vicinity.

Occasionally a school of Red Herring is caught, usually by groups of hungry children who string up multiple seines and nets across several adjacent alleys. They must clear the nets quickly, before the thrashing fish attract too much attention and something else claims the catch. Those that survive the night's dangers dine on the succulent flesh of the rascal fish while they mourn those of their friends who were lost, one set of hunters feeding off of another.

The fish must be eaten quickly, before they evaporate with the fog, though some claim that if you manage to place a still wiggling fog fish under your pillow before going to sleep, you can dine on all the fish you like for so long as you can dream away the rest of the night and in the morning your belly will still be full. Or at least that's the way they tell the tale in the shanty-camps...

Monday, November 10, 2014

Mad Distortions of Humanity...

I see the black powder darkening the silent streets, and the contorted bodies shrouded in that layer; they rise upon me tattered and dog-bitten. They gibber and grow fiercer, paler, uglier, mad distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold and wretched, in the darkness of the night...

The War of the Worlds,
by H. G. Wells

Mad Distortions of Humanity
No. Enc.: 2d4 (4d10)
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 90' (30')
Armor Class: 8/11
Hit Dice: 1 (use d12)
Attacks: 1 (attack at -1 penalty due to slow reactions/stiff movement)
Damage: 1d6 or by Weapon + Black Smoke Residue (See Below)
Save: As zero-level human
Morale: N/A

Eerie and silent, they lie sprawled and scattered across streets drifted with acrid black ashes, the mostly harmless traces of Black Smoke that has been neutralized by the rain or some other source of water. Some are missing pieces and portions of their bodies that have been snapped off by the wind or perhaps gnawed off by packs of hungry dogs. Others are entirely buried beneath a coarse blanket of the black particulates with only a vague hummock or depression to betray their presence while they lie in wait, still as statues, until some unwary traveler or refugee wanders too close. Then they lurch into a stiff, brittle mockery of the living to attack, gibbering insanely as they form into a mob, flailing and hacking away at any living thing they can reach.

These horrid things are covered with a heavy layer of Black Smoke Residue that coats their hands and weapons, lending a lingering nastiness to their melee attacks.

Black Smoke Residue: Victims need to Save or suffer a -2 penalty to AC, lose all DEX benefits, and a 50% reduction in Movement rate for the next 1d4 hours. All damage suffered while under the effects of Black Smoke Residue heals at one half the regular rate and all magical healing is likewise halved in its effect. Survivors are often marked with lasting black stains on their skin and incur a permanent -1 penalty to all subsequent Saves versus Black Smoke and its derivatives.

Upon reaching zero hit points in combat these wretched cadavers shatter into dozens of charcoal-like shards and pieces, releasing a Cloud of Black Ashes.

Cloud of Black Ashes: Fills a 10' diameter area with toxic black ashes that inflict 1d4 damage per minute of exposure and force those affected to Save or suffer blindness for 1d4 hours. Anyone failing the Save by rolling a natural 1 is permanently blinded.

Unlike most typical forms of undead who seek to sustain their existence, these mad things are completely given over to their overwhelming need to dissolve themselves in the blood of their victims. They will do anything that results in bloodshed, no matter how crazed or pointless. Those that succeed in dissolving themselves leave behind a grotesque scabrous black mass of inert matter that drives away lesser spirits, minor geists and low shades. There might be some way to use this stuff, but so far no one has admitted to anything publicly...

Any attempt to Turn these Mad Distortions of Humanity obliges the Cleric to Save or else suffer temporary insanity for 1d4 hours.

These things are particularly common around the South-West section of the Inner Ramparts...


Source of Inspiration: The War of the Worlds, by H. G. Wells. These things are a deliberate misreading of a passage from Book Two, Chapter Ten: Epilogue.

Saturday, November 8, 2014

Boreal Sea-Bear

“Neither I nor the four flippers of the sea-bear of the Boreal Ocean have been able to solve the riddle of life.”
Comte de Lautréamont


Boreal Sea-Bear
No. Enc.: 1 (1d4)
Alignment: Neutral
Movement: 40' (120')
Armor Class: 6/13
Hit Dice: 8
Attacks: 3 (2 claws, bite)
Damage: 1d6/1d6/1d8+2
Save: F4
Morale: 9


Massive aquatic mammals of the polar regions there are unconfirmed reports of specimens reaching in excess of 16' in length from snout to rear flipper-tip. They are exquisitely adapted to life in the cold waters of the polar oceans where they prey upon any and everything that comes within reach of their fore-claws. Fearless and mighty, they are notorious for capsizing or sinking ships that stray into their territory.

Boreal Sea-bears may be related to the White Beasts, but this is doubtful as Boreal Sea-Bears possess two pair of flippers and one pair of powerful fore-limbs, while the White Beasts are merely bipedal. Since nothing has been conclusively proven or dis-proven at this time most authorities prefer to hedge their bets.



There are several unconfirmed reports of a Boreal Sea-Bear making its lair deep within the Lidenbrock Reservoir...

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Bujilli: Episode 109

Previously...
Three Mucoid Tripods strode into the observatory chamber burning their way through every obstacle determined to save their domain even if they had to destroy it to do so...


"What is it?" Leeja had her hand-axe and stiletto both out.

"We need to get moving before--"

Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam

Bodies really did explode when subjected to intense heat. Especially those far enough back from the ones instantly vaporized into ash that the heat was somewhat dissipated.

The masters had returned. Three Mucoids astride tripodal chariot-constructs strode down the ramp-way leading off to their left. They were burning down the Red Weeds, the Morons and anything else that got in their way. They very clearly intended to kill the intruders who had subverted their herd.

"I've got this." Hedrard brushed past Bujilli. Her eyes gleamed hot red and wrathful. Her fingers were owlish talons. The Red Weeds writhed and shuddered and undulated in a convulsive effort to free itself from its myriads of roots, runners and shoots in order to follow her.

Bujilli considered casting a spell on the Mucoids, perhaps Zymurgic Disgestion. Or perhaps he should get his wand ready, the one that drew upon the broken plane of Selinoth Yr and cast forth gobs of smoldering other-planar acid. Before he could do anything Leeja rushed past him yowling like an angry cat.

Hedrard held up her right hand. Made a fist. Brought it down hard and fast as though actually striking the lead Mucoid. The Red Weeds rose in a tidal wave of vegetation and crashed down upon its tripod, crushing it into a jagged, jumbled mess of metal spewing clouds of green smoke.

The other two backed away from the torrent of carnage that had claimed their fellow and took aim directly at Hedrard.

She waved her left-hand around from one side to the next, as though scattering feed for a flock of chickens. Tiny violet sparks rose from the ground to form a shimmering curtain before her, but the curtain did not flow into place fast enough.

Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam

Heat Rays seared through the Red Weeds surrounding Hedrard. Flames exploded all around her. The curtain wobbled, split into three ragged panels that flapped like vertical banners of sparks that then flowed back together.

The hag still stood, her skin blackened and blistered, she gestured again and the Red Weeds responded, surging upwards then crashing down with incredible force on the two Tripods. The impact drove the Tripods back, snapping-off one leg and toppling the other onto its back.

Dim, sullen red light shone up from the carpet of Red Weeds to form into an ovoid aurora around Hedrard who now hovered above the heat-fractured flagstones of the floor exposed by the searing blast of the Mucoid weapons. She was badly burned. Brute force was no longer an option, so she drove the Red Weeds over and across the Tripods, wrapping around their limbs, entwining about them, completely covering the machines and their masters. The heat rays went silent. The Tripods ceased to struggle. The Red Weeds had infiltrated the tripods and grown into the Mucoids with a mindless, vegetable implacability that left them ruptured messes of bodily fluids and gobbets of flesh that would feed the roots and tendrils of the Red Weeds.

Hedrard coughed. She knelt on the scalded stone and the Red Weeds released their killing hold on the Tripods to slither into place around her, to form a cocoon around her. The four women and six hunters who served the hag went to the red cocoon and lifted it from the floor. They carried it up the ramp past Bujilli and Leeja who stood watching, mouths agape. Neither of them suspected the power their friend wielded, nor had they expected to see her nearly obliterated by the former masters of the moron herd.

They followed the marching morons up the ramp and through more than a dozen different chambers, passages and other ramps. The morons carried Hedrard's cocoon as though it were the relic of a goddess or a saint. No one spoke. The children capered about clattering bone rattles and blowing idiot tunes on harsh bone-pipes. It was a parade, a procession, and the morons made it into as much of a spectacle as they could manage.

At last they reached a huge octagonal space set with massive buttresses at each of the junctures of the walls and arched upwards into the darkness in a steeply slanting peak. Huge windows showed scenes of some medieval morality play picked out in stained glass that slithered across a clear substrate like swarms of translucent slugs performing a dance, each stopping point in their frolic creating another scene from the unknown narrative.

The morons filed into the very center of the space and proceeded to dance about in ever-widening spirals as more and more of them brought forth their musical instruments and everyone set about celebrating whatever it was they had just accomplished.

Bujilli went to the nearest buttress. There was a modest access panel at the base. The covering came off easily to reveal a yellow metal grating which swung open at the touch of his fingers. There was a corkscrew-style ramp leading upward. To the roof.

He checked the Synchronocitor. They had a couple of hours to go before he could try to use it again.

Leeja stood next to the access-panel, keeping watch over him.

They had come here to rescue Hedrard and Lemuel. One had run off and was wandering through the lower-levels of the Gormenstille, the other was wrapped-up in a vegetative cocoon recovering from the effects of the Mucoid's heat rays. It had not gone quite as he had hoped.

He still wasn't entirely sure that the Synchronocitor would work up here.

But he would do the best he could.

In the meantime they joined in the festivities.

It was good to laugh again.

There would be time enough for tears when they got back to Wermspittle.

If they went back...


What should Bujilli do next?

You Decide!


Now What?
Bujilli and company need to decide whether or not they intend to go back to Wermspittle.

Will they take the morons with them, or will they try to leave them behind?

Should they wait for Hedrard to come out of her recuperative cocoon, or might they leave her behind?

What sort of wandering monster will be attracted to the moron's noisy frolic?

As always, if you have any questions or want to vote for a particular course of action or specific thing to do next please let us 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


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

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, November 4, 2014

Low Shades

​“Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.”
by James Joyce


Low Shades
No. Enc.: 1
Alignment: Chaotic
Movement: 60' (20')
Armor Class: 4/15
Hit Dice: 4-8
Attacks: 1*
Damage: 1d4 suffocation with a persistent 1d4/hour wilting effect within 10' radius, 
Save: F4-8
Morale: 4

Gloomy, moralizing and compromising geists of the most abysmally dismal sort, Low Shades wallow in sadness and regret. Their lingering, loitering presence causes a slowly accumulating form of wilting over time that inflicts 1d4 damage and lowers it's victim's morale by 1 for every hour of exposure. The wilting damage can only be restored by magic, the morale drain persists for 1d6 weeks.

These softly muttering, dimly fluttering vestiges of timid, vacillating souls wander about the broken edges of unhallowed spaces and defiled places, lurking uncertainly in a sort of in-between state, lot souls stuck between life and death, they cannot bring themselves to finally let go of the fears, failings and foibles of their former lives, not without help, not without compassion, not without the guidance only a skilled medium can provide. Simply exorcising or driving these things out will accelerate their decay and deterioration into broken spirits and far more hurtful demonic things.

Normal weapons only do half damage. A circle of salt and amber negates their wilting effect, so long as the Low Shade remains within it. They cannot pass cold iron.



“Our path through life is strewn with many such sad memories: and were we to brood upon them always we could not find the heart to go on bravely with our work among the living...therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomy moralising intrude...”
The Dead,​
​by ​James Joyce

Friday, October 31, 2014

Six Altogether Ooksome Things


The theme for this month's  RPG Blog Carnival is Things That Go Bump in the Night, so here are six unsubtle prowlers from Wermspittle...


  1. Relish Tray Jambertan. A defrocked monk from a burned-out monastery (he denies any culpability in the arson), Jambertan wears a smooth ivory death mask that was carved in the likeness of his defunct order's Master. His heavy fur-trimmed habit drips blood from around the collar, just below the mask and he leaves a faint trail of quickly evaporating ectoplasmic slime behind him everywhere he goes. His also wears a pair of mis-matched children's mittens all the time, both of them filthy and crusted with blood and disgusting bits of rotting flesh. He carries an ornate silver relish tray and continually asks everyone he meets if they've seen the sign for a traveling galvanic extravaganza that visited Wermspittle over three hundred years ago...

    Relish Tray Jambertan (unique) [Abdead Servant of the Cerulean Sign; AL C, MV 120' (40'), AC 5/14, HD 4*, #AT 1, DG 1d4 (relish tray) or 1d4+2 (flensing knife), SV F4, ML 6, Special: Any blue object presented forcefully causes Jambertan to re-roll his Initiative and Morale; Immune to Charm or Sleep, All non-galvanic weapons only do half damage, Regains 1 hit point for every 4 hit points of living flesh he can consume from still-living victims, can be Turned as an 8 HD monster (those who specifically oppose Phantoms treat him as 4HD); Jambertan can acquire 1d4 random spells if given enough time alone with a dead spell-caster so he can cut-out grisly little gobbets from their brain and by consuming them. This would be a bad idea. Please don't feed the weirdo.]

  2. Fingers Calhoun. A severed thieve's hand that didn't quite work out as a hand of glory. Reeking of foul rites and worse hygiene, this gangrenous thing flutters about like a far too soft spider in all the most disconcerting ways...

    Abdead Hand (unique) [AL Evil, MV 60' (20'), AC 7/12, HD 4, #AT 1, DG 1d4, SV F2, ML 7, Special: Gets one chance to sucker punch one victim per encounter (+4 to hit, double damage: Anyone that has met the thing before is immune), Upon losing more than 50% of its hit points the hand will make an obscene necromantic gesture that will call forth the rest of the dead thief's mutilated cadaver to fight for it. If the hand is destroyed the shambling cadaver is rendered defunct.If the hand escapes, it will regain hit points at the rate of 1 point per full night spent in a defiled or unhallowed graveyard or crypt.]

    Calhoun's Cadaver [AL C, MV 120' (40'), AC 7/12, HD 6, #AT 1, DG 1d4+2 (serrated short-sword), SV F2, Special: Can be Turned as an 8 HD monster during first 4 rounds, then decreases to 7 HD for next 4 rounds, then 6HD the next four, and so on until reaching 0HD at which point the cadaver collapses into a grotesque mess and slowly dribbles and drips back into the darksome interstitial realm the hand called it from originally. The HD value for Turning purposes is completely separate from the things actual HD/hit points. If the cadaver is reduced to 0-hp, it collapses back into oblivion as though successfully Turned. The serrated short-sword it carries is cursed so that all forms of normal healing inflict half damage on the wielder and all damage sustained is tallied until such time as it equals double their normal hit points, at which point they must make a Save or become Abdead for 1 hour each night. The damage tally continues, and each time they reach double their hit points in accumulated damage, they must Save to avoid adding another hour to their nocturnal Abdead state.]

  3. Hans Gretarm. Tall, morose and extremely calloused over three-quarters of his asymmetrically-distorted body, Hans was held-back from going into town by his parents who believed in the patent cures of a charlatan posing as a travelling side-show priest. He barely survived puberty, suffering terrible deformities as the result of the lingering things in the soil of the Low-Lands. Finally, after throttling the preening potion peddler, Hans was sent off to the city. He desperately wishes to have a friend. He'd do anything for a friend...

    Hans Gretarrm (unique) [Huge, Unfortunate Adolescent; AL N, MV 90' (30'), AC 4, HD 3, #AT 2, DG 2d4/2d4 (fists) or by weapon (+3 STR bonus), SV F3, ML 12 (fearless), Special: Hans ignores the first 2 points of all melee attacks due to the heavy callousing of his skin; He gets a second re-roll on all failed Saves; and he regenerates 1 hit point per hour unless wounded with salt, acid or spells. He requires twice the normal amount of time to recover from damage inflicted by spells. He also gains a +2 to hit and +4 to damage bonus against all priests, peddlers and all purveyors of patent medicines. A good surgeon might be able to help him with some of the worst of his deformities, but for the most part he was kept down on the farm too long and there's little that can be really done for him, other than to prescribe some laudanum or other pain-killer. If someone does manage to befriend this huge boy, he will be loyal unto death.]

  4. zZooglik. They only speak Zirsk, an obscure language few in this place know, but that is the least of their problems. She is completely covered in a glossy coat of luxurious golden hair that they can manipulate like a shimmering aura of prehensile tendrils that extends across a 12' radius and can lift up to 10 pounds. zZooglik was summoned from the bower-tower of her ancestors by some unwary apprentice who meant to call up a minor demon. zZooglik wants to go home before she delivers her babies in this bad-bad place...

    zZooglik (unique) [Rapunzik; AL C, MV 180' (60'), AC 4, HD 2, #AT 1, DG 1d4 (braided hair-whip) or 1d6+1 (glass scimitar), SV F4, ML 12 (fearless), Special: Commands all vines/thorns in a 30' radius (including Red Weeds); Imbue with Fertility/Sterility on touch three times per day; all curative spells cast by her cause small tendrils and shoots to grow out of the repaired flesh (Save or slowly transform into a demi-plant hybrid); Has spell-casting abilities of a 4th level Cleric/Druid with focus on healing and living things (plants). ]

  5. Pask. Sharp-dressed and immaculately groomed, Pask's manners are impeccable, which is quite an accomplishment for a Strange-Pig wearing a man-suit...

    Outer-Pask (unique) [Man-Suit Flesh-Construct; AL C, MV 180' (60'), AC 6/13, HD 3, #AT 1, DG 1d4 (Glove-slap) or 1d4+4 (+2 pig-bonded sword-cane), SV F2, ML 3 (squealing coward), Special: Monocle over left-eye gives Pask ability to Spot Hidden/Detect Secret Doors/Discern Ley-lines/Detect Magic; Pask's sword-cane will attack all non-porcine-types who attempt to wield it and will never willingly serve whomever kills Pask (they are most excellent friends); the Man-suit cannot function apart from Pask.]

    Inner-Pask (unique) [Strange-Pig; AL C, MV 120' (60'), AC 9/10, HD 3, #AT 1, DG 1d4 (bite) or by weapon, SV F2, ML 3 (squealing coward), Special: Pask takes no damage until the man-suit is completely destroyed first; Once per week Pask must wallow and gorge on filth or suffer a loss of 1 HD; It requires two weeks and over a hundred pounds of fresh meat and leather to construct a new man-suit during which time Pask must not be disturbed. He has hired the same group of street-kids to watch over his basement shop the last couple of times this was necessary...they are getting suspicious...and greedy. Pask is a great fan of trains and the Unterrail especially, collecting every bit of ephemera related to such things as he can get his piggy hands on. Pask recently met and became infatuated with a torch-singer who has made him re-examine his motivations and his life; he is seriously considering dropping his one-pig vendetta against the Butchers...]

  6. Tidlin Mur. She's either a ratty-haired hag, a svelte songstress from one of the smoky dives along the High and Dry Wharf where the airships used to moor, or something else...something very hungry...

    Tidlin Mur (unique) [Arachnoganger; AL C, MV 180' (60'), AC 8/11, HD 4, #AT 2, DG 1d4 (hair-pins) or 1d4+2 (needle-knife) or strangulation (silk garrotte: +4 to hit by surprise, Save or suffer 1d4 temporary CON loss; upon reaching zero-CON the victim is rendered paralyzed in a death-like coma for 1 hour and is incapable of physically defending themselves), SV F6, ML 9 (will attempt to parley before fleeing), Special: Immune to Charm or Illusion spells; uses ESP at will; Can shapechange into hag-form, temptress-form, or spiderish-form only when unobserved; if killed she will rise within 1d4 hours in one of the other remaining forms and no longer be able to assume the former shape. She can only digest blood, and prefers to arrange things so that the local authorities suspect nosferatu-types and vampire-cultists, which has attracted the notice and enmity of certain parties. She has fallen in love with Pask, but does not know the truth about him yet...when she does, things might get messy...]


This month's RPG blog Carnival is being hosted by the Of Dice and Dragons, so go click over to their blog and check out what other horrid things people have been posting as part of this festival of frightfulness.

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Thursday, October 30, 2014

Bujilli: Episode 108

Previously...
Hedrard has 'altered' six hunters from a band of degenerates, Morons that have been living in a mostly abandoned section of the Gormenstille. She intends to make the Morons a deal they cannot refuse. She wants to go home and they will assist her in this matter. She's through playing around...

"So now we have a way up." Leeja watched as more pigeons descended from above to alight upon various shoots, twigs and branches of the rapidly curling and sprawling Red Weeds growing up all over the place. Already a dim violet glow suffused everything underneath the gurgly, blood-colored vegetation.

"Yes. We do. Shall we get going before one or another of the old leaders' rivals decides to start making speeches?" Hedrard wasn't smiling. She wasn't joking. There was a harsh, raw edge to her now. She was a hag. This was a side of her they knew they should have expected, but it shocked them both just the same.

Bujilli did not respond. He was busy examining the mosaic-covered panels of the dome overhead. Hundreds of precisely formed and elegantly crafted panels supported by a vast network of golden threads, wires, bristles cilia (?) were slowly, continually sliding over and around one another in an almost hypnotic dance of celestial figures. Astronomy and astrology were combined into a highly developed aesthetic and realized by a mastery of the mechanical arts he'd never witnessed before. It was beautiful. Obviously the work of vast, coll and unsympathetic intellects; it was an implacable work of practicality completely devoid of sentimentality. As lovely as the individual pieces may be, this was a working mechanism, it was a machine with a purpose. He just had to be clever enough to spot it, to discern it in the details, to deduct it from the clues he could observe...as his Uncle had taught him with the liberal use of a stiff cane along his backside if he showed signs of dithering or second-guessing himself.

The he saw it.

Mars. It had to be the planet Mars. He carefully examined the panels surrounding the red planet, traced the delicate filaments suspended within the dome from major points of interest to other locations...and it had to be Mars. Not the least for all the golden filaments linking across the empty space to another planet on another panel. The third planet out from the great old sun.

Yes. He knew the fundamentals of applied astrology from reading his Agrippa and other treatises and manuscripts that his Uncle had pointedly denied him access. He stole them and read them to spite the old bastard...which now he knew had been the old sorcerer's plan all along. The entire dome was a sort of observatory, one that continually updated itself with the current positions of the known planetary and other bodies kept track of by astronomers or sailors and mythologized by astrologers and poets. And it was still working. This was precisely the kind of place where someone could slowly and surely, calmly and methodically plot out grand designs and solar-system-scale schemes.

Scheiss.

There along the edges of timeless Yellow Metal, picked-out in gold and lapis lazuli, mauve gems and flesh-colored stones were the sculpted forms of Mucoids capering, squiggling about in front of a border design made up of overlapping tripods.

The distinct green smoke given off by their machines sizzled and shimmered just barely visible at the very bottom edge of the whole dome assembly--some sort of ventilation carried it out and away from the chamber. The central shaft overhead. The shaft overhead would be suffused with the Green Smoke.

"Bujilli?" Leeja placed her hand on his shoulder. Her voice carried a heavy load of concern. She feared mind control and related things for very good--or very bad--reasons, depending on your opinion regarding her background growing up in Aman Utal.

"This place was built by Mucoids..."

"No. It was built For them by their servants. These people.Their ancestors, actually." Hedrard raised her left hand and called forth:

"Ulla! Ulla! ULLA!"

Like sheep they all looked up from what they were doing and stared at Hedrard. There was a strange expectation radiating from them. A hunger occupied their eyes in a way no sane, no rational human being could conceive. They were free and wild and beyond good and evil., they had long ago thrown away laws and morals, they lived in a perpetually reactive mob-mentality and would gleefully shout and kill and revel in joy like ecstatic maenads completely devoid of conscience or guilt or troubling questions. Bujilli had been raised in a rude sorcerer's yurt surrounded by demons, shades, geists and other foul things, but these people frightened him.

Four women approached Hedrard with expressions of blood-thirsty adoration on their faces. Their fingernails were long and tapered to razor-sharp points and glossy red with the same kind of enamel that they also used on their teeth, which were filed into very sharp points. Each one of the women carried a knotted string of ornately-carved bones and twisted bundles of sinew and rough chunks of glass and metal painstakingly hacked out of old machines. They grovelled at Hedrard's feet until granted permission to rise with a simple grunt. One after the other they placed the clicking, clacking strings of grisly and grimy trinkets over her head to rest on her shoulders like wreaths or the gold-chains of a rich merchant of Drun-Garlo. Once they had placed their garlands upon the hag, each woman withdrew back into the whispering, sussurrent mob eagerly awaiting her divine proclamation.

"I am now She Who Must Be Obeyed. These people will do as I command. What would you have me tell them?"

"Can they really help us to get out of this place? If they do know how to get out...why are they still here?" Leeja was skeptical of the value of dallying any longer than absolutely necessary among these feral degenerates. She clearly did not trust them.

"This is where they live. Where their ancestors lived. They know of nowhere else."

"There is a lot that we just simply do not know..."

"Exactly. That is how life works dear. So what would you like for the un-nice people to do for us now?"

Bujilli opened his mouth. Closed it. He had far too many questions, but once he started asking them, they'd never get going and he had a definite dread of spending any longer than necessary in this place, among these people who looked like simple sheep but were really more akin to ravening beasts all red in tooth and claw.

"Let's see if they know of a relatively safe route to the roof-tops. If they can help us reach the roof-line, we can test the Synchronocitor and see if it will take us home...or if we have to take the long way back..."

Hedrard smirked slightly at Bujilli's reference to 'home.' She had been right about him.

"Yux-galla Omon dilig vilik kov!"

Shouting and babbling the Morons scampered and stalked all around their nest that was now more some sort of bower at the center of a massive growth of Red Weeds. They took-up handfuls of slender javelins, slathered some sort of ceremonial red paste across themselves in a frenzy of ritualistic preparation then practically stampeded up the ramp farthest across the nest-area from where Hedrard, Bujilli and Leeja stood watching.

The four women took up positions before the six hunters who served as Hedrard's honor-guard. The women clucked and scolded and gesticulated towards the direction everyone else was going.

They followed.

What else was there to do?

Bujilli wished he could examine the sliding panels of the observatory in more detail, but it would take weeks, months of his time to do it justice. These people would never allow that. He marveled at how someone could manage to build something as intricate and as wonderfully durable as this installation without the use of wheels of any kind or sort.

He stopped. Looked back at the damaged orrery dangling from an asterisk of intersecting beams. Cables. Rods. Gears? But Mucoids did not use such things as gears.

He looked more closely. There were signs of intense heat-damage. Whoever had set-up the orrery, they had come into this place after it was already built and in operation. He could just see where the beams had been forced into place as a crude after-thought, a sort of metallic tumor, one that someone else had excised incompletely with Mucoid-style weaponry. Heat rays.

"What is it?" Leeja had her hand-axe and stiletto both out.

"We need to get moving before--"

Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam-vam-Vam

Bodies really did explode when subjected to intense heat. Especially those far enough back from the ones instantly vaporized into ash that the heat was somewhat dissipated.

The masters had returned. Three Mucoids astride tripodal chariot-constructs strode down the ramp-way leading off to their left. They were burning down the Red Weeds, the Morons and anything else that got in their way. They very clearly intended to kill the intruders who had subverted their herd.

What should Bujilli, Leeja and Hedrard do next?

You Decide!


Now What?
First we roll for Initiative (LL, p. 50); 1d6 each for Bujilli, Leeja, the Morons and the Mucoids. Bujilli gains a bonus of +2 because he already suspected something was up with the Mucoids. Hedrard begins the next episode with the highest initiative because she was deliberately provoking the Mucoids and intended to start a fight with them for some reason.

Then we need a Morale Check for the Morons (LL, p. 56), rolling 2d6 to see how the Morons react to their former masters mowing them down with heat rays like vengeful elder gods.

We'll need at least one Saving Throw (LL, p. 54-55) for Bujilli, Leeja and Hedrard, using a D20.

A few (6 or 7 ought to do) random D20 rolls would come in handy for determining who hits whom and how well, or how badly they miss.

Then we need to decide whether the group is going to flee the scene (and in which direction), or whether they intend to stand their ground, or go on the offensive and if so, what attacks will they use (particular spells, specific weapons, pointed words of displeasure?).

There are four ramps leading out of the nest-area. The first one leads off to the place the morons were leading Hedrard. The second one is a mystery. The third one is the one Bujilli and his group entered this place. The fourth one is the one where the Mucoids came in with heat rays a blazin'. We can refer to them as 1,2,3,and 4 respectively.

As always, if you have any questions or want to vote for a particular course of action or specific thing to do next please let us know in the comments, or via email.

What happens next is up to you, the readers.

You Decide!

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Series Indexes
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six


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

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

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Torchbearer (Tactical Automaton)

My life has been so short that I really know nothing whatever. I was only made day before yesterday. What happened in the world before that time is all unknown to me...


Torchbearer (Fackelträger)
No. Enc.: 1d4
Alignment: Neutral
Movement: 120' (40'0
Armor Class: 5
Hit Dice: 4
Attacks: 1
Damage: 4d6 (burst of flame)
Save: F6
Morale: 12

Torchbearers are a type of Straw Trooper, packed with dry straw and coated with pitch, tar or creosote scraped from chimneys or any other flammable substances right at hand. These soft-automatons are held together by old belts, knotted cords and bits of twine or cast-off bits of rope. They resemble Stretcher-Bearers, Stick-Men and Scarecrows but are far less sturdy and intended to be destroyed in the course of carrying out their suicidal incendiary attack upon designated targets.

Originally raised in desperation, they are equipped with hooded lanterns, miner lamps or long-hafted torches -- whatever is readily available -- and sent in the direction of the enemy forces to set fire to their stores, baggage trains and ammunition depots. Cheap and effective, they have been used to break sieges, burn down recalcitrant villages, to spoil croplands behind retreating armies and a multitude of atrocities both large and small.

They hear nothing and have no true intelligence. Once their torch is lit, they run at full speed in a straight line toward whatever they are pointed at and do their best to set fire to everything they come into contact with along the way. They can 'see' clearly up to 300' in most conditions, having no difficulty moving through Black Smoke or clouds of fighting gas. In addition they are unaffected by Hold, Charm, Sleep, ESP, most forms of glamer or illusion and Fear effects. Only clerics focused on combating machines, constructs and automata can attempt to Turn these things but do so as though they were 6 HD monsters.

A typical Torchbearer remains viable for 1d4 Turns per HD and cannot be healed, repaired or recovered. When their time is up, or they reach their intended target, they burst into flames causing 4d6 damage in a 10' radius.


Commandant Zulmer of the the Wall Guard has come under intense criticism for allegedly approving a plan to bolster the units along the Inner Ramparts with an unverified number of Strohtruppen and salvaged Fyters. Some of the most scathing condemnation has come from the ultra-conservative Black Rose Coalition who control nearly a third of the Security Council. Representatives of the Black Rose demand that instead of resorting to such inhuman things as Straw Troopers to reinforce the ranks of the seriously depleted Wall Guard units, that they instead return to the time-honored practice of utilizing undead soldiers...

Source of Inspiration: Torchbearers are pretty much a version of the Scarecrow from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, as seen through the distorting lens of Arthur Machen: "...it is my belief that an awful lore is not yet dead." They are the product of an awful lore taught primarily to the Umheimlich Korps and a select few other special units of the Imperial Pruztian Army during the time of the First Pruztian Occupation of Wermspittle, when it was still considered a state secret. After the withdrawal of Pruztian forces, prior to the Second Occupation, a number of training manuals detailing the Pruztian methods of crafting these, and several similar soft-automata, were seized upon by freedom fighters and agents of the Academy effectively ending the Pruztian monopoly on such things.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Low-End Loot: Table VI

Low-End Loot, Table VI

  1. A ball of grotty yarn dripping with saliva. It used to belong to a very big cat.
  2. The hardened steel at the middle section of this crow-bar has been turned to lead. No refunds.
  3. Three screw-drivers in a heavy oil-stained canvas roll-up case. All of the tips are chipped, twisted and bent.
  4. Airship goggles; the left lens is cracked, the right one is missing, otherwise in fine condition.
  5. One very ugly scarf knitted in uneven stripes over thirty feet long when stretched out. It might hold as much as four hundred pounds, for a little while, before splitting apart.
  6. Jeweler's loupe packed full of reeking black mold. The mold is fairly harmless, though it is incredibly flammable.
  7. A single boot, completely waterproof and with a very good bit of tread, but no laces.
  8. This letter opener was hand-carved from Boreal Sea Beast ivory and glows a subtle shade of pink when it is exposed to most poisons. In desperation it can be used to inflict 1-2 points of damage with a base 60% chance to break and ruin the piece, if you insist.
  9. The scratched-up and tarnished frame of an antique hand-mirror. The mirror itself was removed long ago. There is dried blood on the handle.
  10. It's a unicorn horn...made from papier mache filled with 36 dried orange beetles. The beetles release a fragrant smoke when burned that has the tendency to made those exposed ravenously hungry.
  11. Spackle Knife; +1 to hit and damage versus all Gobbling Grouts. Takes on a dim green glow whenever an Attack Spackle is within 100'.
  12. Six small tar-stained burlap sacks that spontaneously unravel into a tangled mess of fibers when exposed to water, creating a nasty, sticky plug.
  13. A case of 142 medium-sized corks. One corner of the case shows signs of having been chewed by rats who quickly lost interest.
  14. Four blue-tinted wigs packed inside a partially-crushed hat box. Very much out of fashion.
  15. Zinn-plated canteen that fumes and foams over with a putrid ochre slop that reeks of rotten peaches for half an hour every time water is poured into it.
  16. A wooden bucket that holds twelve gallons of water as though it were only one.
  17. Elegant black mask. Anyone donning it must Save at -2 or be burned horribly by acid across their face. Requires a combined STR of 22 to remove the thing. For every round it remains in place, the victim must Save at -1 or lose 1 point of CHAR. Anyone losing 3+ points of CHAR to the mask becomes permanently scarred.
  18. Six pair of rubberized Line-Man's gauntlets, still bundled together by a rubber band. Grant wearer +2 to all Saves vs. Electrical/Galvanic effects.
  19. Glass-cutting tool, well-worn and inscribed with the initial P. Q. T.
  20. Top hat containing three doves, two rabbits and a deck of blood-soaked playing cards. The animals are all dead and the cards all stick together and are ruined. Examining the hat-band reveals three small yellow-green gems that might not be paste.
  21. Femur-bone flute that grants the bearer a +4 bonus to all reaction rolls with Winged Monkeys, so long as they never actually play the thing. If the proper tune is performed using this item, the flute casts Charm Winged Monkey (at 8th level) once per day, however at the expiration of the spell they incur a -4 penalty to all reaction rolls with Winged Monkeys for the next week.
  22. Beetle-Ward stamped in cheap tin on a thin red cord. Continually repels all Beetles within 30' radius. Each beetle repelled by the thing costs 1 charge, it currently has 3d10 charges.
  23. Morlock Cod-Piece. Wearer ignores first 6 points of damage from hostile spells every two hours.
  24. Black Lamp. When lit, the lamp creates a 12' diameter globe of Darkness for as long as it remains lit.
  25. Pitch-fork, +2 versus all Soft Automata, but has a cumulative 5% chance to break each time it is used in combat.
  26. (1d4) Green Pearls in a pouch crafted from translucent fish-hide. Each Pearl will remove all poison effects if it is pulverized into a fine powder and mixed with beer--never wine. Mixing the pearl dust with wine will make it into a virulent toxin that will reduce the victim to green sludge within 4 rounds.
  27. Four tiny mole-harnesses. Each one has a little brass bell attached.
  28. Small rectangular wooden case covered with brittle black velvet. Inside the case is an oblong lens of some sort of unnatural crystal that allows anyone holding it to see into walls to a depth of 2d6 inches. The visibility shifts every two minutes. It only works on walls and similar architectural structures, not on people or beasts.
  29. Brass horn. The jaunty blue tassels are worth a fair bit to a collector of militaria. Even if it is a replica; very few of these survived the demise of the Great Kapitain Thaliss and his failed attempt to take over the Privy Council nearly three hundred years ago.
  30. Ivory-inlaid planchette from a missing talking board. Anyone touching this thing is compelled to lie for so long as they remain in contact with it.