Monday, December 14, 2015


An idea to incorporate into the game:
There are three types of Sigils each for the express purpose of summoning, binding or banishing. The sigil is used to activate a filactarion containing soul components of its creator. There exists a handbook for creating the sigils. In effect this could form the skeleton of a "rod of many parts" quest: find the secret name, find the filactarion, find the sigil making handbook, make the sigil and summon the ancient queen.

[the more I think about it the more vanilla this feels. Open to suggestions.]

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

Ghost of an Oamni Woman

In life Pempith was a bonded worker to the Aiolarch clan. Her brutal death was at the hands of the dwarven invaders and of the few words intelligible from her ancient dialect are "pjolifi", dwarf, and "mithna-nok" have mercy. She can be seen fishing for a lost amulet in the river every night. If her amulet is returned to her she attains rest (it is baled up in one of Migimulli's pellets). If she sees Yoik the dwarf she will begin to shriek "pjolifi" extremely loudly. If she has the opportunity she will attempt to posses him. Her withering touch attack is considerably too powerful to put against the party so I intend to drop the to-hit to +3 and the necrotic damage to 3d6, the horrifying visage will remain the same and the possession recharge as well (except I want to up the chance of the possession to 5-6).
The seahorse in section 174 is the amulet  in question. Also the rabbit in 176 is magical ... Tbd how.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Crane Butterbuck's Dream

 Behold, in my dream I saw a wild stag with eight legs, and I had never seen a stag it's equal for ugliness.  His long and ill favoured antlers wound about looking as brittle as winter twigs. And lo, upon his back sat my son, pale and sickly, almost blue.  But upon his head a circlet of gold and around his neck a golden medallion. He was the Winter King and in his hand, the fire nut. A seven pointed star rose behind him and as it did the stag crumpled beneath him. As the stag went down my son levitated in the air for a moment, and as he alighted I began to awake my heart perplexed.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Luminous Adversaries

Having spent most of my writing time on this year's Santicore submission I return to my regularly scheduled game session prep ... After this one last riff on the pudding golem.

An excerpt from Magnapentral Slitter's memoirs: Tales with no morals
A Tale of my days with the mercenary troop Karnë Eloā, not the most halcyon days of my sojourn. We used to fight at night, using it to our advantage being used to the darkness and this tactic had always given us the edge we needed in a tight situation. Not so this time. 

We were marching under the order from some Yaswan bureaucrat to apprehend the Magus Bethmethmah the perspicuous. Approaching the glazed and spandrelized manse from the valley we had intended to surround it, and under the cover of darkness take the sole resident with minimal effort. Before we had ascended a scant quarter-march a murmur rippled across our ranks at what we saw up on the manse-ridge. I was not the only one who, at this point, began to ponder why an entire battalion of marshal rapscallions were tasked with the apprehension of a single dodderel hill-man. Had his aetherial facility been severely under reported? For we saw what one might describe as luminous scare crows bobbing against the night sky between us and the hillcrest where our quarry abode. Tall and glowing faintly their strange gait simultaneously jilted and smooth (as a stilt walker on St Bogə's day) they were closing the gap between us. Then somebody said, "my spear's all dry!" which is one of those things we say when there's too much thinking on the march, and we accelerated toward combat. But we never got to wet our spears. As we loped toward the vile things an odour of mildew and lye increased until many of our number heaved with sick as they ran forward. Then, when we were close enough that the glow of the aberrations lit the faces of our fronters, suddenly, a puffing sound, and, smarting of the eyes, retching, hot pain in the temples, some went down whimpering there. Others, no longer able to discern friend from foe their minds touched deeply by the foul vapours, began to hew at their comrades. When I awoke I was among a dozen living wounded and two score corpses. Since that day, whenever the southwind blows hot, I smell lye and tiny claws seem to be pulling my eyes deeper into my skull until I can taste my own blood and I must soak my throbbing head. Bethmethmah, that old serpent, is rumored to have fled south surviving the purge through his ingenious manipulations.