The Dachshund Dungeon

I did not intend to do another one of these. Certainly I didn’t intend to make another one quite so soon after the last one. But then I was re-reading the “One More Idea Method” for a Blogs on Tape episode. It got me to thinking “Hey, why haven’t I ever done this? I should totally do this.”

Then I thought, “Well, if I’m going to make a dungeon for a blog post, I may as well make it another test of my 20 Architectural Features idea.” And now, here we are, with a dungeon shaped like a wiener dog because I asked Moreven what the dungeon should be shaped like, and of course she said ‘like a wiener dog.’

Aside from “The rooms, when mapped together, form an interesting shape,” I also rolled “Dungeon has a perilous entrance,” and “Has suffered a layout-altering cataclysm.” This was the result:

I am not an artist.

To key the rooms, I’m going to go through them one by one and write down the first thing that comes to my mind. Then, I’m going to go back to the start and go through them again, adding ‘one more idea’ to each. Then again, and maybe again, and maybe again, until I feel like some kind of satisfyingly interesting result has been achieved.

The result will be a disjointed, stream-of-consciousness mess. Hopefully putting each pass in its own color will help clarify things.

1. Sewer entrance, perilous. Really long. Eventually connects to some far off city that doesn’t even know when their sewer system was built. The sewers are a labyrinth. Most folk have no idea what’s down there, and why would anybody look? Full of disease. and terrible creatures. There’s one passage, though, which extends out for miles in one direction for no real reason. Eventually leads here. It’s the only way in or out, and would require several hours to pass through. These tunnels used to connect to catacombs, before they were repurposed as sewers.

2. Dogmen. Wienerdogmen, obviously. Refined, gentlemanly, friendly towards visitors, but Territorial. Refer to themselves as “Gentledogs.” Gentledogs are crowded in here, sleeping in heaps. A little too cramped now that area 5 has been given over to the refugees. Civility is breaking down. People are getting rude.

3. More important Dogmen. Equitable council of governors, trying to solve the most pressing problem of the day. There is not enough space for the refugees. Some want to venture down “the passage of filth,” to search for a safe new home for them. Others want to go into the underdark in force to retake the refugee’s home. Still others believe they should simply cast off everything in the Hall of Relics, and use that space to give their friends a new home. Everyone grumbles that the Gentledog Wizard in Area 13 needs to hurry it up. Walls have statues of great Dogmen carved into them. Behind the ear of the founder is a switch that opens the secret door.

4. Precious secrets of the Dogmen. Not anything sinister. The Gentledogs have no dark secrets. The crypt & writings of an evil wizard, which the Gentledog’s ancestors swore to protect from discovery. It was always feared that if her body was found (which does not decompose), it would be a rallying point for a new movement of evil. All the Gentledogs know it is here. None of them will reveal the information to anyone. All will die to protect it. It is their most sacred trust. Correspondingly, the books offer some crazy insights into wizardry, and the corpse is legitimately potent as a political rallying point.

5. Not-dogmen. Refugees the gentledogs have taken in from the Underdark. Pale skinned humanoids which secrete a thick gooey slime from their pores, and have a second set of ears where their eyes should be. Used to live in a network of caves at the base of the sinkhole, and served as the Gentledog’s main allies and trading partners before they were driven from their homes by Drow, which carried off most of their people as slaves, and set up a garrison at the bottom of the crevice. Can communicate with slime based creatures, and befriend them easily. The Drow want to use them for this ability.

6. Really fancy kitchen. Gentledogs are gourmets of great refinement. Because of the extra mouths to feed, and the greater difficulty gathering food, the master chefs have had to stretch everything they have for as far as they can. This is putting a strain on everyone. A group of chefs is planning to defy the commands of the ruling council, and sneak down into the crevice to harvest food. Their craft is worth the risk.

7. Sinkhole into the underdark. It’s where the dogmen get food. Gentledogs can comfortably leap the Northern hallway gap, and so there is no bridge there. 9 is supposed to be off limits, so there’s no bridge there unless you climb all the way down into the underdark, and back up into area 10. Descends about 1000′ The creation of the Sinkhole is regarded as an event of religious significance, since prior to that the Gentledogs had to forage in the filth tunnels for food.

8. Food storage. The Gentledogs have discovered marvelous foods in the Underdark, which have never been brought to the surface before. They would be highly valuable as treasure, particularly if you could establish an open trade. Gentledog sense of smell is refined enough that they will know if you have some of their food, no matter how well it is hidden. Stores are getting low.

9. “Time Out.” A Gentledog who got into a fight with a refugee. Got really anxious about his normal sleeping spot being used by someone else. Bit the slime person. Is ashamed of how he acted, but still agitated about hot having his normal sleeping spot. “Time Out” works on the honor system, because Gentledogs are so honorable. He can leave as soon as he believes he is ready to rejoin the community. Given his agitation, he may wish to join on to the party as a hireling to spend some time away from his people and clear his head.

10. Safest descent into the crevice. Serves as an armory + guardhouse to arm those going down, and protect the gentledogs from anything coming up. Also, there’s a basket on a line between this area, and the hallway to the north, for easy transport of food. A drow spy was just captured. The spy is a male suicide bomber. A priestess has promised that Lolth will allow him to be reborn as a woman if he paves the way to victory. He will not act until he believes his death will be maximally effective.

11. Religious area. Gentledogs worship ‘The Hand that Giveth,’ and their main dictum is that the hand will come to them many times in their lives, in the guise of generous people, and they must never bite the hand. Preacher has recently begun to speak of an opposed entity, “The Hand that Taketh.” He says it is acting through the drow. There is no theological precedent for belief in this second entity. There is already some speculative, polite murmurings among the most dispossessed of the Gentledogs that The Slimeskins are agents of this “Hand that Taketh.”

12. Hall of Artifacts. Like how dogs bury bones, except the dogs are intelligent. There are items here from the surface which the Gentledogs don’t understand, and items from the underdark which they don’t understand. Also probably some bones. From the surface there are books, a compass, an astrolabe, a telescope, and a significant quantity of gold. From the underdark there are paintings that can only be appreciated with infravision, a stuffed Hook Horror, and some torture equipment. One of these paintings is important to the Drow, which is why they’ve come here. If they just asked for it, the Gentledogs would give it to them, but they can’t conceive of such a level of civility.

13. Something bad happening under the dog-men’s nose because they are too trusting. Not anything to do with the refugees. That’d turn this whole thing into kind of an ugly looking allegory. Going back to their founding, the Gentledogs have an unbroken line of goodly wizardry. The cleverest child of each generation is made an apprentice. This Gentledog, however, read the forbidden secrets of the evil wizard in Area 4. She told everyone she needed this space (further cramping the living conditions elsewhere). They agreed, because she promised she could use it to create an extradimensional space, giving everyone plenty of room to spread out. What she is actually doing is opening portals to the various lower planes, and making faustian bargain upon faustian bargain, in an attempt to put her soul in deadlock between multiple infernal powers. She reaps all the benefits, while the Banes of Gre’Thor and the Wraithlords of the Blightlands keep one another busy arguing over who gets to reap her.

14. Library of Scents. Jars and cabinets with stuff in them: rags, liquids, bits of nature, etc. When smelled by a Gentledog, these convey a huge amount of information. Like reading a book with your nose. One of these describes a hidden chamber in the city which is led to from the sewers. The gentledogs have no idea what it refers to, since they’ve never seen the city. Nobody BUT the gentledogs could possibly interpret what the scent means, though. The secret chamber has portals to different parts of the world in it.

Miscreated Creatures: Clackers

Less a race, and more a population of the diseased. Clackers are waist-height, with sticky purple skin, and an unpleasantly sweet smell. Needle spines grow down their backs, and their faces are skinless. From cheekbone to cheekbone, and midforehead to chin, their skulls are exposed. Their lidless eyes always open, even when they sleep. What little language they have is composed entirely of tooth-clacking.

Armor 14, Move 120’(40’), 1 HD(4hp), Attack by Weapon, Morale 8
Save as Halflings, Intelligence as Toddlers, 2d6 + 1 Appearing

Strength: Clackers can wield weapons and grapple as fully grown humans. They’re also exceptionally good at any straightforward physical task, such as climbing, or digging.
Spines: Each secretes a different toxin. As an attack, Clackers can remove one of their spines, and throw it up to 10’. This deals no damage, but requires a saving throw versus Poison.
1. Venom races through the victim’s body, causing instant atrophy wherever it travels. A random ability score takes 1d6 damage. On a 6, 1 point of damage is permanent.
1. The victim’s muscles contract, locking their joints and arching their spine. The victim is unable to move for 1d4 painful hours.
1. A dark purple cloud thickens in the character’s vision, leaving them blind after 1 turn. Once blind, their whole eyes will be a milky violet color.
1. The victim’s tongue swells. They cannot speak or cast spells, and after an hour, must make Constitution checks each turn to continue breathing. Puncturing the tongue solves the problem.
Death: When killed, there is a 2-in-6 chance that a final muscle spasm causes a Clacker’s spines to pop off their body, flying in every direction. Fellow Clackers are immune to the poisons, by everyone else within 10’ must make a saving throw versus Breath, or be hit by a random quill. Characters with an unadjusted Armor Rating of 15 or better gain +2 to their save.

Four years ago, a peaceful traveler from another world wanted to make contact with humans. She appeared in a remote hamlet called Sulthen with the intent to befriend and educate the inhabitants, but she made a mistake. A crucial variable had been left out of her calculations for how our atmosphere would affect her biology. With her first breath of our air, she began to chemically immolate from the inside out. A foul smoke rose off her body, and all the children of Sulthen fell ill. Eventually, they became the first Clackers.

In the time since, those first few have grown their population by skulking into towns and villages at night. They creep into the rooms of children, and impale them with a special reproductive quill. Over the course of a few days the child will lose their ability to speak. Their skin will turn purple, their muscles will harden, and their face will droop listlessly. Eventually, their “parent” will return, tear off the initiate’s now useless facial skin and muscles, and lead the new Clacker out to join the herd. Within a month, they will be fully developed.

Clackers have an obsessive compulsion to take people apart. It’s about the only thing that can get a group of them sitting quietly and acting delicately. They are herbivores by diet. They don’t eat any part of their victims, they merely have an intense curiosity about the intricacies of living insides. They like to see how bone and sinew connect to vein and nerve and gut.

The creatures never stay in any den for more than a few months. They seem to migrate any time they find a new cave or clearing that suits their needs. Their abandoned hovels have thus proliferated rapidly through the area. The Clackers don’t build any structures or fires, but their camps are always marked by abandoned heaps of toys. They do not play with these, but are compelled to own them.

If a Clacker dies without releasing its spines, they can be harvested, and their venom will continue to function for 1d4 weeks. Each Clacker corpse produces 1d12 spines, one of which will be their reproductive spine.

The people of Sulthen, in an attempt to save their children, have begun to dig a hole. They believe the strange creature who appeared just before their children became diseased was a demon. Therefore, they have concluded that the only way to end the malady is to dig themselves down to hell, where they can return the corpse to the Devil, and beg his indulgence in restoring their children to them.

Magic Technology

Fuck the King of Space is meant to be D&D with starships. To me, that means more than simply running a role playing game in the distant future, it means actually making an effort to recreate as much of the D&D experience as possible. Facing monsters, crawling through dungeons, and casting spells are all part of the game. So, obviously, the game will include magic items, and since it does take place in the far future, it only makes sense that there are technologically advanced items, which are also enchanted.

The rub is that in terms of game writing, magic and technology are basically interchangeable. A teleportation spell and a transportation pad function very much the same; as do a flight spell and a jetpack, or an invisibility spell and a cloaking device.

This isn’t so much a problem for a magician’s spells. Sure, you can always buy grenades, but if it’s possible to conjure a ball of fire using only your brain, people are gonna learn how to do that. On the other hand, if the weapon’s dealer has a bin of Scrolls of Fireball right next to the grenades, that just seems pointless. The world doesn’t need both, and in a SciFi game, if something can be handled by technology, it probably shouldn’t be needlessly magical.

Ergo, magic items in FKOS need to distinguish themselves. There needs to be a reason for the effect to be justified by magic, rather than technobabble.

Make it function relative to other magic: This is just kind of a freebie. If a magic item increases a spell’s area of effect, or allows spells to be slightly modified on the fly, or increases resistance to clerical dispellings, then it’s only natural that the device would itself be magical. Duh-doy.

Make it really weird. Honestly, this is always good advice, but it’s particularly relevant here. The effect can’t be a matter of simple bonuses, it can’t have a straightforward use. Weird magic doesn’t operate in a logical way; it has drawbacks; it demands sacrifice; it crosses barriers, creates the unthinkable.

Make it really flavorful. Again, a good piece of general advice that should always be followed, but applies doubly in this scenario. Perhaps a magical effect would be better explained by technology, but if that effect is intensely flavorful, I don’t think it would bother the players.

So if some ship out there is going faster than normal, you could say it’s because that ship has very nice expensive engines. That would be an acceptable answer, while “magic engines” would not. But, if you say “The captain made a deal with the devil to power her engines with human misery, so her engine room has nothing in it except a massive torture chamber.” Well…that’s good fuckin’ shit.

Make Magic an Explanation for Scarcity. The most boring way to develop a fantasy setting is to make magic so commonplace that it’s used for day-to-day mundanities. Street lamps that conjure a Light spell at dusk every day make me gag. Magic works best when it’s mysterious, unique.

Technology has the opposite problem. If a technology exists, it only makes sense for it to be widespread. There are some limitations you can put on it (only the wealthy can afford it, only the Gorbos know how to make it, etc.), but technology can never really be unique. Unless it’s a “prototype.” Shitty science fiction is riddled with prototypes, as if it’s commonplace for amazing technologies to be developed, then abandoned for no good reason.

Having both Magic and Technology allows FKOS to get the best of both worlds. Technology is the baseline for what is available to the denizens of the Kingdom Galactic; magic is for the unique exceptions.

As a bonus, if the players ever get a campaign-breaking magic item, some new technology may eventually be developed which emulate that item’s effects, re-leveling the playing field.

Space Suit of Holding: A single space suit which multiple people can wear simultaneously. They must put on the suit one-at-time, but once a person is inside the suit, they can only be seen through the helmet’s visor. Looking into the suit from any other opening, it will appear to be empty.

If the suit’s inhabitants are in agreement, they may choose who is in control of the suit’s motion. If the inhabitants are in conflict, roll a mental struggle between them. This is resolved as a grapple; everyone rolls 1d6 per level, highest wins. If there is a tie, it is won by whomever has the most spell slots. If it is still a tie, the tied participants should roll again.

If the suit is ruptured, it will explode, sending all participants flying away from one another. If this happens, each inhabitant has a 2-in-6 chance to be blasted into extradimensional space, rather than into their own environment.

Handheld Sun: A metal cylinder with a lens on one end, and a crank on the other. The crank can be wound to last anywhere from 10 minutes, to an hour. Either way, it takes about a minute to wind it up.

When wound, a tiny viewing portal opens up behind the lens. Exactly where in the universe the portal leads to is randomly determined each time crank is turned (even if the players are extending the time of a previous winding). All of the possible portals open up close to a sun, allowing its brilliant light to shine through the lens. This light cannot be hidden or extinguished. It is so persistent that it will be visible even in a metal box.

The intense light of various suns has different properties. Since there are essentially infinite stars out in the universe, the referee is encouraged to add to this list as often as the mood to do so strikes them.

A white sun. Light “sticks” everywhere it passes over, causing those surfaces to become temporarily luminous.
A green sun. When shone on a person, their inner self is illuminated for all to see.
A chartreuse sun. Affects humans the way a yellow sun affects vampires.
A violet sun. Affects humans the way a yellow sun affects Superman.
A bone sun. This light attracts ghosts, like fish to a light shone on a lake at night.
A stale sun. Animals touched by this light can speak. What they have to say is not always healthy to hear.

Heartlancer: A T-77 blaster carbine, equipped with high density batteries, gyroscopic auto-stabilizers, and an adjustable stock. A fairly common weapon to find on the surplus market, since the T-82 is the current weapon of choice for The King’s Loyal Soldiers. Despite its mundane appearance, however, this particular T-77 is a weapon of intense cruelty.

On a successful hit, the target is completely unharmed. However, for the briefest of moments, their minds are transported to the body of someone they love. They see a laser blast appear from out of nowhere, and they know that this person whom they loved is now dead. When they return to their own body, no time will have passed, and they may act normally.

Each time they are hit with the weapon, someone they love even more dearly will be killed in the same way, until the 8th time they are hit with it, when they will see the person whom they love most in all the galaxy die. After this, the Heartlancer will function like a typical T-77 when used against that target.

Cloaking Device: When activated, the vessel (or person, as the case may be) not only becomes invisible, but incorporeal as well. They can walk through walls, or fly through asteroids, without taking any damage. It is not advisable, however, to uncloak while inside something.

The Wayback Machine: A portable computer. It lacks any significant processing power, and seems to be intended only for casual use, such as writing documents, or browsing the Commnet. A series of complex symbols have been carved into the plastic bezel of the case, apparently using a pin or box cutter.

When the computer is used to connect to the Commnet, it doesn’t view the net as it is, but rather, it views the net as it was, at some point in the past. Specifically, if used inside of a man-made structure, it will connect to the Commnet as it existed on the day that construction was completed. So, if you want to examine the net as it was in 31,607, then you must find a building that was constructed in that year.

If not inside a man made structure, the computer will connect to the Commnet as it is now, but the connect is finicky and unreliable.

The Elder Comm: Like most comm stations, this console is equipped not only to send and receive messages across a multitude of frequencies, but using a variety of methods as well. There’s Comm, Hypercomm, Lighbounce, Radio if you’re in a pinch, and at least two dozen others, all of which have their own niche uses, and are standard fare on any mid-tier comm system. Unique to the Elder Comm, however, is that it can also deliver messages using the souls of the dead.

It’s unclear just how many souls are trapped within it, but with a flip of a dial and a twist of a switch, the operator can send a ghost wherever they wish, to carry their voice wherever it needs to go. The ghosts are not visible, and will never speak any words they have not been instructed to convey. But they are there, and they are conscious. Thinking, whispering to one another when they think no body can hear.

The most notable benefit of this setting is that messages can be communicated to locations without comm equipment to receive them; and return messages can be sent the same way.

The Dungeon We Forgot

I ought to follow up on my own posts more often than I do. I have this nagging insecurity that once I put something out there, I need to move on. It’s an obsession with novelty that really isn’t helpful. Some ideas deserve to be revisited, and developed further.

A couple months back, I sketched out a list of twenty architectural features that would make dungeons more memorable. Part of the goal there was to solve the blank page problem, to give myself a better starting place for a dungeon than “Well, I guess it needs an entrance…” To help me make dungeons that are interesting not just for what’s in them, but also interesting for how the floorplan is laid out.

It seems like a natural progression here is to put theory into practice, and make a dang dungeon using those principals. So, I’ve rolled 3d20 on the list, and tried to incorporate a river, a mix of natural and crafted spaces, and an area that can be seen but not easily accessed into a single dungeon. The resulting map is uglier even than I intended for it to be, (I’m no Gus L.), but I think it will serve.

I originally intended for this post to include 3 such dungeons, but it’s a ding-dang long process sketching out a dungeon even as rudimentary as this one and making it presentable. So you’ll take one dungeon and you’ll like it! >:(

This dungeon is built into the lowest plateau of a strange, stepped mountain, far to the north where the summers are short and the people are hard. It was constructed just a few years ago by the folk of the nearby village, though they do not remember doing so. One day, they simply dropped everything, took up their tools, and wandered en masse towards the plateau to set themselves to work.

Eight years passed in hard labor. Those children too young to work died of neglect as their parents mindlessly chiseled stone, stopping only to mechanically eat and sleep. Then the construction was complete, and everyone woke up knowing that time had passed, but recalling nothing of those eight years. Not a one of them dared enter the structure they had made.

They returned to their homes and their lives, insomuch as they could. They try not to think too hard about the mysterious structure they built just a few miles distant. But on cloudy nights, when there are no moon or stars in the sky, it’s impossible not to notice the processions of ghostly red lights moving sometimes towards that place, and sometimes away from it.

The entry chamber is 4 stories tall, with a massive featureless statue standing between two winding stairways. If any living thing tries to leave, the statue will come to life and prevent them from doing so. Just placing its arm across the passage would be enough to stop anyone not equipped with picks and explosives and hours of free time in which to work.

Not far from the entrance is a room bisected by bars of milky white metal. On the near side are carpets on which a person could kneel in worship. On the far side is a throne, in which rests a withered corpse.

This is the Dread Lich, which once blighted a distant land no local will have ever heard of. When its phylactery was destroyed, it retreated here, half a world away from those who sought its destruction. Here it will rest and recuperate until all who remember it are long dead. Then, it will return to take vengeance on their descendants.

The white metal bars are sufficient to absorb any magic, and will shift to deflect any attack, directed beyond them. The Dread Lich has only one existence now, and has no wish to risk destruction needlessly.

In the south are the pens. There are people here, children really, between 12 and 19 years old. They are runaways from families in the area, though none of them wanted to be. They could hear themselves say what they said to their families, they watched themselves flee as if from a distance, but could not control their bodies until they had run all the way here, and locked themselves into these pens.

The floors are a cold red stone, which drains their vitality. Gradually they will grow sick. When they die, the stone will absorb even their bones.

At the center of the dungeon is a curious sort of crater, open to the sky above, with sheer cliffs rising on every side. A river pours in from the higher plataeus, creating a verdant little microbiome here, with small populations of animals not seen in the surrounding region. This area could serve as an alternate entrance or exit, if the players have sufficient climbing gear or skill.

Leading off from here is a small series of natural caverns, where a dragon has taken up residence. It believes it has done so of its own free will, abandoning a horde of gold to satisfy its desires for a colder climate. Why a reptilian creature would have such desires is anybody’s guess…

In the northernmost part of the dungeon, stairs lead down to an underground lake, which glows red with a swirling horde of spectral minds that have no proper place in this world.

Getting Weird with the Classics 4

Why in the world has it been almost 2 years since I last did one of these? They’re a lot of fun to write, and people seemed to enjoy reading them. I rolled the items for this post forever ago, and they’ve just been sitting in my drafts folder, perpetually ignored.

For anyone who doesn’t remember, here’s how this works: I use the 1979 Dungeon Master’s Guide to randomly generate 3 magic items. Then I reinvent them to be a little weirder, goofier, grosser, and generally more in line with my personal style.

As should be obvious from the title, I’ve done this not once, not twice, but three times before, all back in early 2016.

So, without further yammering:

Ring of Water Walking

This ring enables the wearer to walk upon any liquid without sinking into it; this includes mud, quicksand, oil, running water, and even snow. The ring wearer’s feet do not actually contact the surface he or she is walking upon when liquid or water is being walked upon (but oval depressions about 1 1/1′ long and 1 inch deep appear per 100 pounds of weight of the walker will be observed in hardening mud or set snow). Rate of movement is standard movement for the individual wearing the ring. Up to 1,200 pounds of weight can be supported by a water walking ring.

Ring of Walking Water

A copper band which glows a faint orange. If thrown into a sufficiently sized body of liquid, that liquid will swirl into form around the ring. The process takes only a single round, after which the fluid–now in the shape of a human wearing the ring on their finger–will come to the aid of whomever threw the ring.

Liquid-persons have 4 hit dice. They are as strong, dexterous, and swift as an average human. They cannot speak, but for the duration of the effect, will obey any commands the ring thrower gives them. There is a wide variety of abilities these creatures might have, based on whatever particular fluid they are composed from. Rather than write an anticipatory list that would no doubt be incomplete, I leave it to the individual referee to determine what it means to command a fluid person composed of salt water rather than fresh water, or lava, or fetid water, or beer, or poison, etc.

When they are created, a liquid person has an innate sense of why they were created. The referee should ask the throwing player to specify what that reason is, with the understanding that it cannot be too broad in scope. Anything that would take longer than 30 minutes will need to be broken down into a smaller task.

When the immediate need for them has passed, liquid persons will attempt to flee from their creator. They know the thrower will want their ring back, but the liquid person would rather keep their new life. So, if the player does not wish to lose their ring, then after each use they must chase down and tackle the liquid person, which will fall apart if the ring is taken from them.

Candle of Invocation

Candles of Invocation are specially blessed and prayered tapers which are dedicated to the pantheon of gods of one of the nine alignments. The typical candle is not remarkable, but it will radiate magic if such is detected, and good or evil will be radiated also if appropriate. Simply burning the candle will generate a favorable aura for the individual so doing if the candle’s alignment matches that of the character’s. If burned by a cleric of the same alignment, the candle temporarily increases the cleric’s level of experience by 2, allowing him or her to cast additional spells, and even normally unavailable spells, as if her or she were of the higher level, but only so long as the taber is aflame. Any burning also allows the casting of a gate spell, the respondent being of the alignment of the candle, but the taper is immediately consumed in the process. Each candle will burn for 4 hours. It is possible to extinguish the candle as any other, but it can be placed in a lantern or otherwise sheltered to protect it from drafts and other things which could put it out without affecting its magical properties.

Candle of Embarkation

A large wax candle, of plain make. When lit, the candle conjures a vessel beneath it, appropriate to whatever whatever environment the candle-lighter’s weight is resting in. If lit by someone standing in a river, the candle will conjure a riverboat, while in the sea it will conjure a galleon. On land, the candle might conjure a carriage with a team of of oxen. If the candle is lit while falling (difficult to do, with all that rushing air), it will produce a flying machine. Strange environments may produce strange vehicles.

Whatever the vessel summoned, there are a few similarities. First, the candle will always place itself in an enclosed space, like a ship’s cabin. Second, the person lighting the candle, as well as any creature within 20′ of them, will likewise be moved to the same space the candle occupies. This includes everything, from friends and foes, to badgers and bugs.

The vessel will come with everything it needs for basic locomotion (boats will have sails, carriages will have pulling animals, etc), but will lack anything else. The candle cannot conjure operators, provisions, or armaments.

The conjured vehicle will persist for as long as the candle remains lit. If the candle goes out, the vessel will disappear. If undisturbed, the candle will last for 12 hours.

Boots of Striding and Springing
The wearer of these magical boots has a base movement rate of 12″ , regardless of size or weight. This speed can be maintained tirelessly for up to 12 hours per day, but thereafter the boots no longer function for 12 hours– assume they “recharge” for that period. In addition to the striding factor, these boots also have a springing factor. While “normal” paces for the individual wearing this type of footgear are 3′ long, the boots also enable forward jumps of up to 30′, backwards leaps of 9′, and vertical springs of 15′. If circumstances permit the use of such movement in combat, the wearer can effectively strike and spring away when he or she has the initiative during a melee round. However such activity has a degree of danger, as there is a base 20% chance that the wearer of the boots will stumble and be stunned on the following round; adjust the 20% chance downwards by 3% for each point of dexterity above 12 for the wearer. In any event, the wearer increases armor class value by +1 due to the quickness of movement these boots imbue.

Springs of Booting

A small wooden box, or metal tin, similar to one that might be used to carry tea leaves, ground seasonings, or snuff. In reality, the box contains springs wrapped in cloth sleeves. They’re pressed up against the lid, waiting to bounce out and startle whoever opens the box.

Anyone struck by these is quickly booted from wherever they are, via the nearest exist. If they are on a boat, the will be tossed overboard. If they’re in a building, they’ll go out the nearest openable window or door. If they’re in a dungeon, they’ll be flung back up to the surface. To them, it will feel like their body is attached to a cord, pulling them around at high speed. This pulling is always completely safe–they won’t get dragged through lava, or slammed into any walls. However, that won’t count for much if they’re then tossed out a 20th story window, or over the rail of a ship sailing through lava.

Anyone who opens the box themselves, without specifically pointing it away, will automatically be hit, and dragged off. Characters may also attempt to aim the weapon at a target before opening it, but this will require a successful attack roll against the base armor rating, followed by a saving throw versus paralyzation to dodge.

They Came from the Silver Wheel

A blinding flash, a sonic boom, and the Silver Wheel appears. Twelve feet high, perhaps a hundred and twenty across, the wheel is a perfect cylinder. Its surface is smooth, without any obvious rivet or seam. It is beyond cyclopean; a featureless catastrophe from unknown realms. Any thing or any one which occupied the space the wheel chose for itself is gone.

Some time after the Wheel appears, a door opens. People emerge. They have no recollection of what is inside of the wheel. No recollection at all of their lives since they last entered it. They do have a mission in the forefront of their minds, which is always the same on every world they visit: the Silver Wheel desires treasures. It is somehow fed by them, and has indentured these people to procure its sustenance. Once they have returned with enough valuables to sate the Wheel, it will shift again. When it does, an identically sized bit of another world will appear, displaced by the Wheel’s movement. Where that bit of a world once was, the Wheel now is, and soon it will release its servants to seek new treasures.

These servants of the Wheel are the Player Characters.

Background

“They Came from the Silver Wheel” is a campaign I intended to run back in 2014, but it never came together. Eventually, I gave up on the idea to focus on other things, and for some reason it only now occurred to me to use it as blog fodder.

The Silver Wheel is a framing device, meant to allow the referee to connect as many disparate adventures together in a single campaign as they want. There are too many interesting settings out there, and not enough time to run a whole campaign in even a fraction of them. Using the Silver Wheel, you can spend a few sessions in A Red and Pleasant Land, then warp to Greyhawk, then to some old campaign setting you ran back in high school, then–fuck it–why not appear in Star Frontier for a bit, before jumping to Scenic Dunsmouth.

The Silver Wheel allows a group to poke their heads into a ton of different adventures and campaign settings, and in so doing, preempts setting fatigue. The Wheel’s voracious appetite for treasure keeps the game focused properly, but skirts the niggling issue of what the players can do with all their money.

And, hopefully, the wheel’s many benefits will encourage the players not to abandon it.

Benefits of the Wheel

Servants of the Silver Wheel are well cared for. They are healthier, and more capable than other men. They are well equipped, and even allowed to keep those treasures which are useful to them–such as magical items. But, since those servants are also player characters, they have agency. If they wish, they can abandon the wheel at any time. Eventually, it will recruit new servants from this world. They will gather what it desires, and it will disappear, stranding the PCs on this world forever. They will lose all of the wheel’s many benefits, but they will be free.

So what are these benefits? Well, whatever happens to people inside the wheel must be good for their health, because whenever they level up, they roll a bonus from the following table, in addition to whatever benefits they would normally receive:

+1d4 hit points
A random save is reduced by 1.
1 skill point
A random ability score is raised by 1
Character gains +1 to attack rolls
Character’s speed is increased by 30′.

These benefits are permanent so long as the character returns to the Wheel regularly. If the Wheel leaves them behind, these boons will begin to fade. After each month of time the characters spends away from the wheel, randomly determine one of their boons for them to lose, until they have none left.

The servants of the Wheel also have access to special equipment. At the start of each new adventure, the players are entitled to any basic piece of equipment they can carry without becoming overly encumbered. Things like rope, iron spikes, 10′ poles, bear traps, etc. These must be identified at the start of play, and cannot be swapped out until the players are ready to jump to the next world.

Basic equipment from the Wheel is somehow better than standard examples of its type. The exact nature of the improvement is left to the referee, and may not always be the same, as the Wheel is fond of experimenting with new ideas.

By way of example, a short sword that normally deals 1d6 damage might be enhanced by microvibrators, causing it to deal 1d8 damage. Or, it might have a basic artificial intelligence to it, allowing it to adjust attacks of its own volition, increasing attack rolls by some amount. As another example, a rope might be programmable, so that it will twist itself into knots when a command is sent, or it might be able to crawl up to some desired position like a snake. Armor might brace the body in such a way as to increase the player’s carry capacity, or it might have built-in communications tools.

Whatever the improvement, these items are ephemeral. They depend on the energy that infuses them within the Wheel, and deprived of it for more than a month, they will cease to function.

It angers the Silver Wheel if any of its gifts to its servants are not returned. When players re-enter the wheel, their experience gain will be penalized by the base cost of any equipment they left behind, multiplied by 100.

Secrets of the Wheel

Within the Wheel is a creature of the mind. It is neither corporeal, nor fully incorporeal, but exists between these two states. It has a sort of gaseous body, but its essence is not strictly bound to that frame, and may be tangible or not at different times. The creature is an exile. The Wheel is its prison, the only place in our dimension with an environment it can endure.

The creature’s only source of amusement is traveling to different worlds, and experiencing the minds there. It tastes their conceptions, searching always for new flavors. Of particular use to it is the concept of value. This is the mother’s milk which allows it to perform the titanic feat of leaping instantaneously from world to world.

When the creature takes a gold piece into itself, and vaporizes it, the amount of power generated is proportional to how local minds value the object. So, on a world of plenty, an apple would be useless; but during a famine, an apple might provide significant energy.

Are You Loyal to the Party?

There are two things about hirelings that I hate.

I hate seeing them treated as props. As things that can be safely ignored until a player wants them to make an attack, or use an ability. I understand that during play, everyone is focused on the events of the game rather than characterizing the background NPCs. This is good and proper. But while I am not interested in forcing my game into cul de sacs of “rich role playing experiences,” it none the less feels lame when hirelings are only ever brought up for their utility. Players should have to do more maintenance to keep them around.*

I also hate determining a hireling’s loyalty when they are first hired, and having that number remain static throughout their tenure with the party. A person’s loyalty to their employer should be a function of their working experiences, not an innate attribute of their character. Loyalty should be a thing that goes up and down constantly, depending on how valued the retainer feels, and how much of a future they see for themselves in this work.

(Loyalty, for any non-OSR folks in the audience, is a number between 2 and 12. Any time the hirelings are presented with a situation that tests their loyalty, the referee rolls 2d6. If the result is greater than the hireling’s loyalty score, then they are not loyal enough to endure whatever the current situation is. They might flee the scene, betray the party, or simply refuse to follow an order they’ve been given.

In attempting to solve the latter issue, I spent about a year rolling loyalty checks for hirelings after every session. If something traumatic had happened, a failed check caused the hireling’s loyalty to go down by 1. Otherwise, a failed check caused it to go up by 1. The idea was that, over time, the hireling’s loyalty would grow, but that its growth had diminishing returns. It’s easy to go from being an acquaintance to being a friend, it’s more difficult to go from being a friend to being the most important person in someone’s life.

In practice, this wound up just being busywork for me. Loyalty trended upwards over time, until the party had a half dozen hirelings with 11 loyalty. At that point, they basically are a prop, since they’ll almost never go against their employer’s wishes. The only part of the system I think anybody enjoyed were the little notes I wrote into the session reports, explaining why the hireling’s loyalty did whatever it did. “Albert was offended by Don’s joke. His loyalty goes down by 1.” “Sheniqua is proud of having incinerated all those guards. Her loyalty goes up by 1.” Stuff like that.

I quietly stopped bothering to use that system a few months back, and nobody seems to have missed it. I’ve been glumly pondering what I could do to make it work ever since. Then, as I was recording “Romantic Fantasy and OSR D&D” for Blogs on Tape, a good possibility occurred to me:

Periodically, the referee should go down the list of the party’s hirelings. For each one, the the referee decides whether their recent experiences should cause their loyalty to go up by 1, down by 1, or remain the same.

Let me break that down:

“Periodically” could mean at the end of every session, at the end of every adventure, during every haven turn, or even at the end of each in-game year. It depends on how swingy you want the system to be, and how much effort you want to put in. Personally, I think I’ll do it every Haven turn.

When I say “the referee decides,” I mean exactly that. This should be done by fiat, without any dice. Dice are a great way to resolve an infinity of choices, where a referee might unwittingly show their biases. But if a question can be resolved by common sense, dice just muddy the issue. When it comes to hirelings, the referee should already have some sense of who they are as a person, just as they do for all the game’s NPCs. And the referee will certainly know what the hireling’s recent experiences were. It’s not as though NPCs do anything when the referee isn’t around.

It should be easy to infer, given what the referee knows, how each hireling feels about their job right now.

Their loyalty might go down if they suffered serious injury, or if the players made reckless decisions, causing them to lose confidence in the party’s leadership. It might also go down if the hireling is just annoyed, bored, or feels like they’re not a respected member of the crew.

A lowered loyalty isn’t necessarily a punishment. It’s not always about the Hireling hating or fearing their employer. They’re just fractionally less interested in continuing to adventure, and if their loyalty gets low enough, a failed check might mean they strike out on their own.

On the other hand, their Loyalty might go up if they feel valued. It could be as simple as a good conversation with the PCs, being deferred to on some minor decision, or being celebrated for some success. Making sure your employee had a good day at work will help ensure they don’t betray you to the next goblin who looks at them funny.

Loyalty remaining unchanged should be an uncommon choice. Used only if the referee is really torn between the two other options.

I’m really enamored with this idea, because it seems to elegantly resolve both of the things I hate, with a single mechanic. Hireling morale will be anything but static. It’ll be going up and down all the time, and hopefully it’ll be going down a lot more than it did with my previous method. Moreover, those fluctuations provide a direct incentive for the players to interact with their hirelings to keep up morale. It’s rare, in my experience, to find any opportunity to offload some of the referee’s mental burden onto the players.

This method also seems to have the tertiary benefit of creating a natural cap on the number of hirelings a player can take on. The more people you try to bring with you, the more time and energy you’ll have to spend to keep them happy.

I’m excited to spring this on my players after their next haven turn.

*I realize this problem would be solved if I required hirelings to earn a half-share of treasure. It’s a good method, and one I might use again in the future. But it doesn’t _really_ solve either of the two gripes presented in this post.

Behaviors for The Level 1 Creature Generator

Well known amphibian aficionado and all-around cool dude Michael Raston recently put out The Level 1 Creature Generator. It’s a handy tool for referees who are tired of listening to the reptilian enthusiasts and mammalian traditionalists argue with one another every time the party is attacked by Kobolds.

I think it’s a pretty fun creative tool, but I’m also Michael’s bud, so I’m not going to pretend to offer any kind of serious review for it. It’s good stuff, and Michael deserves his dollar for it.
That being said, after perusing the basic shape table, the form table, and the ability table, it struck me that the project could be improved by inclusion of a behaviors table. So I made one.

Level 1 Creature Behaviors

Roll 1d4, then 1d10

One

Plagued with obsessive compulsions. Must perform actions a specific number of times, quickly clean any blood off themselves, and adhere to rigid standards of organization and symmetry in all things.
Will talk about anyone it encounters as if they cannot hear or understand it. Will only directly address other creatures of its own type, or sometimes talk to itself.
Takes wagers on everything. 5sp you can’t guess where their tattoo is? How about 2sp you’ll need to ask them for help before you get out of the dungeon? 15sp they can kill that adventurer in less than 3 swings.
Tell a lot of really obvious, pathetic lies, all the time.
They use a “talking stick”, and take it very seriously. Anyone who speaks without holding the stick is warned a single time, then attacked with intent to kill if they break the rule again. If their stick is lost, they will not speak until a new stick can be consecrated.
Interpret everything in the most depressing possible way. They seem almost fetishistic in their desire to be miserable.
Have a dizzying array of superstitions. It seems everything that happens can be interpreted to have some prophetic significance to them.
Believe themselves to be much more intimidating than they are, as if the mere sight of them should make mortal men cower in fear. No matter how someone acts towards the creatures, they will bend over backwards to maintain this belief.
Act as though any violence they perform is a favor. “You are welcome for ending your miserable existence. It must be such a burden being a member of a lesser order of life.”
Conceive of themselves as contemptible filth-creatures, which deserve to be put down.

Two

Treat new people they meet with an uncomfortable familiarity, like an obnoxious sibling. They’re very touchy, take constant jibes at a person’s foibles, and play pranks which go way too far.
Waste is deeply offensive to them. They are committed to using every part of the adventurer.
Have an obsession with seeking out the most glorious deaths they can. Will fight to stay alive only to make the death more glorious.
Always have a scribe among them wherever they travel, so someone can record their deeds and bring it back to the community. This scribe is strictly a non-combatant.
Are paralyzingly afraid of the dark. Always have plenty of torches or other light sources with them.
Are frantically afraid of the vast open void of the sky. Refuse to step out from the underground. If they can be captured and shoved into a building, they will never leave it of their own volition.
Dispassionate, scientifically curious observers. Will frequently repeat an action several times to see if the results are consistent. Obsessively record their findings.
Tinkerers, always enthusiastic about trying out new things to see if they can achieve interesting results. Get bored very quickly.
Offended by the very concept of writing. Thoughts should stay in people’s heads where they can be alive. Trapping thoughts on paper is perverse.
Passionate body modders. Will often tattoo or pierce themselves impulsively. When wounded, will openly speculate about how they might manipulate the wound to heal in some cool-looking way.

Three

Cowardice is a virtue. Only a buffoon wouldn’t try to escape death by any means necessary. Offer violence only when you have overwhelming force, or using hit-and-run tactics.
The use of metal tools is deeply contrary to their spiritual beliefs. They are profoundly offended by anyone displaying worked metal, and at the very best, will treat them with the contempt due to a heathen non-believer.
Speak only in a sing-song. Rhyme as often as they can.
Animal slavery is an abhorrent practice to them. Only soulless brutes would ever bind an animal, or bend it to their will.
Will obey the will of any cat.
Observe a complex code of etiquette which no one not raised among them could ever hope to adhere to. Would agree with the phrase “Killing a person is no excuse for being rude to them.”
Do not use any footwear themselves, but find it to be a fascinating adaptation of other cultures. Can be used as a kind of currency among their people. Will be intensely interested in acquiring the shoes and boots of anyone they meet.
Due to some ancient insult, these creatures loathe wizards. Wizards know what they did. And, indeed, any magic users present do know. Talking about it will only enrage these creatures more, even if making an apology.
The most popular sport among them is competitive water diverting. They shift the course of rivers and compete in both time taken, and style points.
Every one of them thinks they’re a comedian. They enable one another with endless, grating laughter over the dumbest jokes.

Four

Intensely sexual. Will probably invite you to an orgy. If you get into a fight with them, no matter who wins, they’re going to enjoy it in ways that make you uncomfortable.
Are currently on a scavenger hunt. They need a leaf with 6 points, a rock that looks like it has a face, the ear of a sentient creature, and something pink.
Do a lot of weird drugs, and will probably do more of them during any encounter.
Believe that boats are a crime against nature. If the gods had intended folk to float upon the water, they’d have made us more like ducks.
It is an accepted fact that only they, and other members of their species, are really ‘real.’ Everything and everyone outside of them is a fiction, which exists only to make their lives more interesting.
Highly secretive about their own existence. Anyone who knows of them must somehow be prevented from spreading that knowledge. Some are held captive for the rest of their lives, others are merely discredited so no one will believe them, still others are simply killed.
Generally a brusque people. However, if they decide to kill you, they will first invite you to share a meal and conversation with them. It’s only proper to get to know someone whose life you will end.
Are voluntarily carnivorous as a society, having decided that it is completely unethical to eat any plant-based foods.
The goddess of fortune is their most culturally significant deity. They believe that any decision left to chance will result in the most harmony with the cosmic plan. Though, they do not consider it wrong to make decisions for yourself. It is an understandably selfish thing to do. Only the most devout would allow themselves to come to serious harm simply to satisfy the cosmic plan.
Have a rigid warrior culture that prizes honor above all things.

Daughter of Tangled Corpses: Part 5

Bodies. Not the withered husks of the pale folk, but true human bodies. Piled in a mound, twisted into a single diffuse form. The tangle stood over them like a living creature, blocking any flight from the caverns. A half dozen heads rose above the mess. They were dead, and yet they gazed in unison upon the three thieves.

Banros only hesitated for a moment. He bolted, dodging to the creature’s right side and plowing forward to pass it. Alger and Jeanette moved to follow. But a chain of arms—each gripping the stump of the next—lashed out from the tangle. They slammed into Banros’ chest like a club, sending him straight onto his back. He curled in pain, but manged to force his body back onto its feet in time to avoid a second blow.

“Run!” he squeaked, his voice knocked out of him. The group sprinted back through the main cavern, but the way back was blocked. The cavern had begun to fill with pale folk. Jeanette expected to see the same terror on their faces that she knew was on her’s. But she saw only rage.

“What is it!?” she screeched to Eclesius when she saw him.

“Be silent, barbarian whores!” the caller bellowed, his pale face ruddy with rage. “We accepted you into our homes! Into our beds! You shared our food, now you rob us! You murder us!”

Jeanette was trying to form some convincing lie when Alger shoved her aside. She stumbled, then wheeled around to snap at Alger, but she stopped. Alger’s sword protruded from the old man’s back. A clean thrust through the chest. The cavern was still. In the quiet, Eclesius blood poured onto the sand like pattering rain. When his body fell to the ground, the pale folk began to scream, and fled to their caves.

Another howl rose behind them. Not a single voice, but a chorus of screeching sounds tumbling together into a single expression of hate. The corpse creature was swift. In an instant it was upon them. It lashed an appendage at Alger before the soldier had even turned to face the howl. The strike flung him back, rolling over his head and coming to rest flat on his belly.

Banros drew his own sword, attempting to hack at the creature’s limb. But before his blow could fall, the chain of arms withdrew into the mass. Banros fell off balance, and the limb lashed out again. Even as Alger climbed back to his feet, the creature sent Banros sprawling to the side.

Jeanette fumbled to get her dagger in hand, but didn’t move to help. She backed away, hoping to avoid the monster’s attention. But the moment a glint of steel appeared in her hand, the creature’s many faces spun on her. She dropped the dagger, and spread her open palms wide as she continued to step back. The monster didn’t heed surrender. It took two quick steps towards her. A downward slash from Alger sliced through its side.

One of the creature’s many bellies burst open, spraying dark blood on Alger’s face. Black and withered intestines sprang from the wound as well. The ropey innards wrapped round Alger’s wrist and swung the soldier to the side. He stumbled, and the creature continued to charge Jeanette with swift, lurching movements. Its many eyes had never left her.

She fled, arcing towards the cavern’s exit and the freedom of the world above. The spray of sand thrown up by the creature’s charge grew dense around her. She could hear the others shouting something, and risked a glance over her shoulder. The monster was three steps behind her, keeping pace. The tangled bodies were shifting. They separated—a mouth opened. The opening loomed behind her. Every muscle in her body pressed against the ground. Away from the creature. Towards the exit. A blow to her ankle sent her stumbling forward. A wet, claustrophobic darkness closed around her. Then crushing pain.

—

Alger helped Banros to his feet.

“It can be cut; it can be killed!” Alger encouraged. He shoved the other man’s weapon back into his hand before taking off after the monster. Banros paused, and took a long look at the path between himself and the exit. It was clear of obstacles. He could even pick up a bag of gold on the way…

But he wasn’t fast enough to make it out before the monster finished with the other two. Then it would come after him, and he’d be alone. His best chance at survival was sticking with them. Which meant fighting that thing.

“I’m going to die.” Banros muttered.

He sprinted towards the fight. The corpse creature was gaining on Jeanette. Its body was shifting, opening up.

“Look out!” he heard Alger shout.

“Keep running!” Banros called. Jeanette turned, and tangle of corpses closed around her. She was gone.

“Don’t stop.” Banros commanded. “We still can’t run. We still need to kill it!” Alger never broke stride.

But the creature took no notice of them. In fact, Banros realized, it hadn’t moved at all since the witch had tumbled into its maw. The bodies were writhing. They rose to the mound’s surface, then retreated beneath it again. The whole mass was pulsating. Alger must have noticed it as well, because he slowed to a stop a few steps outside sword range. Banros stopped next to him.

“We need to run.” Banros said, already beginning to jog towards one of the discarded sacks of gold. Alger moved to stay beside him.

“It will catch us!” Alger hissed.

“Maybe. If it starts running. But killing it was a long shot.” Banros hissed back. He handed one of the sacks to Alger, and hefted the other over his own shoulder. “We were never going to kill it. It was going to kill us. But fighting was our only chance, so I thought we should do it. Now we have a better chance.”

“What about the witch?”

“She’s dead.” Banros replied. He fiddled with the sack, trying to find the best way to hold it without slowing down.

“You don’t know.” Alger sounded morose.

“Do you think she’d stick around if it was you?” Banros asked. “Hell, she was running when we were both on the ground. She thought she could get away while the fucking thing ate us.”

Alger didn’t answer.

They reached the passage that led to the drawbridge. Banros tore off one of his sleeves and wrapped the cloth around his sword blade. He leaped, dunking the blade into one of the channels of black oil that lit the cavern. The makeshift torch was sloppy, but Banros didn’t intend to stop to make a better one. With all speed, the pair charged into the darkness.

They had covered a hundred yards when the howling chorus rose behind them again. It was coming closer. The howl was growing louder faster than any creature could move.

“Run!” Banros screamed. Alger’s chest burned as the drawbridge came into view. Maybe they could climb it–

He felt a sharp blow. He sped forward, but his feet weren’t on the ground anymore. Both men slammed into the raised drawbridge, rolled down it, and landed in a heap. Banros screamed again, this time in pain. He slapped his own face to put out the fire that was burning there. In the tumble he’d struck himself with his torch. The pitch boiled away at his skin. He screeched in panic and pain as he flailed.

The corpse creature loomed over them. Its many faces leered with toothy grins. They were trapped. Alger didn’t think. He dove forward and plunged his sword down one of the grinning throats. He didn’t even remember drawing it. It didn’t matter. He pulled it back and plunged the sword forward again. The beast surged forward. Alger was elbow-deep in its gullet. It rammed him against the drawbridge. It pressed on him, crushing his body against the wood. The sound of cracking rib echoed in Alger’s ears, and he roared in pain. If he could have collapsed to the floor he would, but the press of flesh kept him upright. He focused every survival instinct he had on pulling his sword arm back again. He hacked at the creature. He sliced down, separating one of its heads, leaving a gaping hole.

—

“One of us.” echoed a dozen voices all at once. “Blood of our Blood. Kinswoman. Nobeli.” Jeanette’s mind was fuzzy. She recognized that she was hearing words, but she had forgotten their meaning. She was being pressed flat, crushed. Her breath came in gasps. Everything hurt. She couldn’t think.

“You will merge. You will become us. Nobeli. Once of us. One of us. One of us.” The voices began to repeat the final words over and over. As they went on, they separated from each other. The chorus became a discordant argument made up of a single phrase. They bandied back and forth in different tones. The fuzziness began to lift from her mind. The crushing sensation disappeared as the press of bodies passed through her like water. She drew a deep breath of air, and as she exhaled her body flowed out with her breath. It became a shade. She drew more air into her mind. She exhaled, and some part of herself she’d never noticed before left her. Then it returned, buffeting her like the winds of a hurricane. She waded in sensations of important meaninglessness.

Then there was silence. Pounding vibrations shook her. Hatred rose in her. Hatred for the lessers. Then pain, pain and more hatred. Feelings she had no words for overwhelmed her. Her mind was too small. She had to reach out to the others. Connect to them.

And then she was back. The press of bodies was crushing her. Her breath came in gasps. But there was light! Light she could see with her eyes. It felt real. And everything that had just washed over her now felt cold, and dead. She became aware of her body again. Her arm ached, but she reached out for the light, and felt something clamp on to her hand and pull. She slid forward.

Jeanette choked on a lung full of air. Alger had her hand. His eyes were wide. He pulled, and she felt her other limbs untangling from the corpse creature. A wet sucking sensation began to pull her back, but Alger’s grip didn’t slacken. Once her other arm was free, she shoved against the creature too, inching her body free of its grip. When her hips slid free, the creature spat her onto the ground in a pool of sludge.

Alger dropped her hand, and leaped onto the offensive again. He plunged the blade deep into the gullet Jeanette had been spat from. He sliced into something fleshy before the gullet snapped closed on his arm. The corpse creature twisted. It flung Alger like a toy, slamming him into the cavern wall before spitting him out. He laid unmoving where he fell, gasping for breath. Jeanette scanned the ground for his sword, but it was gone.

A rapid clicking sounded above them, and Jeanette looked up. She saw Banros on a small catwalk, standing beside a spinning crank. With a great crash, the drawbridge fell open, exposing the path to freedom. Banros dropped from the catwalk, and landed feet-first on top of the corpse creature. Carried by the momentum of his fall, Banros’ knees bent, and he plunged his sword into the fleshy mass. Without pause, he rolled off its side and knelt beside Alger. A cascading scream bellowed from the many rotting heads.

“Can you move?” Banros asked Jeanette, even as he hefted the wounded soldier to his feet. Jeanette felt weak. Any other time she would have said she couldn’t…but she didn’t have a choice. She forced herself upright, and stumbled away with Banros and Alger beside her. The recovering corpse creature was only a few feet behind.

A sound caught in Jeanette’s ears. It was small next to the pounding of feet. The old chains were groaning, and the decaying wood was creaking. They were struggling under the weight of the corpse creature. They wouldn’t break. Not quite. Not in the two steps the creature would need to get back to solid ground. She turned.

Jeanette watched the monster’s weight come down on one of its forelimbs. She felt what she had felt before. A sensation rushing through her. A current of knowledge without meaning. And as it rushed outward she directed it. She curved herself towards one of the chains holding the bridge aloft. The chain snapped, and the bridge drooped. The creature’s foreleg reached out for solid ground, but the strain overwhelmed bridge. It collapsed. The corpse creature tumbled into the blackness below. Silent, until the faint thud which marked the end of its fall.

Jeanette stared after it in gape-mouthed astonishment over what she had done. Banros and Alger had made it halfway across the chamber before the sound of crashing bridge caught their attention. They rounded just in time to see the monster tumble into the crevice below. They shuffled back to the edge to stand beside Jeanette.

Banros broke the silence first with a forced, humorless laugh. It failed to take, and silence reigned for a minute longer before Alger said

“Are we safe?”

“Yeah.” Banros answered.

“How…” Alger began.

“It is the single luckiest event of our lives.” Banros interrupted. “Don’t question it or god might take it back.” his words hung in the air for several minutes before Alger spoke again.

“Seems a waste. All the trouble and no gold for our burdens.”

“Actually,” Banros said, grinning. “I managed to strap my bag to my back.” He turned to show the others his jerry-rigged backpack filled with gold. “It’s not what we thought we were going to get away with, but it’s not a bad haul.”

“We could always go back” Jeanette said. Her voice was ragged. “With the creature gone, we could take anything we wanted.”

“No.” said Alger. His tone was firm.

“Yeah.” Jeanette agreed. “I don’t want to go back either.”

“In fact,” Banros’ added, “I think we should leave immediately. There’s nothing in camp we need that much.” Jeanette and Alger both agreed.

Without a torch, the party had to navigate the passage to the surface by feel. Alger and Banros kept their spirits up by discussing how they’d spend their share.

Jeanette couldn’t think of anything but what the fuck it was she had done to that bridge.

The End.

Daughter of Tangled Corpses: Part 4

Discovering the drawbridge had renewed the trio’s dreams of fabulous wealth. Upon returning to camp they spent hours in excited conversation. Wild speculations of what was behind the door, and what they’d spend it on when they got it. The mysterious sound they’d all heard was conspicuously undiscussed. And, after a night of fitful sleep, they returned to the cellar, and the cavern beneath it.

Banros hefted his grapnel, standing at the ledge across from the drawbridge. He hurled it across the chasm, and it caught at the top of the drawbridge on the first throw. Alger and Jeanette shared an impressed look. Banros was apparently quite the expert. He tested the line, pulled it taut, and hammered it to the stone floor with a stake. A second rope he tied around his chest, just under his arms. He checked its security three times before handing the other end to Alger.

“If I fall, the pull will be sudden–” Banros began.

“I’m understanding.” Alger interrupted. Banros’ jaw clenched, and even in the torchlight Jeanette could see him turn red.

“If I fall to my death because your grip is too loose, the spell will kill you too!” he snarled at the soldier. Then, turning to Jeanette he added “Right?”

“It will.” she confirmed. Alger looked annoyed.

“I’m understanding.” Alger said again, with careful solemnity. He stepped forward to stand on the spike pinning the grapnel line. Banros gave the other man a curt nod, and knelt beside the rope. He wrapped his body around the rudimentary ‘bridge,’ clinging with arms and legs. He adjusted his grip a few times, then shuffled over the edge of the chasm on his back. The taut rope drooped, and the wood of the drawbridge creaked, but the rope held. Banros’ movements were slow. With crossed legs and white knuckles, he inched across the chasm.

He’d made it halfway across when Jeanette noticed his breathing quicken. It took her a moment more to notice the gradual slackening of the line he was clinging to.

“Alger! Hold fast, the–!” she shouted, before the rotten drawbridge plank gave way under the grapnel’s weight. Banros’ arms and legs lashed out for purchase, but there was none. His scream lasted only a moment before the second rope went taught. The sudden tightness around his chest knocked the wind out of him and cut his scream short. There was an ugly thud as Banros’ falling body swung into the side of the chasm.

“Pull me up-pull me up!” he sputtered. Alger and Jeanette heaved at the rope together. When Banros’ hands came in sight, Jeanette dove forward to help him the rest of the way. He rolled away from the chasm, onto his back, covering his face with both hands. The other two fell to sit on the ground beside him. All three were silent, save for their ragged breathing.

Banros held up his hands to look at them. Jeanette saw the last two fingers on his right hand were at incorrect angles.

“Gods” he wheezed.

Jeanette helped fashion a splint with torn cloth and a piece of the floor-testing stick. After a short rest, Banros was the first to stand back up.

“Torchlight’s burning. We need to try again.” he said.

Using a torch tied to the floor tester, Banros examined the drawbridge. He found the most reliable looking planks, and tossed the grapnel again. It missed, latching instead to a plank Banros’ didn’t trust. It took several more throws before Banros managed to hook a plank he trusted. With even more caution than the first time, Banros climbed out onto the rope again.

It was clear to Jeanette that the crossing was a strain. She worried he was too weak to make the transition from the hanging line to the top of the bridge. If he fell from that high, the safety line might still kill him.

He stopped moving as he reached the end of the rope, perhaps wondering the same thing. Jeanette wondered if perhaps she should shout some encouragement to get him moving. As she was trying to think of something good to shout, he lashed out with his uninjured hand. It clamped down on the edge of the bridge. His strength held as he pulled himself closer, and added his second hand to the first. He wiggled his elbows over the lip before releasing the rope with his legs. He let his body drop before pulling himself up, and swinging a leg over the edge to straddle it. It was too dark to be sure, but Jeanette could hear the grin on his face as he called down to them.

“I’m untying the safety rope, and tossing back the grapnel now, Alger. Pull them back up to your side! I’ll see about getting the bridge down so you can join me.”

“Be careful!” Alger warned, sounding nervous. The sound of Banros sliding down the other side of the drawbridge was his only reply. Then there was quiet.

“If what’s past the door kills him, do we die?” Alger asked.

“No,” Jeanette answered, starting to feel a little exasperated with maintaining this particular lie.

“Good.” Alger said

The two were saved from further smalltalk by the sound of a large crank. The bridge began to descend.

“That was fast.” Jeanette remarked, stepping back from the bridge to avoid getting caught beneath it. The chains thunked and the bridge came to a stop four inches from the edge of the precipice. Standing across it they saw Banros, surrounded on all sides by pale, gangly monsters.

Jeanette turned to run. She saw Alger already had his sword in hand, and ignored him. She set her eyes on the passage hidden in the darkness beyond. She made it a few steps before a dozen more of the creatures emerged from the darkness ahead of her. She reversed direction, tumbling to the ground, and scrambling back towards Alger.

None of the creatures moved, and Jeanette realized that they weren’t monsters at all. They were human, or at least something like it. They were pale, with wispy hair and hollow faces, but they were human. She could see them breathing, see the nervous glances they gave each other. She realized they were afraid to approach.

She also noticed that each one of them wore jewelry of gold, and gems. Any one of them was wearing enough wealth to make a Rotain noble jealous.

Beside Banros, one particularly saggy-skinned creature wheezed a command towards Alger and Jeanette.

“Do not struggle and we shall do no harm!” Jeanette’s eyes went wide. The saggy-skinned man was speaking Ancient Brimese. Alger raised his sword higher, panic in his eyes. Jeanette realized the words would sound like a spell to the soldier. She clasped a hand to Alger’s sword arm and forced him to lower it.

“Weapons down!” she called, loud enough for Banros to hear “They say they won’t hurt us.” Alger’s head turned towards her, a protest forming on his lips. She shook her head. “Keep calm. Don’t start anything.” she said. Alger sheathed his sword.

The ‘pale folk,’ as Jeanette dubbed them, pressed inwards. They were nervous. She noticed even the tallest of them was shorter than she was. Burly Alger would be a giant. She could understand their fear. The pale folk herded the three companions together. They tied their hands, and took their equipment. The torches were thrown into the chasm, leaving the party in total darkness. Pressed against one another by the shoving crowd, they stumbled through the black.

The pale folk moved without speaking. Their bare feet padded with hardly a sound, even in so many numbers. Jeanette was searching for some way to weasel away, when Banros’ spoke up.

“There is no unbreakable promise spell.” he said. Jeanette thought she detected grudging respect beneath the resignation in his voice.

“What!?” Alger gasped.

“There were too many of them. It would have been futile to try to save you. If we’d tried to fight we would have died.” Jeanette explained. “We weren’t abandoning you. We could have come back once we were able.” Banros snorted in forced amusement.

“You’re not my captive anymore. There’s no point in lying to me.” he said.

“The trick to being a good liar is commitment.” Jeanette replied.

“You bitch!” Alger shouted. His voice echoed through the caverns. Jeanette thought she heard a few of the soft footsteps around them stumble in fear. She wondered, too late, if they could have escaped just by yelling loud enough. The trio stopped speaking for a few yards before Banros’ again interrupted her thoughts.

“I just hope you have a better lie for the monsters.” he said.

A short distance further, the room grew brighter. Dim at first, but she could make out the shapes of the pale folk, tinged yellow by the light. They crowded around the captives. Jeanette thought their numbers had grown in the dark. Further into the cave complex, she saw that the light was emanating from channels on the wall. A few feet above her head. It was bright enough now for her to study her captors in detail.

A latticework of blue veins spread across the pale bodies, bulging beneath their skin. Their eyes were larger and more widely set than normal. There wasn’t a full set of teeth in the bunch. But more interesting than their commonalities, were their many differences. Every one had some deformity or blemish. She saw bulging foreheads, black rashes, noses with only a single nostril, crooked legs… There were as many deformities as there were pale folk. They may as well be monsters, Jeanette thought.

The mob entered a large chamber, and ushered the three prisoners to a stone column. Iron manacles replaced the rope bindings on the trio’s hands. Once they were secure, a ring formed around the party. Those in the rear pressed forward, while those in the front tried not to get too close.

A break in the crowd appeared, approaching the column. A decrepit pale-man emerged from the crowd. His skin sagged so much Jeanette thought it might fall off. She also noticed he wore twice as much gold as any of the others. He approached to within a few feet of Alger, studying him with his gaze. He moved between them, pausing before each of the three before moving to the next. Jeanette saw disgust in his eyes, and decided to break the silence.

“Are you the leader here?” she asked in Brimese. The old man’s eyes narrowed. With slow, deliberate movement, he turned away from Banros to examine Jeanette again.

“You speak the civilized tongue? You are no barbarian?” he asked. Jeanette had some trouble following the words—she hadn’t conversed in Brimese since childhood. It was a dead language; useful only to appear cultured or mystical.

“We are no barbarian” she replied. She hoped her broken syntax wasn’t too obvious. “We are not here to be cruel to you.”

“Why do you come here?” There was a threatening edge to the elderly pale-man’s words. Jeanette needed to say something interesting enough to keep his attention.

“I am Jeanette Malbrache Piiremus,” she began. “Descended of the Nobeli from many parents ago. I came on a pilgrimage to see the ruins of my ancestor’s homes.”

The old man moved his face close enough for Jeanette to smell his rancid, flaking skin. His eyes bore into hers. She suppressed the urge to crinkle her nose at the smell of his breath. Finally, he took several steps back. His face softened. Slightly.

“We also value the ancestors.” he said. “We descended from those who made their home above. I am Caller Eclesius. I speak for those now gathered here.”

“What’s he saying?” Banros asked.

“Quiet!” Jeanette spat at him in the common tongue. To the caller she asked, “The villa has lain abandoned for many hundreds of years. You stayed here all that time?”

“We must stay here!” he raised his voice with indignation. “The ancestors fled here to escape the barbarians, who overwhelm everything above! They command we maintain their vigil.” Eclesius paused. A strange, almost mischievous look filled his face.

“But you are of our people. You will remain here. With us. You will tell us of the world above. Perhaps with your knowledge, the ancestors will guide us to renewed prosperity!”

“Yes! I would be happy to tell you anything you want.” Jeanette replied. Eclesius then gestured to Banros and Alger.

“And who are these with you? They do not speak our tongue.”

“They are my servants.” Jeanette lied.

“Are they, then, loyal servants of Brim?”

“Yes! They are.” Jeanette put on a large smile and nodded. She hoped the others would take her lead, which they did.

“Then all three of you shall become one with us!” Eclesius cried with a celebratory raising of his arms. The crowd behind him began murmuring.

“How do we become one with you?” Jeanette asked. She tried to sound as pleased as the Caller did. The way he was phrasing things worried her.

“It is as you said. We have been one people for many hundreds of years. The ancestors will not allow us to return to the surface to seek fellowship. And you are only the third to come to us in our long history.” Eclesius explained. “No one now standing in this hall is not sibling, or cousin; parent or child to everyone else. Our bodies grow weaker with each generation. But you, and your loyal servants, shall give new life to our community!”

Jeanette began shaking her head, even as the excited throng removed the group’s manacles.

“No, um, we can’t…” Her voice was soft, and trailed off without finishing the objection.

“It is a joyous occasion, Jeanette of Malbrache” Eclesius said. The merriment in his voice didn’t mask the sternness of the command. “You and your companions will add your blood to ours and all will grow stronger for it.”

—

Jeanette lay awake long after everyone else had fallen into exhausted sleep. The pale folk seemed to trust her. At least enough that they hadn’t restrained her. Their inexperience with outsiders was to her benefit. Gingerly, she stepped over the hairless, mushy bodies that surrounded her. She’d suffered through the retch-inducing series of mutated partners with stoicism. But she didn’t intend to be around long enough to suffer through it a second time.

She gathered her personal effects and crept out into the main cavern. It was tempting to make a break for it. But she didn’t want to leave empty handed. The pale folk had separated her from Banros and Alger, but she’d need their help. She followed the lighted corridors, peeking into each of the small chambers she passed. Most housed a few sleeping pale folk. Others were empty, most likely the homes of those she’d left back in her chambers. Or those she expected to find in the chambers of her companions.

Sure enough, she soon found a chamber with two dozen sleeping women in it. Jeanette left her boots outside, and tied her skirts up around her waist. Every step had to be planned. It was a careful, tip-toeing dance. When she reached the bed she found Banros, fast asleep. There was a woman’s leg across his knees.

With the lightest touch she could manage, Jeanette shifted the woman’s leg aside. She knelt beside the bed, and placed a hand of Banros’ mouth. Jeanette paused, unsure how to wake the man without waking the woman as well. She tapped her hand against his cheek, but he only flinched and continued to doze. She rapped her knuckles hard against his forehead, careful not to shake the bed. Banros’ eyes snapped open. He glanced around in fear, then saw Jeanette, and gave her a slight nod. She released him, and together they tiptoed back out of the room.

They stalked the halls until they found Alger. Jeanette let Banros wake him while she stood watch. Reunited, Jeanette led the others to the center of three adjacent empty rooms. She’d noted it as a place they could talk without disturbing anyone nearby.

“If’n the whole lot of them are asleep, no need to talk! We run for the exit.” Alger insisted “We’d be far past camp ‘afore the soggy fucks knew we’d gone!”

“What about the gold?” Jeanette and Banros asked in unison. They looked at each other, then both turned to Alger. He looked ready to hit them.

“Hear me out.” Jeanette said. “I saw maybe a dozen rooms along this passage with between one and four pale folk each. If we work together, and work quiet, we can have a whole room dead before they make a sound. With all the gold the ‘soggy fucks’ wear, we’ll have more than we can carry!”

“It’s a solid plan, Soldier.” Banros said. “At most we’ll be here an extra three quarters of an hour.”

“Fine.” Alger conceded after a resigned silence. “Plenty time to get caught in, but we’ll do it. But I’ll kill you both before I fuck another sogg.”

The three moved first to the central cavern where they’d been prisoner. The chamber was well lit, and there were no guards. Their equipment was still laying against the wall where it had been thrown.

“These soggs are too trusting.” Banros whispered. His voice was jovial as he tied his short sword to his belt, and clasped his dirk. “Let’s go kill them and get rich.”

The process wasn’t any more difficult than Jeanette had predicted. The pitiful less-than-humans snored loudly and slept deeply. In most rooms, the three of them were enough to kill everyone simultaneously. In the rooms with too many soggs, they kept their murders quiet. Nobody ever woke up, and they were able to finish off the rest without worry.

And the riches! They filled sacks with golden rings, elaborate neck pieces, bejeweled headdresses, and fanciful brooches. Each corpse they made yielded new treasures. After a dozen rooms, all three held hefty sacks over their shoulder. They jingled and jangled with wealth as they walked. As the group crept, tinkling, from their final kill, Alger remained steadfastly silent. But Banros and Jeanette were giddy. They made ridiculous grinning faces at one another. It was hard to restrain giggles as they moved to the passage leading to the drawbridge.

Their merriment vanished as they turned the corner. An incriminating clatter echoed from their dropped booty. The three companions stared at the creature which towered between them and freedom.

Unlike before, there could be no chance this monster was human.