Fallout: Yellowstone - Session 2

The Posse set off from the Loggers' hidden camp to Yellowstone Forever, eager to spend their ill-gotten scrip. They didn't have enough to afford medicine for the entire village, but 1,000 caps of antibiotics would buy them some much needed time. Thanks to the outdoorswomanship of Freehand the Logger, the gang made quick progress through the dense treelines and steep slopes of Mary Mountain.

Fallout: Yellowstone - Session 1

This is a play report of a Fallout sandbox, written by Mellonbread.

Your prairie village in Montana has been struck by plague. A burrowing creature with a glowing belly bit a child, who fell ill a few days later. By the time the town doctor noticed the swelling in the kid’s lymph nodes, the disease had already spread among the populace. It’s easy to treat with antibiotics, but the town doesn’t have nearly enough. The caravan was due a week ago, and hasn’t shown up yet.

You were spared the ravages of the disease. You’ve been sent South into the seething cauldron of Yellowstone, to search for enough medicine to save your town. You were given a healthy supply of bits (the silver tokens used as money in Montana) and the last of the stimpaks (a rare trade good from down South, since Broc Flower and Xander Root don’t grow in the tundra).

As you travel South from Gardiner along the 89, the air smells like pollen, flowers and sulfur. The peaks and valleys are covered with snow, but everywhere else you see evidence of Spring. You heard this place was spared the worst ravages of the nuclear dust storms that swept the region after the war, but you'd never seen it for yourself.

There's a fort up ahead.

Born Without Sin (GLoG Class: Artificer)

My humble Glåugust submission. A class that is neither a fighter, a wizard, a cleric, nor a thief. 

 

Pompeo Batoni

"I shall not bore you with a catalog of her virtues and beauties; you would have to see her and hold her to judge her justly. Her bitter blade was an ell in length, straight and square-pointed as such a sword's should be. Man-edge and woman-edge could part a hair within a span of the guard, which was of thick silver with a carven head at either end."

"Her grip was onyx bound with silver bands, two spans long and terminated with an opal. Art had been lavished upon her; but it is the function of art to render attractive and significant those things that without it would not be so, and so art had nothing to give her."
Shadow of the Torturer [108]

Review: Into The Wyrd & Wild - Monsters

Archons March On is reviewing monster manuals. Someone on the GLoG server mentioned he could look at Into the Wyrd & Wild, by Charles Ferguson-Avery. That reminded me I had a half-finished review of that book in my drafts folder. There's no time like the present, so I've restarted work on it.

While I finish my test drive of the book's Wilderness Dungeon procedures, I decided to cast an eye over it's extensive list of monsters. 

I'm not the first to review this product. Skerples from Coins and Scrolls has levelled a rather scathing critique at it. Despite having playtested the book on multiple occasions (unlike Skerples) I don't really disagree with his conclusions. Into the Wyrd & Wild does lack the tight procedures and gameable random tables that are otherwise the cornerstone of the OSR.

In fact, the book is basically a cargo cult of Patrick Stuart's Veins Of The Earth. Down to the statblock design, exploration procedures, and layout of its maps. And like most mimicries, the original does things better. But I still enjoy it. It helps that I sympathise with Charles' work, given that this blog is mostly me aping other creators I like. This very post uses a format taken from somewhere else.

Anyway. With that preamble done, let's look at some monsters.

KILLING TIME - Unknown Armies Hexcrawl

CARAVAN PALACE are a cabal of camel-riding shepherds in the Australian outback, descended from the Afghan cameleers that spearheaded the exploration of the sunburnt continent. These wizards and their families run the Caravanserai, a combination sheep station, tourist trap, and ethnic enclave in the back country of South Australia, 600km north of Adelaide.

When a monster starts killing their livestock and the cops don’t lift a finger to help, the sorcerous vaqueros saddle their dromedaries, count their charges, and get ready for a bug hunt.

D20 Fantasy: Garden Of Thorns

The dying woman spoke. Fulan frowned, unable to make it out through the fluid filling her lungs. He rose, wiping his blade on a dead orc's buffcoat. To her credit, the adventurer did not cower as he approached. The warrior squatted in front of her; bare feet protected from the malpais by a quarter-inch of gnarled calluses. The outlander's eyes met his, bloodshot and hateful. She gurgled the word again, loud enough for the entire warband to hear.

"Cannibal". 

Fulan threw his head back and laughed, the cruel sound echoed by the other soldiers who spoke her foreign tongue. He moved to strike her with his cimeter, but she did not flinch. With a grin, he severed her potion bandolier; scooping up the bottled spells and beholding their contents, ignoring the string of fresh epithets and curses the owner levied at him. 

Mummia from Hogman's Plain. Mellified man from the Hot Lands. Troll's blood from the Peat Bogs. Changeling skin, Umber eyes, Naga fangs, Medusa hair, Minotaur horn. She drank the corpses of thousands, yet cried over his sacred rites. Were these not men? Did they not think, speak, love, and hate?

His eyes flicked to her defiant face, then to the barrels of carmine she'd been transporting. Payment for services rendered, for powder and shot delivered to the hated dogmen. His calloused thumb brushed against his own musket. He was sorely tempted to spark his flinted skin, to watch her face explode into vaporised meat and leave her ruined corpse to the beak things and bonehounds and ghuls. But it wouldn't be right. She had fought well, nearly punching through his ambush with fire, faith, and steel. 

So he knelt before her and began to cut.

D20 Fantasy: In The Desert

 

The priest gently held the elf's face in his gauntleted hands. Then he began to squeeze. They screamed, face turning wonderful hues of red, white, purple, and blue as their blood vessels exploded. He dug around with his thumbs until they felt wet; vitreous humor soaking the maille as cerulean eyes turned to jelly. The elf gurgled curse after curse, withering body and brain. But Iron Hand girded his flesh and Oil Lamp lit the way. He brought his palms together and their bones broke like a bird's.

...

A stench woke the priest from his dream. Acrid and sharp, it struck his throat with a dull pain he found vaguely pleasurable. He lay on a filthy stone floor, bound with rawhide. Shame flushed his wrinkled face. He'd been paralysed, or charmed, or slept, or laid low by any other myriad of low-level tricks. 

Then he saw his companions and had to choke back a laugh. The fighter snored, drooling into his beard. The thief was trussed up on a spit like a suckling pig, slathered in the eucalyptus oil that must have roused him. Best of all was the wizard, hairless and naked but still held aloft by his spell. Their captors, clearly baffled by the dwarf's persistent levitation, had anchored him to the floor with a length of rope. 

Like the bloated corpse of a stillborn babe, leashed to its mother's womb.

The priest rose, breaking his restraints in one smooth motion. The room was dark and hazy, lit only by the fire beneath the roasting halfling. He made out a vague shape at the edges of his perceptions and surged forwards. Bright red eyes turned to meet his. A flash of recognition played out across the priest's brain. The ochre soil. The shade of the acacia. The crimson orbs staring at him from the sea of grass.

He closed his eyes and the spell harmlessly washed over him. He didn't need to see to kill. The form of the beast was strange, but close enough to a man for his practiced hands. His fingers found purchase in its filthy silk tunic, then dug into greasy flesh. The monsterman brayed like a donkey, releasing hot breath that reeked of eucalyptus. He heard its friends surround him, felt them stab their blades into his back. Through the armour all it did was bruise. The priest breathed in, savouring the moment. He wrapped his hands around its fat head. He felt around with his thumbs.

Then he began to squeeze.

D20 Fantasy: Among The Noisy Heavens

A gang of outback drovers had an arrangement with a local outpost of Mi-Go vivisectionists. They'd offer up the occasional outlaw or captured autochthon for the aliens to chopshop. In exchange, the Million Favoured Ones left them and their sheep alone.

But the bugs appear to have broken the pact. The stockmen's flocks lie dead, decapitated and covered in bizarre burn marks. Strange lights buzz in the skies. Roadwardens investigated the attacks, but only one came back - sans half his skull. He rambled about stars trying to eat him. Then his brains fell out.

To Rule Is My Birthright (GLoG Race-As-Class: Elf)

Gustave Moreau

"And all the others together with them took unto themselves wives, and each chose for himself one, and they began to go in unto them and to defile themselves with them. And they taught them charms and enchantments, and the cutting of roots, and made them acquainted with plants.

And they became pregnant, and they bare great giants, whose height was three thousand ells: Who consumed all the acquisitions of men. And when men could no longer sustain them, the giants turned against them and devoured mankind."
Book of Enoch [3:7]

The New Age - Play Report Round-Up 1

I've fallen behind on my New Age play reports. Rather than try to remember precise details and give a blow-by-blow of each sessions, I'll be writing up vignettes of interesting moments. 

This is only half of what I intend to write, but considering this post has been sitting in my drafts folder for over 2 months, I thought I'd at least get something out.

Junji Ito