I was trying to think of a St. Patrick's Day post - something to do with leprechauns, I imagined - when the Boy blew through the room playing with his new Tokidoki rainbow pega-corn thing, an impulse buy at the game shop earlier this evening.
"Pew pew!"
"Is that your new unicorn?"
"Yeah, she's shooting rainbow lasers at you. Pew pew! Her name is Aleeza, she's a flying rainbow unicorn from space."
"Mmhmm. She's got a really disproportionate head for an equine. That head is huge, man."
"She has a big head to hold all her crazy brains."
Insane rainbow-laser unicorn? Yeah, that takes care of the St. Patrick's Day post just fine. Thanks, kid.
Happy St. Patrick's, everybody.
THE MAD UNICORN AT RAINBOW'S END
Upriver, 'beyond the bend' as they like to say, lies a secluded little wood, obscuring within a beautiful waterfall. This forest - or more properly, the region around the waterfall - is known to some as Rainbow's End. Once the gathering-place for those few leprechauns in Wampus Country, in recent months it has taken on a rather different tone, and a new purpose altogether. Where once there was merriment, dancing, and inspired levels of imbibing, now there is only paranoia and pain - for the Mad Unicorn rules Rainbow's End.
Aleeza, the mad unicorn, hails from a different realm entirely, a world composed chiefly of rainbows and laughter and happy songs. Chief amongst the sentient species of this land were the winged rainbow unicorns who frolicked upon the heather and flitted through the clouds, carefree. In time, however, this idyll was disturbed, as the elders of that race - wise beyond aeons and quite powerful - detected that realms beyond their own had been fouled by the taint of evil, and selfishness, and burnt cookies. Left unchecked, such chaos could one day penetrate into the rainbow-realm itself - and this thought, the unicorns could not abide.
The elder unicorns called together the rulers of the other intelligent species of their world - the Psychursinoids, the Fruit-Folk, and the Sphere-Folding Beasts, as well as representatives from other, lesser species, into a grand council. Each community sponsored several contestants into a grand tournament which would decide who among them was best suited to traveling to distant worlds to combat the growing chaos. In the end, Aleeza won the tournament, and was chosen to be the first hero catapulted into another world.
So Aleeza, the flying rainbow unicorn who smells like birthday cake, was hurled through a swirling portal of eldritch magic...and landed in Wampus Country. She did not like what she saw one bit, and it wasn't long before man's obvious cruelty to man drove the poor unicorn over the edge. All thoughts of the rainbow crusade crumbled within her massive magical cerebrum - the unicorn just plain snapped.
Seeking refuge from the bloodshed and greed which she could smell in the air like so much swamp-gas, Aleeza was quickly drawn to Rainbow's End, a hidden forest village populated by a troupe of leprechauns who had escaped Mab's grasp by fleeing the Summerland entirely. When she landed in their midst, the leprechauns were at first fascinated - here was a fine and unusual specimen of a unicorn, and winged to boot. Also, she smelled like birthday cake and apparently found defecation magically unnecessary. This would be a tale for the ages! But as Aleeza looked around Rainbow's End, she began to see the leprechauns in a very poor light indeed - a mess of drunken louts, greedy, mischief-loving, all back-slapping and fart jokes.
Perhaps it was then that the madness truly boiled forth inside Aleeza, and she became the Mad Unicorn in earnest. Using her substantial magical power, she quickly subdued the majority of the leprechauns, and telekinetically seized their pots of gold, hurling them into a pile at the base of the waterfall and transforming said pile into a single lumpen mass of rock. The leprechauns stood slackjawed and bruised - so long as Aleeza controlled their pots of gold (which, as you may know, contained their souls), she had them in thrall and could command them.
The Mad Unicorn quickly set about bringing her version of order to Rainbow's End. The leprechauns were forced to redecorate, raise defenses, and - horror of horrors - tear down every single brewing-still and pour out all the alcohol. You can perhaps imagine the angry veins pulsing on each leprechaun's forehead.
Now, several months later, the Mad Unicorn continues to rule Rainbow's End with an iron hoof, using the leprechauns as her near-slaves, attendants, and occasionally spies into the world of men. The leprechauns would like nothing more than to overthrow her, but while she controls their souls, they cannot speak ill of Aleeza in any way, per her command. On two occasions leprechauns have tried to 'get smart' and act out against the Mad Unicorn; on both occasions she transformed them into bunnies and crushed their skulls underhoof.
Rainbow's End has a population of twenty-seven leprechauns living in a number of small houses strewn about the forest and up in the trees. Aleeza, the Mad Unicorn, is often flying about the perimeter of the region, but can also be found holding court beside the waterfall. Aleeza has 9HD and the sorcerous abilities of a 10th-level magic-user, as well as the talent of speaking animal tongues (which she can impart temporarily to another by the touch of her horn). The Mad Unicorn can polymorph other once per day in addition to her compliment of spells. In addition, she can fire rainbow lasers (3d8 damage) from her eyes every other round; the range on this attack is considerable, and Aleeza may elect to fly above the forest canopy and rain hot orbital rainbow death upon her foes.
Adventurers may find opportunity to challenge and overthrow the Mad Unicorn on behalf of the leprechauns; if slain, the rock beneath the waterfall turns back into a pile of gold, and the PCs have likely gained new friends amongst the wee folk. The leprechauns will gladly give the adventurers a portion of gold, as well as reward each of them with a magical mug which produces, on command, a thick heady lager thrice daily. Conversely, those who approach the Mad Unicorn humbly may be able to conduct a small quest on her behalf in exchange for magical knowledge (rainbow-themed spells strongly recommended). If harvested, Aleeza's horn naturally serves as a shortsword +3 which smells like birthday cake.
Showing posts with label hamburger soup. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hamburger soup. Show all posts
Friday, March 16, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
The Mouse Bride
"Once there was a cowboy who married a mouse. And the mouse ran away so he chased her. She made a little tiny snowman. The cowboy threw things at the mouse, and she ran away some more. Then the cowboy went home and stayed on the couch forever." -The Boy
An expurgated version of "The Mouse Bride" appeared in one of those fancy magazines a few years back, but folks in Wampus Country know the whole story.
A young man had secured himself a patch of ranch-land - either purchased from someone else, or earned by deed, the story doesn't say - and had maybe twenty head of cattle and a little house he'd built himself. But he was lonely out there on the plain, and wanted a wife. Yet the first snowfall of winter had come and gone, and it was not the season to trek back west in search of a bride.
One night, over a bowl of warm potato stew, the young man was musing aloud about his marriage prospects, when he noticed a little white mouse on the floor, listening to him. He smiled and rhetorically asked of the little mouse, "I'm a good man and a hard worker. I don't suppose you'd be interested in marrying me?" We can imagine his surprise and befuddlement when the mouse spoke, and replied in the affirmative. "I shall be your bride, if you will have me," said the mouseling, "and I shall cook and clean as a wife would, and keep this house." The man thought it over for a moment, and - on a whim - agreed; perhaps he was driven by curiosity, to see this little mouse attempt to cook and clean as a human woman would.
Thus the man and the mouse began to live, in most ways, as husband and wife. While he was out handling the livestock, or digging fencepost-holes, or hunting, she was home, always busy. She kept the house spotless - for, being lower to the ground, she could see specks of dirt which the man would overlook. And she was a very fine cook indeed, preparing all manner of soups, stews, and roasted game. At night, they would sit by the fire; sometimes he would read to her from a book, and sometimes she would sing mouse-songs to him, teaching him the legends of her people.
All was well for several weeks. Then, one night, when the rancher returned home, he found his mouse-wife waiting for him at the door. "My love," she said, "I am sorry, but the jackdaw tells me my father is gravely ill. I must return home immediately, and where I go, you cannot follow." The man was cross, for he had grown selfish in his comfort these past weeks. "Who will cook for me while you are gone? Who will clean this house?" His bride apologized again and again, and swore she would return in a fortnight, but to no avail - the rancher stomped about the house, grousing and cursing. He even cursed her father's name - and that was going too far.
"I cannot abide this dishonor," said the mouse bride; "Though there has been much joy in this house, it is plain you are not the good man you claimed to be, to curse my family so and disrespect my obligations. Our marriage contract is void." And the mouse balled up her little gingham apron and threw it on the ground as she departed. The rancher fumed for several minutes before he threw open the door and pursued her, knowing that although she skittered with great speed, his legs were longer and he was a fine tracker.
The young man tracked the mouse across the ranch, through the corral, and caught up to her at the crest of a hill. "Stop." she said. The mouse informed her erstwhile husband that she had paused on the hillside to see if he was pursuing her, and showed him the small sculpture she had made in the powdery snow. "This is the god of my people; I have made this effigy that I might ask of it a simple question: am I right to leave you and return to my father's house?"
Angered, the rancher curled his lip and furrowed his brow. With a single stomp he flattened the little mouselike snowman, and his bride tumbled backwards in fright. Narrowing her gaze, she said "It would seem my patron has afforded me the answer indirectly." And with that, she scuttled off into the frozen heather. The rancher tried to give chase, even throwing rocks and sticks into the crisp undergrowth in an attempt to flush her out, but it was no use - she was gone.
Still cross, the young man trudged back home, cursing his bride, all mice, and their stupid mousey god under his breath the whole way. When he arrived back at his hand-built house, he opened the door to find a stranger in his kitchen - a huge man in a white suit and top hat, with his back turned. The rancher drew his revolver and commanded the intruder to face him - and so he did. The young man's jaw dropped as he realized the interloper in his kitchen was a gigantic white mouse, over six feet tall, dressed much like a wealthy man; the immense rodent's fur glistened with flecks of rime and snow, and it seemed that its very fur and flesh were carved from the ice - save for a pair of iridescent, unearthly pink eyes.
The creature snatched the rancher by the throat as a round from the revolver caromed off the mouse-thing's chest, not even leaving a tear in the silken waistcoat. With an effortless flick, the young man was tossed onto his own settee, his gun spinning across the wooden floor. The enormous rodent was overtop of him in an instant, preternaturally fast, and looming with an evil glint in its pupil-less eye. As the mouse-beast spoke, cold breeze issued forth from its mouth.
"I shall release you...when she forgives you." And with that condemnation, the creature spewed forth a torrent of snow and blizzard winds, blinding the rancher, who could soon feel his limbs stiffening and his extremities going numb. In moments, the willful young man was frozen - along with his sofa - in a large block of ice. The giant rodent dissolved into mist, like breath on a cold day.
The rancher, they say, is still in that block of ice today, decades later. Some folks know where he is, but they haven't attempted to free him - lest they, too, incur the wrath of the Mouse God.
-----
Notes
1) Don't mess with talking mice. They will kill your ass.
2) When considering the destruction of an image of a god, stop briefly and consider whether the god in question is small enough that He might be looking at that very idol right this second.
3) Adult mouse-women, like adult human women, are not likely to forgive you for being a total jackass once they've decided that's what you are.
4) Foolish adventurers who should happen to come upon that shack will probably immediately decide that freeing the guy from the block of ice is a brilliant idea. It is not.
5) Worshipping a giant lab-mouse in a white tuxedo and top hat is pretty freaking stylish, all things considered.
 |
| "I shall be your bride, if you will have me." |
An expurgated version of "The Mouse Bride" appeared in one of those fancy magazines a few years back, but folks in Wampus Country know the whole story.
A young man had secured himself a patch of ranch-land - either purchased from someone else, or earned by deed, the story doesn't say - and had maybe twenty head of cattle and a little house he'd built himself. But he was lonely out there on the plain, and wanted a wife. Yet the first snowfall of winter had come and gone, and it was not the season to trek back west in search of a bride.
One night, over a bowl of warm potato stew, the young man was musing aloud about his marriage prospects, when he noticed a little white mouse on the floor, listening to him. He smiled and rhetorically asked of the little mouse, "I'm a good man and a hard worker. I don't suppose you'd be interested in marrying me?" We can imagine his surprise and befuddlement when the mouse spoke, and replied in the affirmative. "I shall be your bride, if you will have me," said the mouseling, "and I shall cook and clean as a wife would, and keep this house." The man thought it over for a moment, and - on a whim - agreed; perhaps he was driven by curiosity, to see this little mouse attempt to cook and clean as a human woman would.
Thus the man and the mouse began to live, in most ways, as husband and wife. While he was out handling the livestock, or digging fencepost-holes, or hunting, she was home, always busy. She kept the house spotless - for, being lower to the ground, she could see specks of dirt which the man would overlook. And she was a very fine cook indeed, preparing all manner of soups, stews, and roasted game. At night, they would sit by the fire; sometimes he would read to her from a book, and sometimes she would sing mouse-songs to him, teaching him the legends of her people.
All was well for several weeks. Then, one night, when the rancher returned home, he found his mouse-wife waiting for him at the door. "My love," she said, "I am sorry, but the jackdaw tells me my father is gravely ill. I must return home immediately, and where I go, you cannot follow." The man was cross, for he had grown selfish in his comfort these past weeks. "Who will cook for me while you are gone? Who will clean this house?" His bride apologized again and again, and swore she would return in a fortnight, but to no avail - the rancher stomped about the house, grousing and cursing. He even cursed her father's name - and that was going too far.
"I cannot abide this dishonor," said the mouse bride; "Though there has been much joy in this house, it is plain you are not the good man you claimed to be, to curse my family so and disrespect my obligations. Our marriage contract is void." And the mouse balled up her little gingham apron and threw it on the ground as she departed. The rancher fumed for several minutes before he threw open the door and pursued her, knowing that although she skittered with great speed, his legs were longer and he was a fine tracker.
The young man tracked the mouse across the ranch, through the corral, and caught up to her at the crest of a hill. "Stop." she said. The mouse informed her erstwhile husband that she had paused on the hillside to see if he was pursuing her, and showed him the small sculpture she had made in the powdery snow. "This is the god of my people; I have made this effigy that I might ask of it a simple question: am I right to leave you and return to my father's house?"
Angered, the rancher curled his lip and furrowed his brow. With a single stomp he flattened the little mouselike snowman, and his bride tumbled backwards in fright. Narrowing her gaze, she said "It would seem my patron has afforded me the answer indirectly." And with that, she scuttled off into the frozen heather. The rancher tried to give chase, even throwing rocks and sticks into the crisp undergrowth in an attempt to flush her out, but it was no use - she was gone.
Still cross, the young man trudged back home, cursing his bride, all mice, and their stupid mousey god under his breath the whole way. When he arrived back at his hand-built house, he opened the door to find a stranger in his kitchen - a huge man in a white suit and top hat, with his back turned. The rancher drew his revolver and commanded the intruder to face him - and so he did. The young man's jaw dropped as he realized the interloper in his kitchen was a gigantic white mouse, over six feet tall, dressed much like a wealthy man; the immense rodent's fur glistened with flecks of rime and snow, and it seemed that its very fur and flesh were carved from the ice - save for a pair of iridescent, unearthly pink eyes.
The creature snatched the rancher by the throat as a round from the revolver caromed off the mouse-thing's chest, not even leaving a tear in the silken waistcoat. With an effortless flick, the young man was tossed onto his own settee, his gun spinning across the wooden floor. The enormous rodent was overtop of him in an instant, preternaturally fast, and looming with an evil glint in its pupil-less eye. As the mouse-beast spoke, cold breeze issued forth from its mouth.
"I shall release you...when she forgives you." And with that condemnation, the creature spewed forth a torrent of snow and blizzard winds, blinding the rancher, who could soon feel his limbs stiffening and his extremities going numb. In moments, the willful young man was frozen - along with his sofa - in a large block of ice. The giant rodent dissolved into mist, like breath on a cold day.
The rancher, they say, is still in that block of ice today, decades later. Some folks know where he is, but they haven't attempted to free him - lest they, too, incur the wrath of the Mouse God.
-----
Notes
1) Don't mess with talking mice. They will kill your ass.
2) When considering the destruction of an image of a god, stop briefly and consider whether the god in question is small enough that He might be looking at that very idol right this second.
3) Adult mouse-women, like adult human women, are not likely to forgive you for being a total jackass once they've decided that's what you are.
4) Foolish adventurers who should happen to come upon that shack will probably immediately decide that freeing the guy from the block of ice is a brilliant idea. It is not.
5) Worshipping a giant lab-mouse in a white tuxedo and top hat is pretty freaking stylish, all things considered.
Friday, January 27, 2012
The Limb Gypsies
This one's essentially a 'reverse' Hamburger Soup post - ie, not something The Boy said, but something which came out of my mouth in response to the boy. Weeks of Hamburger Soup sensitivity immediately turned the phrase into game-fodder.
[trying to close the car door] "Get in there, kiddo. You keep sticking your arm out there and I'll have to take off your arm and leg and sell 'em to the gypsies."
"Gypsies? What gypsies?"
"I dunno. The Limb Gypsies. Now get in the car".
 |
| "Terrible luck about those kissing-maidens, sir." said Bertram. "Never fear, we'll have you back on your feet in no time, and at a very reasonable price, too, if I may say so." |
BE WARY OF THE LIMB GYPSIES
Wampus Country has its share of wanderers, from babbling desert madmen to peripatetic traders. One wandering group, however, has managed to leave a bit of a dread legend in its wake - and that is the Limb Gypsies.
Never seen in town, the Limb Gypsies are always encountered on the road - so the tales go - and usually not long after someone has lost a limb. The mercenary Hugo the Barn-Burner came across them not forty-eight hours after losing his left foot to a bear, and it is said that the mysterious beauty Driselda Diamond procured her own prosthetic arm from these gypsies mere hours after losing her own in a trap-laden ruin.
The Limb Gypsies are oddly attired, dressing in a rather antique mode, with long coats and feathered hats, eschewing any modern sartorial sense; in all reported cases there are six or seven of them, mixed male and female - perhaps an extended family unit. They arrive on the scene on horseback, along with a brightly-painted cart strung with bells. The lead gypsy - sometimes called Bertram - has been said to ride a snow-white jackass. Bertram himself is clean-shaven, which is unusual enough in Wampus Country, and wears a linen bandage wrapped around his left palm from a purported woodcutting accident recently incurred. The other gypsies do not speak, but will lean in close and whisper wordlessly to Bertram from time to time.
Inside the cart, in addition to bedrolls, cooking utensils, and the like, are several boxes of hand-carved wooden limbs. Arms, legs, feet, and hands have all been mentioned in the tales, all tossed haphazardly in crates, but beautifully carved from exotic woods. If asked, Bertram says the wood is 'crimson mahogany from beyond the desert' and little more. The limb gypsies offer to sell a replacement limb to the recent amputee, and at a seemingly fair price given the obvious craftsmanship (only a few dollars or gold pieces each). Each limb proffered is a very nice match for the one lost in terms of length, circumference, shape of the digits, etc. The prosthetics bear no straps or rivets, but elbows, knees, ankles, and knuckles are well-articulated. Once the deal is sealed, Bertram fits the new limb to the stump of the old; and, strangely enough, the gypsies always seem to have just the right 'part' to fit the injury, whether it be a full amputation or something less.
As the new wooden limb is pressed up against the buyer's flesh, the weird wood reaches out to grip the stub, and bonds for life. Almost immediately, the wooden limb functions fairly well - in a matter of days, it is as dextrous as the limb it replaced; fingers move as directed, wooden legs allow a nice swift run or kick, and so forth. Of course, everyone assumes there is gypsy magic - or something beyond it - at work. The cost paid and the limb fitted, Bertram and his family depart, continuing on down the road. Once out of sight, they are gone - turning back down the road to catch up with the limb gypsies is to no avail.
MAGIC GYPSY LIMBS
If fitted with a limb gypsy prosthetic, the following occurs to a character:
1) Within hours, the limb is at full functionality. Dexterity, nerves, pain sensation, the whole nine yards.
2) The replacement limb reacts like flesh, but is still wooden, and the recipient should be careful around fire and the like.
3) The character's new limb may (25%) develop extra 'abilities' over the course of a few days, per the table below. If a character has two of the same limb (both arms, for example), the total chance of extra abilities jumps to 75%, but only one ability is rolled regardless. Having more than two gypsy limbs is...a bad idea.
ARM: 1-2 +1 Strength; 3-6 +1 AC if the arm bears a shield or a parrying weapon and is unencumbered by heavy armor, as the arm occasionally parries blows on its own.
HAND: 1-2 +1 Dexterity; 3-4 the hand apparently can play the piano or harpsichord, and elects to do so when the opportunity avails; 5-6 the hand writes long, rambling letters in an unknown language while the character is sleeping.
LEG: 1-3 increase land speed by five feet or so; 4-6 add 25% to jumping distance.
FOOT: In times of great stress that would stimulate the fight-or-flight response, the foot sprouts roots and attempts to (save vs paralysis) stick to the ground; the rootlets easily penetrate stockings, shoes, and boots, but are stopped by metal footwear. The roots are easily cut with a blade, but not easily yanked from the ground.
4) All treants, dryads, and the like are immediately hostile to the character.
5) After 1d4 weeks, the receiving character slides one step along the alignment spectrum toward Chaos. Another 2d4 weeks, another step toward Chaos if necessary. (If using nine alignments, continue steps first toward Chaos, then toward Evil, every 2d4 weeks.)
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Ladybugs, the Witch's Son, and the Goat-Herd
As my son was rather sugared-up this evening and rattled off quite a few stories, I present some fresh 'Hamburger Soup' tales - a potion, a weapon, and a new spell, from the mind of The Boy (as interpreted by Daddy).
The Ladybugs and the Wolf
"One day a ladybug was in the forest and she saw a hungry wolf. She tried to fly away but the wolf ate her. Two other ladybugs watched it happen and they were really angry. The ladybugs flew up the wolf's nose and made him sneeze and he couldn't smell. And he died. The End." -The Boy
Many in Wampus Country have heard the tale of the Ladybugs' Revenge, which ends with the indignant insects clogging up a wolf's nose during a harsh winter, preventing it from tracking prey and eventually starving the predator to death. But precious few are aware of the underlying magical connection. Some witches and alchemists know the secret of using the oils of a ladybug to create a potent concoction which disrupts the tracking ability of many wild mammals.
Ladybugs' Revenge (potion)
This tiny vial contains an oily, gritty liquid primarily composed of the juices of a hundred ladybugs mixed with the processed sap of a certain mountain pine. Mixing the potion takes a ridiculous amount of work, even with a specially-made ladybug-juicer, but the effects are worth the toil. Each vial contains 1d3 doses of Ladybugs' Revenge; a dose is daubed on a tree, rock, or person. When the potent oil is smelled by a pursuing canine (wolf, bloodhound, coyote, etc), the enzymes within the scent immediately scramble the dog's ability to tell direction. Any scent-trail the dog was following will be quickly forgotten, as the dog begins pursuing some olfactory phantom; in fact, if the hound had a target-scent in mind at the time of dosing, it will actually subconsciously avoid that scent and head off in a completely different direction. The effects on the bloodhound last 20-40 minutes - potent indeed - and the Ladybugs' Revenge oil does not easily evaporate, fade, or wash away in the rain and one application can linger for days, hence its value. Supernatural or unusual canines should receive some kind of save (vs poison perhaps) to avoid the affects of the oil, or may realize they have been 'scrambled' not long after being dosed. There is no guarantee that the oil will affect multiple dogs the same way, of course - a pack of bloodhounds might end up scattered in all directions after being dosed.
Zom, The Witch's Son
"There was a wizard called Zom. He used to go all around the town. But one time he shot a man. Zom ran out of town and his mother was chasing him. She was a witch. They ran into the woods and he used magic to make bubbles. The bubbles cleaned a hole in the trees and he jumped in and escaped." -The Boy
Zom was nobody's friend; he spent money like water and drank like a fish, and he was a mean, puppy-kicking son of a gun. Or rather, son of a witch - everybody in town knew Zom's momma was a hag from out in the pine barrens; nobody knew who his pappy were. Everyone knew about his mean-streak, and just about everyone had a Zom story - the time he threw horse-apples at the vicar, that kind of thing. Nothing particularly violent, just mean-spirited and anti-social. Well, one day, things went too far, and Zom pulled his pistol and shot a man dead; some say it was over a game of cards, others tell that Zom was three sheets to the wind and snapped when the bartender gave him grape soda instead of orange, something like that. They say he put a bullet right between the man's eyes without even thinking about it. Even before a crowd could gather to subdue (and probably hang) him, Zom went white as a sheet, like he realized he'd done something horribly wrong. He up and skedaddled right out of town that instant, running for the woods.
Now, what you need to understand is that being the son of a witch has a price to it. Zom was both blessed with his own kind of magic, but also cursed - had been since birth. If Zom ever killed a man in cold blood, his soul would belong to his Momma, who would come and claim it and deliver it to whatever dark twisted thing she served out there in the barrens. And now, Zom had murdered a man, over nothing. His soul was forfeit.
He tore straight out of town and into the woods, hearing his Momma's screeching always one step behind him; he could hear her yowling and whooping, hear the hoofbeats of the skeletal stag she rode - and he dare not look over his shoulder, as he knew full well if he locked eyes with that old hag he'd be turned into a man-shaped hunk of coal before he could blink. Zom started whispering secret words under his breath - magic words his Momma didn't know he knew - and he pulled a half-used bar of lye soap out of his pocket, and threw it at a tree. Well, that bar-soap smacked the tree and exploded into about a million soap-bubbles, far as the eye could see. The hag couldn't see Zom for all the dang bubbles in the air, and Zom slipped between the bubbles and the trees and disappeared, his soul intact -- well, that's what they say. I don't know if the old witch ever caught up with him, or whether Zom's halfway 'round the world by now.
Clean Getaway (magic-user spell)
Level: 3
Duration: instant
Range: 10 feet
Material Component: a piece of soap made with tallow from a magical beast of some sort, which has had certain runes carved into it
The caster hurls the piece of soap at a nearby solid object; upon striking, a 20x20 foot mass of glistening soap bubbles appears instantly, blocking vision for all creatures within the area of effect (and those outside trying to peer within that square). The bubbles linger for 2d4 rounds; less if exposed to fire or diligently popped by multiple creatures. Further, the point at which the soap struck the wall or tree opens briefly as a gateway to somewhere else - the caster (and potentially another creature, if they are aware of what is happening) may leap through the portal before it rapidly shuts the following round. Upon stepping through the bubble-gate, the caster materializes at a random location (with no guarantee of safety) which is at least five miles distant, but no more than thirty miles distant from the original location of casting. In addition, upon arrival, the caster will soon be approached by a supernatural being or spirit - he who answered the spell's call and fueled the effect - who will demand payment (in cash, quest, or whatever is appropriate). The caster is not compelled to make payment...but it is strongly recommended.
The Goat-Herd and the Glove
"There was a princess who lost her glove and a boy found it. He went to the castle to return the glove because he thought she would be in love with him. He snuck into the castle and gave her the glove, but she yelled 'I don't love you' and the guards beat him up and threw him out a window." -The Boy
Some tales - a cynic would say all tales - seem designed to reinforce social mores. One such is 'The Goat-Herd and the Glove'. A princess, out for a ride in the heathered hills, has her exquisite riding-gloves tucked under her belt or saddle, and loses a glove. Days later, the glove is found by a young goat-herd out with his flock. The goat-herd looks over the finely-made glove and begins to fantasize that the glove surely must belong to a woman of quality, a noble-born lady. He concludes after some time that if he were to return the glove, the lady would fall in love with him, and his life of goat-dung and toil would be over.
The goat-herd drives his shepherd's crook into the ground, flippantly stating that he won't be needing it once he marries a noblewoman. Abandoning his goats in the heather, the goat-herd treks over hill and dale to reach the city, where he enquires about the glove's owner, to no avail. Each night he dreams of a sumptuous wedding-feast, and the beauty of his noble-born bride. Finally he decides he must inquire at the castle, but he is turned away. The goat-herd sneaks into the kitchens and, after several near misses with the captain of the guard or a stern vizier - the details vary depending on the story-teller - he comes upon the princess in her chamber, reading a book or playing chess with a handmaiden.
With great flourish and all the eloquence he can muster, the young goat-herd presents the princess with her missing riding glove, and professes his deep and abiding love for her. But she rebukes him harshly - in some tellings she says "that is but a glove, and you are but a goat-herd" or words to that effect - and calls the guards, who thrash him within an inch of his life and toss him out a window. Broken and battered, and penniless from several days' stay in the big city, the goat-herd stumbles and crawls back home to find that his goats, unattended in his folly, have all wandered off. He has nothing to his name, and naught but his own foolishness to blame; the goat-herd dies there in the heather, right where he planted his crook in the ground. And such is the lesson: dream not above your station, lest you lose what you already have.
The Dreamer's Crook
This weathered shepherd's crook serves as a club +1 and constantly bears the faint scent of heather. If used to strike at a woman of noble birth (any humanoid species will do), the first attack which strikes true may inflict blindness on the victim (save vs spell applies).
The Ladybugs and the Wolf
"One day a ladybug was in the forest and she saw a hungry wolf. She tried to fly away but the wolf ate her. Two other ladybugs watched it happen and they were really angry. The ladybugs flew up the wolf's nose and made him sneeze and he couldn't smell. And he died. The End." -The Boy
Many in Wampus Country have heard the tale of the Ladybugs' Revenge, which ends with the indignant insects clogging up a wolf's nose during a harsh winter, preventing it from tracking prey and eventually starving the predator to death. But precious few are aware of the underlying magical connection. Some witches and alchemists know the secret of using the oils of a ladybug to create a potent concoction which disrupts the tracking ability of many wild mammals.
Ladybugs' Revenge (potion)
This tiny vial contains an oily, gritty liquid primarily composed of the juices of a hundred ladybugs mixed with the processed sap of a certain mountain pine. Mixing the potion takes a ridiculous amount of work, even with a specially-made ladybug-juicer, but the effects are worth the toil. Each vial contains 1d3 doses of Ladybugs' Revenge; a dose is daubed on a tree, rock, or person. When the potent oil is smelled by a pursuing canine (wolf, bloodhound, coyote, etc), the enzymes within the scent immediately scramble the dog's ability to tell direction. Any scent-trail the dog was following will be quickly forgotten, as the dog begins pursuing some olfactory phantom; in fact, if the hound had a target-scent in mind at the time of dosing, it will actually subconsciously avoid that scent and head off in a completely different direction. The effects on the bloodhound last 20-40 minutes - potent indeed - and the Ladybugs' Revenge oil does not easily evaporate, fade, or wash away in the rain and one application can linger for days, hence its value. Supernatural or unusual canines should receive some kind of save (vs poison perhaps) to avoid the affects of the oil, or may realize they have been 'scrambled' not long after being dosed. There is no guarantee that the oil will affect multiple dogs the same way, of course - a pack of bloodhounds might end up scattered in all directions after being dosed.
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| "Let us wreak our furious vengeance upon this mangy cur," said the first ladybug. |
Zom, The Witch's Son
"There was a wizard called Zom. He used to go all around the town. But one time he shot a man. Zom ran out of town and his mother was chasing him. She was a witch. They ran into the woods and he used magic to make bubbles. The bubbles cleaned a hole in the trees and he jumped in and escaped." -The Boy
Zom was nobody's friend; he spent money like water and drank like a fish, and he was a mean, puppy-kicking son of a gun. Or rather, son of a witch - everybody in town knew Zom's momma was a hag from out in the pine barrens; nobody knew who his pappy were. Everyone knew about his mean-streak, and just about everyone had a Zom story - the time he threw horse-apples at the vicar, that kind of thing. Nothing particularly violent, just mean-spirited and anti-social. Well, one day, things went too far, and Zom pulled his pistol and shot a man dead; some say it was over a game of cards, others tell that Zom was three sheets to the wind and snapped when the bartender gave him grape soda instead of orange, something like that. They say he put a bullet right between the man's eyes without even thinking about it. Even before a crowd could gather to subdue (and probably hang) him, Zom went white as a sheet, like he realized he'd done something horribly wrong. He up and skedaddled right out of town that instant, running for the woods.
Now, what you need to understand is that being the son of a witch has a price to it. Zom was both blessed with his own kind of magic, but also cursed - had been since birth. If Zom ever killed a man in cold blood, his soul would belong to his Momma, who would come and claim it and deliver it to whatever dark twisted thing she served out there in the barrens. And now, Zom had murdered a man, over nothing. His soul was forfeit.
He tore straight out of town and into the woods, hearing his Momma's screeching always one step behind him; he could hear her yowling and whooping, hear the hoofbeats of the skeletal stag she rode - and he dare not look over his shoulder, as he knew full well if he locked eyes with that old hag he'd be turned into a man-shaped hunk of coal before he could blink. Zom started whispering secret words under his breath - magic words his Momma didn't know he knew - and he pulled a half-used bar of lye soap out of his pocket, and threw it at a tree. Well, that bar-soap smacked the tree and exploded into about a million soap-bubbles, far as the eye could see. The hag couldn't see Zom for all the dang bubbles in the air, and Zom slipped between the bubbles and the trees and disappeared, his soul intact -- well, that's what they say. I don't know if the old witch ever caught up with him, or whether Zom's halfway 'round the world by now.
Clean Getaway (magic-user spell)
Level: 3
Duration: instant
Range: 10 feet
Material Component: a piece of soap made with tallow from a magical beast of some sort, which has had certain runes carved into it
The caster hurls the piece of soap at a nearby solid object; upon striking, a 20x20 foot mass of glistening soap bubbles appears instantly, blocking vision for all creatures within the area of effect (and those outside trying to peer within that square). The bubbles linger for 2d4 rounds; less if exposed to fire or diligently popped by multiple creatures. Further, the point at which the soap struck the wall or tree opens briefly as a gateway to somewhere else - the caster (and potentially another creature, if they are aware of what is happening) may leap through the portal before it rapidly shuts the following round. Upon stepping through the bubble-gate, the caster materializes at a random location (with no guarantee of safety) which is at least five miles distant, but no more than thirty miles distant from the original location of casting. In addition, upon arrival, the caster will soon be approached by a supernatural being or spirit - he who answered the spell's call and fueled the effect - who will demand payment (in cash, quest, or whatever is appropriate). The caster is not compelled to make payment...but it is strongly recommended.
The Goat-Herd and the Glove
"There was a princess who lost her glove and a boy found it. He went to the castle to return the glove because he thought she would be in love with him. He snuck into the castle and gave her the glove, but she yelled 'I don't love you' and the guards beat him up and threw him out a window." -The Boy
Some tales - a cynic would say all tales - seem designed to reinforce social mores. One such is 'The Goat-Herd and the Glove'. A princess, out for a ride in the heathered hills, has her exquisite riding-gloves tucked under her belt or saddle, and loses a glove. Days later, the glove is found by a young goat-herd out with his flock. The goat-herd looks over the finely-made glove and begins to fantasize that the glove surely must belong to a woman of quality, a noble-born lady. He concludes after some time that if he were to return the glove, the lady would fall in love with him, and his life of goat-dung and toil would be over.
The goat-herd drives his shepherd's crook into the ground, flippantly stating that he won't be needing it once he marries a noblewoman. Abandoning his goats in the heather, the goat-herd treks over hill and dale to reach the city, where he enquires about the glove's owner, to no avail. Each night he dreams of a sumptuous wedding-feast, and the beauty of his noble-born bride. Finally he decides he must inquire at the castle, but he is turned away. The goat-herd sneaks into the kitchens and, after several near misses with the captain of the guard or a stern vizier - the details vary depending on the story-teller - he comes upon the princess in her chamber, reading a book or playing chess with a handmaiden.
With great flourish and all the eloquence he can muster, the young goat-herd presents the princess with her missing riding glove, and professes his deep and abiding love for her. But she rebukes him harshly - in some tellings she says "that is but a glove, and you are but a goat-herd" or words to that effect - and calls the guards, who thrash him within an inch of his life and toss him out a window. Broken and battered, and penniless from several days' stay in the big city, the goat-herd stumbles and crawls back home to find that his goats, unattended in his folly, have all wandered off. He has nothing to his name, and naught but his own foolishness to blame; the goat-herd dies there in the heather, right where he planted his crook in the ground. And such is the lesson: dream not above your station, lest you lose what you already have.
The Dreamer's Crook
This weathered shepherd's crook serves as a club +1 and constantly bears the faint scent of heather. If used to strike at a woman of noble birth (any humanoid species will do), the first attack which strikes true may inflict blindness on the victim (save vs spell applies).
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The Finding-Chicken of Sullah-Saloo
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| There is little more terrifying than a giant chicken. |
“You have a chicken on your head so all your hair falls out. The chicken is green and brown and magic. He helps you find things that are lost.” --The Boy
This metal-and-leather helm is constructed in the shape of a nesting hen. Once placed upon the head, it cannot be removed short of death or a remove curse spell or similar. The helm itself is made of a copper alloy (much of which is tarnished green), bronze, and a chocolate-colored stiffened leather which forms the chicken’s wings. The beady little eyes are small opals. The underside of the chicken is lined with pink silk, and the silly thing is obviously a hat. Wearing the strange helm has the following effects:
1) The Finding-Chicken serves admirably as a functional helm; it adds +1 to all the wearer’s saving throws (much like a ring of protection) once it is attuned to the wearer (see below).
2) Within 24 hours, the helm creates a complete depilatory effect; all of the wearer’s hair (head and body) falls out or disappears. Any hair regrown, naturally or magically, whilst wearing the finding-chicken will similarly disappear quickly.
3) For the first 12+d12 hours wearing the Finding-Chicken, the helm will animate at random intervals, clucking rather loudly and and waving its wings. The beak moves stiffly along with the clucking, like an automaton. This is the Finding-Chicken attuning itself to the wearer’s psychic pattern; subtle half-formed desires in the mind of the wearer trigger the Chicken’s squawking.
4) Once the Finding-Chicken is attuned to the wearer, it will begin finding things more predictably. When the wearer expresses or feels a strong desire for something, the Chicken will lead him to it as best it can, with a series of clucks of varying pitch and frequency to indicate distance (and possibly amount if appropriate). The Chicken will grant this boon up to once per day, and at first the wearer may not understand what is happening, especially since the Finding-Chicken can only cluck for about 10 minutes a day. Treat as Locate Object and/or any appropriate spell or spell-like effect dealing with finding things (Detect Gems, Detect Undead, Detect Dragons, etc). At the DM’s discretion, this may be a very vague and powerful storybook effect, allowing the Finding-Chicken to locate odd things like “my one true love”, “the person who needs us most right now”, “a virtuous prince”, “the best path”, etc. Some experimentation may be necessary before the wearer (or his companions) understand the nature of the Finding-Chicken. The clucking is a hot/cold beacon, not language - no spell or ability allows actual communication with the Finding-Chicken.
5) If the Finding-Chicken is worn for more than two weeks, it will begin to attempt to guide its partner (the wearer) off into the wilderness - withholding its Locate Object ability if necessary, or co-opting it (perhaps by leading to a more distant, yet still applicable, target; the cache of gold seven miles away rather than the one in the basement). At this point the Finding-Chicken is attempting to lead its friend to the lost valley of Sullah-Saloo - its point of origin.
THE VALLEY OF SULLAH-SALOO
Unfortunately, a guide is not enough to get a party to Sullah-Saloo - the way is dangerous, the terrain unstable, and the countryside swarming with voracious beasts. If, however, the Finding-Chicken makes its way back to the Half-A-City within Sullah-Saloo - so named because the city exists half in our world, and half in another, stranger world with pink skies and twin suns - then the residents of Half-A-City, themselves enormous green chickens (and wizards to boot), will likely be able to liberate the soul of their long-missing princess from the helm and should heap considerable reward on the party. However, the Finding-Chicken has been trying to get home for over a century, and it may not complete its quest any time soon; which is unfortunate for the residents of Sullah-Saloo, as the lost princess possesses important intelligence regarding the hens’ ongoing war with a race of extradimensional teleporting weasels. Average residents of Sullah-Saloo are giant (horse-sized or a little larger) chickens with the spellcasting powers of a 1st-3rd level magic-user; the Matriarch is a 9th-level wizard. The majority of the chickens have small reddish-brown spider-monkeys as familiars, although white-furred, blue-bottomed baboons are in fashion this year as well.; invariably the chickens summon familiars with opposable thumbs. A short visit to Half-A-City is the perfect opportunity for a magic-user to develop some real style by learning a few rare egg-themed spells.
RANDOM EVENTS WHILE STAYING IN HALF-A-CITY, SULLAH-SALOO
1 - A brash young giant rooster feigns insult and challenges a member of the party to a duel.
2 - An adolescent chicken comes of age nearby, automatically casting find familiar and ensorcelling a party henchman as their new familiar.
3 - Giant blink weasels (2d4) teleport in on an egg raid.
4 - A beleaguered helper-monkey carrying sacks of shed feathers takes a tumble - feathers go everywhere and visibility is reduced to zero momentarily.
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