- ...haven’t eaten in two weeks (due to food scarcity, pursuit of cosmic revelation, or some other reason). They are haggard, their huge joints knobbly. (They carry nothing).
- ...are strung out from intentionally stuffing fistfulls of ergot-tainted grain (which their bodies can handle) into their mouths. They will try stuffing fistfulls of ergot-tainted grain (which your body can’t handle) into your mouth. They are stumbling, sleep deprived, their skin mottled and striped by natural plant dyes. (One carries a rune-covered stone that a use of detect magic will reveal to be a 2nd level spell)
- ...were recently attacked by a band of monster hunters. One of them was killed. (One has the ensorcelled short sword used to kill their friend—a demonic face on the hilt, such that the flamberged blade looks like its tongue; +1 to hit, dmg 1d6+1, save vs poison or take 1d4 damage each round for three rounds as the wound puckers and boils.)
- …are taking turns hurling boulders at anything that moves, competing to be the most accurate shot. (Between them they carry 300 coins which they are using to make wagers. You can totally try and win it off of them.)
- …are in the middle of eating a raw horse. There is some evidence that there was perhaps once a rider as well. (They have a man-sized set of full chainmail, an arming sword, a kite shield with a large fist indentation marring the heraldry—either a sphynx or a mantichore volant, argent on a madder field—also d100 coins among a few other knightly accoutrements.)
- …are sleeping. Their snores shake the ground. One has a lump of mud-caked metal in the shape of a crude, slack-jawed face hanging around their neck from a leather thong. Cleaning will reveal it to be a lump of solid gold worth 500 coins, wearing it grants a +1 to Wisdom, but makes the limbs heavy, and fills the wearer with the desire to just sit and rest and watch something erode. (...One of these ogres sleeps with one eye open—1 in 3 chance every action you take that they will notice and wake up.)
Tuesday, September 24, 2019
These Ogres...
Thursday, September 12, 2019
Peake-ian Name Generator
(Roll a d200 [d20, d10] twice)
- rattle
- glass
- bell
- knotley
- wither
- whist
- riddle
- blast
- tight
- blather
- pander
- grill
- wall
- clock
- slither
- free
- brink
- lathe
- fly
- belt
- birch
- malt
- jar
- knacker
- drain
- lightly
- spindle
- thread
- dry
- kilter
- melt
- wind
- sour
- gap
- silt
- whistle
- tine
- flick
- fritter
- waist
- dust
- cap
- dry
- fig
- mule
- fire
- dull
- gripe
- slow
- peel
- fiddle
- whip
- copper
- milk
- soup
- crumb
- frill
- knocker
- wide
- winter
- door
- filcher
- rye
- monkey
- chop
- feather
- sling
- dial
- flip
- fodder
- curdle
- whelp
- crude
- flaut
- lewd
- bramble
- manner
- mink
- wink
- lustre
- kettle
- crimp
- grout
- warp
- mild
- tripe
- dimple
- trout
- fang
- limply
- callow
- snipe
- fallow
- bark
- fling
- thither
- twig
- butter
- dust
- poorly
- saddle
- gas
- gill
- nightly
- scissor
- trist
- middle
- bliss
- bait
- tether
- slander
- pill
- stall
- clog
- slather
- fray
- trinket
- limp
- flit
- stilt
- lurch
- salt
- jeer
- nickel
- brain
- lately
- spun
- bread
- droop
- bacter
- silk
- mend
- glow
- trap
- tilt
- thistle
- brine
- wick
- flatter
- mice
- bust
- gnat
- bag
- pig
- mull
- tire
- full
- grape
- slip
- meal
- freight
- linger
- stopper
- talc
- sop
- thumb
- flint
- knave
- warts
- wimper
- dare
- mulch
- stye
- wrinkle
- chafe
- fumble
- slant
- dung
- flop
- cod
- hurtle
- gulp
- mood
- strut
- lap
- thimble
- louse
- tinker
- whelk
- nacre
- whittle
- cramp
- doubt
- warble
- mold
- traipse
- mantle
- fork
- finger
- lilt
- bald
- scoop
- bellow
- lank
- flange
- yonder
- waggle
- braise
- distal
- piss
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
THE TWELVE DAUGHTERS OF MULL
Deep in the wild, on the border of the great fen known as THE SQUELCH, lies the TOWNSHIP OF MULL.
Mull has, or rather had, twelve daughters—or at least, twelve daughters of any political importance.
For a child was born of a certain hour of a certain moontide in a certain manner, the combination of which was deemed portentous, indicative of a god-given leader who would guide Mull township through present and future troubles and into prosperity. This child was given over to the Care of the Township—which is to say, given over to the care of PERE SPLAYWATER, then just a middle-aged, and not an agéd, man—and a piece of corundum, soft pink as dawn over The Squelch, was carved and polished into the shape of a WREN’S EGG to represent the child’s potential.
All of this would have been good fortune enough, but, by happy coincidence, the same thing occurred again, each year, for the next eleven consecutive years. The people of Mull, a sober and pragmatic folk, were content to know that they had been granted not one but twelve individual chances of a prosperous future—decent odds, by all accounts. And it was these odds upon which, as harvests grew poorer and winters meaner and fen beasts crueler, the folk of Mull grew more and more to rely.
But alas, not even the most decent odds always pay out, and the seventeen years that followed the birth of the twelfth daughter of Mull, young Knotley of the Raven Hair, were full of less than happy coincidences.
Sprightly Warble drowned in a well.
Timid Twigslip was savaged by a wild dog.
Scissor, she who Was Bony, succumbed to the pox.
Sallow Yonder choked on her porridge.
Bramble, she who Laughed so Freely, fell from climbing upon a scarp and was dashed.
Errant Tiresling was brained by a rock during an illicit children’s game of ‘Let’s throw rocks!’
Poor Frail Gill was badly frighted by a fen beast at night, which fright caused her heart to give out.
Sweet Dimple simply passed in her sleep, perhaps taken by a fey dream.
Moony Silt was gored by one of young Dulltinker’s goats. He was driven from town and his goat was drowned in the fen. She perished anyway.
Crimp, she who Was Direct in All Things, wasted away from grief over Silt, for they were very close.
Dryspindle, she of the Somber Expression, went for a walk in The Squelch one day, and never returned.
All of which leaves Belle Knotly, she of the Raven Hair and Stern Will, passing fair and of marriageable age—or at least close enough for the sober and pragmatic folk of Mull—as the last remaining hope.
Which is why it is so distressing that she too has gone missing, as had Pere Splaywater (now quite agéd), and that dashing young suitor with the blue velvet doublet, the day before.
All of this OLD GAMMY FLINGTHITHER of Mull knows, and will tell you at length.
Mull has, or rather had, twelve daughters—or at least, twelve daughters of any political importance.
For a child was born of a certain hour of a certain moontide in a certain manner, the combination of which was deemed portentous, indicative of a god-given leader who would guide Mull township through present and future troubles and into prosperity. This child was given over to the Care of the Township—which is to say, given over to the care of PERE SPLAYWATER, then just a middle-aged, and not an agéd, man—and a piece of corundum, soft pink as dawn over The Squelch, was carved and polished into the shape of a WREN’S EGG to represent the child’s potential.
All of this would have been good fortune enough, but, by happy coincidence, the same thing occurred again, each year, for the next eleven consecutive years. The people of Mull, a sober and pragmatic folk, were content to know that they had been granted not one but twelve individual chances of a prosperous future—decent odds, by all accounts. And it was these odds upon which, as harvests grew poorer and winters meaner and fen beasts crueler, the folk of Mull grew more and more to rely.
But alas, not even the most decent odds always pay out, and the seventeen years that followed the birth of the twelfth daughter of Mull, young Knotley of the Raven Hair, were full of less than happy coincidences.
Sprightly Warble drowned in a well.
Timid Twigslip was savaged by a wild dog.
Scissor, she who Was Bony, succumbed to the pox.
Sallow Yonder choked on her porridge.
Bramble, she who Laughed so Freely, fell from climbing upon a scarp and was dashed.
Errant Tiresling was brained by a rock during an illicit children’s game of ‘Let’s throw rocks!’
Poor Frail Gill was badly frighted by a fen beast at night, which fright caused her heart to give out.
Sweet Dimple simply passed in her sleep, perhaps taken by a fey dream.
Moony Silt was gored by one of young Dulltinker’s goats. He was driven from town and his goat was drowned in the fen. She perished anyway.
Crimp, she who Was Direct in All Things, wasted away from grief over Silt, for they were very close.
Dryspindle, she of the Somber Expression, went for a walk in The Squelch one day, and never returned.
All of which leaves Belle Knotly, she of the Raven Hair and Stern Will, passing fair and of marriageable age—or at least close enough for the sober and pragmatic folk of Mull—as the last remaining hope.
Which is why it is so distressing that she too has gone missing, as had Pere Splaywater (now quite agéd), and that dashing young suitor with the blue velvet doublet, the day before.
All of this OLD GAMMY FLINGTHITHER of Mull knows, and will tell you at length.
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