An Armoury

Picture stolen from Matthew Adams

1 - Paddycrook

A traditional tentacled head attached to the dried and hardened penis of the jabobo. Originally a tool of the Kairnic herdsman who could use the flexible shaft to thwack wayward or aggressive animals or, if herding larger and more leathery stock — such as the muscular and often dangerously amatory jabobos themselves — can use the barbed metal head to grab, pull and lock limbs.

Cattle raiders soon discover that this tool is equally suited to taking them to task as it is the herds. The dried shaft can cut through unprotected skin and the barbed head will shred the soft flesh from anything it grabs.


2 - Absinthe Knuckle

You might be surprised that among the Absinthian plainsmen there is a huge societal stigma against killing. One might wonder, considering their notoriously warlike ways of carrying on against the city-states and each other, how this is possible. The answer is via a very generous interpretation of killing. They execute their criminals by placing them atop their high totems and waiting for them to fall off to their deaths, as they see it, by their own hand. They kill at range, by the wind's whim. They grasp their swords in the ice-pick grip of these Knuckles, creating a degree of separation from the deceased.

They are a pragmatic people, not to be stopped by generations of folk tradition.

3 - Iron Keys

An iron key for the iron gates of the Halls of the Castigator, ceremoniously held by every guard of the prison-city. They don't fit any extant lock and are instead used as symbols of office and massive flails.

The city is unchanged since before the fall of the Great City and its separation into scattered city-states divided by rubble and killing fields. The guards still guard and take prisoners, as they ever did, from the cities, secure in their ancient duty under the The Veracious Lawgiver and of their their indispensable position as neutral castigators among the roiling Empires.

Though they do have to stop the occasional prison break via siege.

4 - Fetch

Associated with the criminal class of Yongardy, who carry these openly as a sign of intent when the mood takes them.

They are a simple weapon best suited for alley ways or the narrow corridors of the manses of the rich. Simply put, they are a pair of knuckle dusters with a thin, strong, wire between them (used for garotting or general entanglement) and a spike set on one end. Typically used to ambush or grapple, they can also be utilised one handed as a wild and unpredictable flail, possibly keeping your perusers at bay.

5 - The Butterfly

Named not for its attractive shape and suprisingly pliable build, but its famed ability to "butterfly" opponents, splitting them from collarbone to pelvis, popping them open in spectacular fashion.

They were originally made by the warrior society/priesthood of Mayse, based on the apocryphal tale of early followers failing to penetrate the thick shells of the soldiers of the Snail God, buckling and bending their swords as they thrust at their twisted armour. Mayse, on seeing this failure and desperately desiring the high snail priests skull be bashed upon his temple steps, taught his followers to fully split their pliable swords and hack at them, thus shattering the shells and plunging into the rich goo beneath. Ever since then they have shunned piercing weapons as being inferior and suspiciously dastardly.

6 - Bucolicannon

All servants who attended The Raging Vizier in his troubled twilight years were required to wear one of these for their own safety. The Vizier, a world renowned and ancient sorcerer, was caught in the throes of a degenerative senility, one which would forget and then remember the spells of his youth and vomit them forth at the most unfortunate times.

So, rather than risk another 40 years of sleep, or the opening of a hellmouth, his chief page came up with the genius plan to equip every member of his staff, from the kitchens to the gentlemen of the privy chamber, with a helmet mounted blowgun full of powerful sedatives. Even with their arms turned to eels and their legs detached and arguing, they can roll on their side and safely subdue the doddering old coot.

Since his tragic demise others have seen the possible applications of them. If only the chief page, or in fact any of his household, had survived the lifehook he placed on them. Some say they're chasing him still, naked down the halls of the underworld.

A Maximalist Adventure

The entry for the top-right drawer of the Margrave's writing desk. 

A loose button
Rattling around in the back of the drawer is a large button made of horn. It has two large holes in it for attaching to garments or upholstery. It is well worn and shows signs of repetitive rubbing, as though from a thumb and forefinger. There are no obvious matches to it in the household.

Heron blood pen
An elaborate horn dip pen with an incongruously normal tip. Contrary to its name, these pens do not necessarily hold heron's blood, any ink will do. They are used for their qualities of mitigating excess plasmic backlash from ill will held by recipients of written correspondence. The truth of this is uncertain, but it is a common tool for the magically inclined, regularly despised, or excessively superstitious. This pen tip is stained red and the reservoir is quite crusty.

A bunched up handkerchief
Sloppy yet vivid colour stains this silk kerchief in deliberate swirls common of the dyers of the coast. Crushed chromatic squid. The corner is embroidered in traditional style with the words "If I cannot have you, let me die M."
    Inside the cloth is a folded envelope, inside of which is a collection of 12 painted fingernails of uniform size and texture. Painted white. When unfolded, the envelope shows regular distortions, as though it contained something thick and square at some point. It is addressed to the Margrave, using his given name and no tittle.


Pots of ink
Two black, one red, one blue, and one brown, all trapezoidal in shape. Unlabelled. One of the blacks is empty and crusted dry, inside is a shrivelled chestnut, smelling of vinegar — a hole straight through, with a length of twine passed through and knotted on one end — the other is almost empty.
   The red (used only for signing death warrants and land leases) is full. The blue is half full and the lid has not been screwed on fully — 1 in 2 chance of spilling it, covering and possibly ruining d6 items.
   The brown smells of iron and the end of a thunderstorm. Anything written with it will disappear after drying. only reappearing while read aloud. The recipients of these "invisible" letters are usually pre-informed of a "lead-line" to start the process, they then read the fuse-like progression of words aloud quickly and in private.

A false backed drawer
It is easily spotted if the drawer is removed that in between a panel and the back there is a hollow nook. Found wherein is a selection of 7 thin, square, wooden slates. On each is expertly burned an erotic scene. All the faces are of the same woman.
   The first shows a woman in recline. Its artist has definite priorities, showing exacting detail of the breasts, especially the disk-like nipples. No hair nor bump nor pustule is exempt, while the rest is outlined in only vague terms.
   The second is a view from behind, arms outstretched. The artist has captured the rolls of skin in detail and is on the whole suggestive of a seductive decay, supported from above as though hung.
   The third is from above. The woman lays on crumpled sheets with long hair covering her as though thrown about. The detail is of hair and a blank, unfocused gaze.
   The forth is of feet being caressed by hand not belonging to the owner of the feet. The feet are unblemished, the hands are cracked and rugged, bedecked with rings and long well-kept nails.
   The fifth shows a female figure in symbolic resistance to three other — male and erect— figures around her. All possess the same face: female and of calm indifference.
   The sixth shows the woman figure straddling a naked male. The male is muscular but unengaged in the scene, looking away from the illustrator, all features obscured by wild and youthful hair. The woman is in rapture, her hands in the air at peculiar angles, the fingers arrayed in very specific and carefully illustrated arrangements. Her left has her thumb and ring finger forming a loop with others splayed. On her right, he little and ring finger are crossed while the index and middle form a loop with the thumb.
   The seventh is a low view of a woman giving birth, all that can be seen past her groin is swollen breasts and belly. The head of the child is emerging face first and it is of the woman.

A letter, written and ready to be sent, but unsealed

Wyfe I have resevyd your lettar of your gyrrelles hande rehersenge your wantes

I wyll souply them all I can I have cent you abuke adosen of pegens whyche were cent me this daye & for plate I wyll sende you ij basons & ewares more & all the cylvar plate I mene trenchares if I hadd more you shuld have it

I have cent you Abyllyment Ihone Knyfton brought by gylbard pryse xxjli strengar & sandes Ryse & nusum I have cent vnto you to wete

I wold have wrytten more but my hedd Akes fare well my good wyfe

Youres
G.S

It is written in black ink in a steady hand bereft of superfluous style. There is still some remnant of the sand used to set the ink.

A woollen pouch
The pouch is rough and cheap. The texture is unpleasing and it smells soil and dogs and damp hay. Inside it are two gold coins and a brass monocular.

Two gold coins 
The coins inside are recently minted and so still possess their original shape and lustre. Both show the profile of War-Pope Benefactus with his traditional long hair, lank with the blood of apostates. His face is at ease with a knowing benevolence. The opposite sides differ. One displays the arms of the Imperator, a rampant otter in full armour, standing tall though wounded with an arrow. The other is marked as being from the House Absent, possessing a simple image of an orb hovering above waves.

A brass monocular
Well oiled and clean, it has many small scratches and dents from repeated use. It consists of three segments that can be extended or contracted for ease of transportation.

Tiny skull of St. Ruskus
There are many like it, sold at street corners by vagabonds claiming to be of the families that slew the saint, and the the lucky holder of one of his many heads. They'll tell you of the secrets this or that one knows if you put it under your tongue and swish it around like a boiled sweet. Ruskus' thousand tiny heads are popular, there's nary a household without one. The majority are varying qulities of fake,  but some are not. This is one of those. It was cut from the armpit of the roiling saint and has approximate knowledge of the names of birds and local sumptuary law. It is a human skull the size of a marble, but its appearance is that of a wax model left in the sun; painfully distorted, it's jaw is fused, it's teeth flow into its cheekbones. You can't imagine how this looked in the flesh.

Loose Nibs and reservoirs
13 copper nibs, 5 copper reservoirs, uniform in original design, that of a typical writers sort. However all are bent or splayed from misuse, stained with ink and unusable. They rattle around loose in the bottom of the drawer.

Concerning Mudmen II: Son of Mudman

A vicious, quiet competitiveness sits in the corner on top of the book case kicking its legs. When one sees what is good and beautiful it pipes up. Push it push it push it, push it 'till it breaks. To its merit it doesn't want to destroy everyone, just beat them. But saying "it could be worse" invites it. Instead one must use the newer chant: "Mouth shut, eyes forward and make the things." Intone it 'till the table vibrates with your powerful AUM.

All this is still true. The following may be true also.

The Mudmen don't call themselves Mudmen, though they do not consider it especially insulting. They are the Tan, they have their own language and culture on the fringe of civilisation.

Their culture is based entirely around hiding from Tolhoth, god of forge fires, who is intent on eliminating them to ensure his victory against all other gods, as foretold by the Oracle of Pellan and explained previously. While covered in the mud of Loch Doldrum they are invisible to him.

Tolhoth only killed most of his followers. As result he only killed most of the gods.

The grey clay they use to cover themselves is the finest clay around. The Potters Guild at the foot of Holy Mountain have made a name and fortune for themselves on the stuff. The mudmen do not like this one bit.

"The flames treat the clay and turn it hard and strong."

The mudmen know they are the only humans left. all others are ghosts, vengeful and jealous that they did not escape the flames. This, combined with the Potters's continued exploitation of them has made them exceedingly hostile to outsiders. Or ghosts, more accurately.

They were once the Tan, who lived beyond the mountains and worshipped all manner of domestic gods. Most of these gods are now dead, victimes of Tolhoth's crusade, but while the mudmen live he cannot finish the job. The mudmen fight for your religious freedom.

One of the gods they consider to have survived the purge bears a remarkable resemblance to Vorn.

The Potters know exactly who and what the mudmen are and have suppressed the knowledge so that they can continue to rob them of their clay. If the church knew they were orthodox worshippers they could possibly be afforded some protection, in as much as any human would, from the depredations of the potters. But they aren't human, they're Mudmen.

The Burrow is what the potters call the Mudmen's city. Burrow is more of an accurate term than city, as it is literally a series of warrens cut into the mountain side and decorated in air dried clay embellishments. The actual name of the city is Great Strenk.

Mudmen are only without their masks when under the mountain. If caught without a mask they will fall into a catatonic coma and consider themselves to be dead. If other mudmen witness this they will agree, they are indeed dead and treated as any other ghost: determinedly ignored at best, attacked at worst.

The potters sponsor adventurers to go into the burrow, claiming it is a dungeon full of treasure. It is indeed full of treasure, and dungeon-like. The mudmen will not stand for anyone entering, they can't let outsiders see their faces.

They leave the burrow to hunt and gather clay for their disguises, returning there at night. If a mudman gets stuck outside they will bury themselves in the muddy shore with reed breathing straws. They cant risk their hats falling off while they sleep and having Tolhoth coming back and stomping them into dust.

Disturbed mudmen, covered in thick mud, pouncing from their partial burial. This is responsible for rumours of them being actually made of mud

Some potters are concerned that the mudmen are right, and tolhoth will destroy the gods is they succeed in driving the mudmen to extinction. They are a small minority, and still mostly content to let all their money console them.

The abuse of the mudman population by the potters is occasionally opposed by other civilised folk. However the potters are rich and maintain the only standing army for leagues around. As "guides" for those extracting the clay.

Ultimately, the mudmen just want to be left alone.

Magic is...

... a physical burden. You carry them around like invisible squirming infants that you birth the night before. The more you have, the heavier your stride.
... ju-ju sticks. With years of training anyone can make them. You write the names of gods in resin and blood, then snap them with your thumb.
... parasitic. Plasmic entities sit inside you, contained and ready to be released. While inside they drain you steadily.
... religious. It's all a matter of knowing the right gods to call and hoping for the best.
... psychically degenerative. Magicians are distracted and forgetful, their minds are only so big. They must give up their memories for the spells to fit and their knowledge to stay. While empty they are listless and dull.
... addictive. Casting spells depletes your precious reserve. Much better to hold the power within yourself and watch the swirling impossibilities.
... a journey. The shaman travels in a spiritual landscape to find the cunning tricks of his trade.
... easy. Simple tricks that you could teach a child. The wizard is different only in the quantity he maintains.
... a contract. Every gain costs a small part of you, or a favour, or a thing. Monkey paw.
... love. An expression of irrational will and desire, focused. A Carebear Stare.
... alchemical. Potions and unguents, you sound like the milkman when you totter about.
... internal. There is no evil but that of the mind, no power than that which you create.
... a gamble. Sorcerous power is only limited by you willingness to put you health and sanity on the line.
... academic. Years of learning, wizened and frail.
... vital. Your body and mind are are an expression of your overpowering will. If you cannot change yourself how can you enact change on the world?
... tempting. Anyone can reach out and take it, but not many do. It is a bright fire, a tiger's tail.
... physically degenerative. Energy cannot be spontaneously created. It all comes from within you. Excellent for weight loss.
... arbitrary. It helps or hinders at its mindless whim. Those who practise it practise only risk management.
... a performance. The caster assumes the guise of others and plays a part. A god, a peasant, a king.
... communal. Seers and wise men, raised up from their community to guide it. They can see to the border stones and back.
... suggestive. You live the change you want to see. Voodoo dolls and vision boards.
... chaotic. This world of ours is a scab, easily picked. Look for patterns and then break them.
... lawful. Magic creates perfect order, beyond the entropy of this world.
... ancient science. You work what was lost, through rote and experimentation.
... blood. Cut to create.
... sacrifice. Life for life.

How to be an adventurer

Everyone is an Adventurer, if you wanted to be a wizard or specialist you should have stayed in school.

Characters:
All saving throws start at 16

Level gain works off the XP needed for a fighter
Each level you can pick either fighting, learning, or cunning

If you pick fighting you get +1 attack modifier, D8 HP and -1 Poison & Breath saves with an additional point anywhere you like (this could be used to double up poison or breath)

If you pick learning you get 2 skill points, D6 HP, and 4 points deducted from saves of your choice

If you pick cunning you get D6 HP, -2 to saves of your choice and 3 random spells from any level




Casting spells:

No more memorisation, you know all the spells you know.
To cast a spell, lose maximum HP equal to the spell's level. Maximum as in off the top, not the total. You total HP will reduce if you max HP drops below it. (this prevents just healing yourself to ignore the difficulty of magic and also allows magic users to not stop casting spell from fear of killing themselves)
If a spell would be unavailable to a magic user of your level (according to default Lamentations rules) it costs double. Example: A level 4 character casting a level 3 spell (not normally available until level 5) would lose 6 max HP when casting it
You max HP recover after 8 hours rest


Learning spells:

The only way to learn a spell is to level up. However if you have found a spell book or scroll of a particular spell then you may pick that one instead of a single random choice. This represents you having spent time learning it.
In the meantime you are still able to duplicate it and do everything except cast it off the cuff.

A coming of age story

We're gonna live like a movie
70s grain
Bad streets and hot tops
"... and we all learnt a lot that summer."

Dungeon Camping

When you make camp in the halls of the dead or the ventricles of a monumental stone war machine you must assume a certain degree of risk. By all means, set a watch, make a rotor, look very very hard into the gloom at the fire side. You may have the pleasure of seeing what bloody inconvenience you have brought upon yourself moments before your sleeping associates do.


1.

An enterprising drip has worked its way into your rations and prompted a luminous blue fungal bloom. It glows faintly and is quite pretty, but might be best not to eat them.

2.
Small creatures have made off with a random item in the night. They have replaced it with a bundle of twigs or other appropriate local detritus. An equitable exchange maybe?

3.

You wake up choking. Your mouths and eyes are filled with little puddles of brown water that dribble down your chest as you sit up in a panic. You seem fine but all your metal gear shows sudden signs of rust developing.

4.

You are woken up several times by the distant voices calling your names. Some of your friends claim it's just the wind, but you heard it. None of you count as having had any sleep, even the naysayers.

5.
Your party is awoken by an angry man waving a strip of velum in your face. It has a large seal and apparently entitles them to exclusive rights to the salvaging of this dungeon/cave/ruin/&e. "Them" being a moderately sized adventuring band.

6.

While your watch sleeps and the dreams still hover, you see one of your party enter the fire light and wipe thick juices from their mouth before quietly slipping into their blanket as though they had never left. They claim to remember nothing on waking.

7.
One of you wake up in a different and potentially dangerous location. No one saw you leave or knows where you are.

8.
Everyone wakes up fine and dandy, except for one. That one has an enormous pulsating spider sitting on their face that retreats as the others stir, slipping inside their mouth and down they gullet in a diminishing bouquet of legs. Then they wake up, good as ever.





Develop these in directions prompted by the reactions they receive.

Smashing weapons

My plucky players have entered a megadungeon in the vain hopes of escaping the mind racking adventures of the surface world (the fools!). This opens all sorts of interesting things to mess with based on extended periods spent underground, away from civilisation. Like weapon fatigue, something I've quite fancied for a while.

In real life swords are pretty delicate things, maybe surviving a couple of intense battles before needing a good seeing to. Spearheads come loose, polearms snap, knives bend, clubs splinter &c.

Every time you roll a 1 the die size of your weapon drops. So, a typical sword on rolling its first 1 will fall from d8 to d6. This goes all the way down to d3, where you are reduced to a heavy nub with which to assail the enemy, though rendering pitying looks rather than blood and bruises. Up until this unhappy point it is fixable. Lamentations' rules of "bigger weapon, bigger dice" works very nicely with this, simulating a longer period of usefulness in larger weapons that have more to fall apart. A polearm without a head is still a big stick, after all.


Similarly, by design armour takes a pounding. When a 20 is rolled against you, your armour drops by increments of 1 until it falls apart. Up until that point it can be repaired and patched quite happily.

So, repairs. It will take 10% (modified by local market trends) of the item's value to repair an increment. A sword worth 100 silver pieces that has gone from d8 to d4 would cost 20 silver to repair. While on the road a character that has suitable equipment (whetstone, nails, needle & thread, whatever makes sense) may repair one increment of damage sustained that day.




This system shouldn't be symmetrical. Enemies aren't around long enough and are too varied to make proper use of these rules. Instead, keep a tally per game of how many times you've rolled a 1 for non-players' attacks. Every 4th (5th? 3rd?) 1 rolled will result in that fellow breaking their weapon. As for players rolling 20s, a 20 is its own reward but you could potentially apply the same system: every Nth roll shatters some armour.

I suggest varying the increments each game, possibly going so far as to roll it randomly so as to keep the players from being tempted to count them.




EDIT
Shields, of course. Shields.

If you have a shield you can ignore armour fatigue, however at the end of the fight there is a 1 in 3 chance that the shield is knackered beyond use.





Entirely unrelated point:
If you don't know why a location is named the way it is then it probably shouldn't be named as such. The people living there don't need to know, but you should. In countries that have existed for more the a few generations place names are very literal and locals are usually aware of the history.

Vorn

Obviously Vorn wasn't invented by me, it was made by this guy. In fact, assume everything here is stolen in some way shape or form, I've lost track of where anything came from. This represents Vorn as my group uses him and is mostly intended as reference material for my players.

Vorn flanked by a gaggle of saints. Source

Vorn is concerned with rust, rain and the proper working of the world. "Proper", being rather a subjective term, is a source of unending debate and public altercations amongst the hoi paloi yet the Church itself is in no doubt as to the working order. They may not always be correct, but the blessings they receive from their tired God is evidence enough that they are in essence right and true to His order.

The powers Vorn bestows are inherently linked to the hierarchy of the Church. As one rises is stature one learns to subsume one's petty logic to better view His unfolding plan. An altogether purer instrument of faith. When a lay brother dons the chains and takes up his holy mission he enters an organisation of Byzantine avenues and arbitrary superiors. A Deacon may ask that you collect all the beetles to be found on the southern wall of the Windowless Tower and bring mass to the lower city, feeding said beetles to all who receive it. There will be no reason given, no reward and no results. It is to be done and is part of Vorn's plan.

Each time a priest strengthens Vorn's order at the behest of the Church there is a chance that it was indeed the correct interpretation (5%). If the task is of suitable proportions then you can expect a greater chance of correctly finding the trail of His ineffable plan (50% if it's an adventure, more if it's really big). Roll on the following table each time you get it right.


Loose all powers if you ever use magic, including scrolls or other spell making devices. Magic items can be judged on a case by case basis. 
Loose all powers if you deliberately strike anyone with anything other than a bladed weapon. Force is final.

1. No Harm But Mine. The priest's touch rusts metal. It can be used as a response to being struck, whereupon the weapon bursts into a shower of rust falling like evening snow. Once per day per wisdom modifier, save vs magic if the thing being rusted is attached to someone.
   
2. Baptise in Iron. Once per day per wisdom modifier you may baptise yourself or another, healing 1d8 damage. It need not be full immersion or fully brown, a rusty nail in a glass of water will do.
   
3. He Was Born in Battlehymn. Priests of Vorn are no strangers to violence, add your wisdom modifier to all attack rolls.
   
4. Rain, Walk With Me. You can never be hurt by any rainy weather related unpleasantness.
   
5. Tears of St. Paitr. Target cries brown rusty water. Uncontrollable guilt overpowers one touched person for one turn per level (save vs magic), during which they can't do anything but cry. If they are attacked they will defend themselves and snap out of it. Used at will.
   
6. Blood of the Martyr, Blood of Mine. You are part of the plan, your death will be too. When you die you do not lose any experience.
   
7. The Bounds of Love. Tie them up with iron chains and they won't dare lie. They must save vs. magic or answer truthfully to any questions, each correct answer deals 1d4 damage to them as the chains tighten (the truth hurts).
   
8. At the Roots of the Earth I Lay Sleeping. Once per week the priests can cast someone down and let the earth take them. If the priest can physically throw someone to the floor they must save vs. magic or they will fall into a small encystment where they shall be sustained in perpetuity. If the save is successful they are instead thrown down with great force, fracturing the earth and taking 1d8 damage per priest level.
   

Godrickson's Corruption

[As seen in slightly modified form in The Undercroft issue 1, by Alex Clements]

Vector: Touching or eating spores

Infection Save: Poison -5

Created by the alchemist-mage Franz Godrickson in order to blackmail city officials, the corruption is a horrific and incredibly deadly disease, however it is entirely asymptomatic until the body of the infected is exposed to a very specific sonic frequency. Vials of the spores are normally sold (for extremely high sums) with a tuning fork that vibrates just so. The infected character must make an Infection Save every hour, but will show no sign of ill health until they are exposed to the frequency, at which point they suffer the consequences, listed in the table below, in full. If they survive, the disease continues to progress, but the Infection Save is made without the -5 modifier.

Number of failed saves	Body parts liquefied
1	Finger prints, eye-lashes, most hair is left permanently patchy.
2	All hair and the tips of fingers and toes. Survivors suffer a permanent -1 to attack rolls and any other physical tasks. They always count as being 1 encumbrance level higher.
3	Fingers, toes, the tip of the nose and tongue. They can no longer speak well enough to cast spells and cannot hold any items. They always count as being 3 encumbrance levels higher.
4	Hands, feet, nose, lips, tongue, eyelids and male genitalia. They can no longer speak at all and count as being immobilized.
5	Limbs up to forearms/calves. Ears are sealed and eyes are useless. The character is considered blind and helpless.
6	Arms and legs entirely. Lower jaw entirely. No organs function except the heart, lungs and brain. The character will die within a few hours. If in a clean room with someone to give them water, they will survive one to two days.
7	Sploosh! All that is left of the character is their brain and nervous system, which is left utterly unaffected by the corruption, lying in a pool of stinking goo.

The Adventurer's Ready-Mule

Keeping track of mundane equipment when you're an up-and-coming hedge knight is such a chore. So, to remedy this awful bore, introducing the new Ready-Mule™!

A ready-mule can carry 20sp worth of gear per encumbrance point (as per the rules found on page 39 of the Lamentations of the Flame Princess rulebook). So a typical animal can carry 200sp worth of items before it is encumbered. The items it carries are not listed, simply mark what encumbrance points are "ready-bags". When you need something you haven't specifically listed as carrying along, buy it from the list below using the pool of ready-mule money. Ta-daa! You have that item, you are so good at packing for journeys.

Often this will not match up to the 5 items per encumbrance point rules, this represents the fact that this particular animal is carrying stuff, bits and bobs. It's a mess of obsessive buying of rainy day items. You can top up the ready-mule next time you get to a city or other area of significant trade.

This is a modified list taken from Lamentations of the Flame Princess. Italics are not encumbering, italicised bold are oversized. This is only relevant when you've taken them out of the ready-mule and are carrying them properly.

• Bedroll - 2sp
• Block & Tackle - 6sp
• Blank Book - 20sp
• Candle - 2cp
• Chain, per foot - 4sp
• Chalk - 2cp
• Clothes, Normal - 10sp
• Cooking pots - 2sp
• Crampons - 10sp
• Crowbar - 4sp
• Drill - 10sp
• Fishing Gear - 2sp
• Flask of Lamp Oil - 1sp
• Grappling Hook - 10sp
• Ink - 1sp
• Lantern - 10sp
• Lard - 2cp
• Lock - 20sp
• Mallet - 6cp
• Manacles - 30sp
• Nails - 4cp
• Paper - 4cp
• Pickaxe - 24sp
• Pole, 10' - 2sp
• Riding Gear - 50sp
• Rope, 50' - 6sp
• Scroll Case - 6sp
• Shovel - 6sp
• Soap - 2cp
• Spike, iron - 1sp
• Spike, wooden - 2cp
• Tent, personal - 20sp
• Tinderbox - 10sp
• Torch - 2cp
• Waterskin - 1sp

Differentiating weapon choices

Some more rules to make weapon choice a little bit more relevant without adding much to think about. All these are assuming use with Lamentations of the Flame Princess rules, where weapons' damage die is determined by roughly how large it is.

Percussive:

+1 to hit opponents with AC 16 or more. Otherwise, -1 to hit.

As I stated in my previous post: anti-armour weapon. Possibly anti-undead.

Sword:

Swords are versatile killing tools typically used as side arms. They can be worn conveniently and don't provoke unwanted attention. Having a spear or flail slung over your shoulder suggests violence.

Axe:

+1 damage, -1 to hit.

Axes are clumsy but inflict horrible wounds.

Polearm (spears, poleaxes, halberd etc.):

+1 to hit vs. anyone not wielding a similarly quick and long weapon. Can be mixed with other categories. For example, a poleaxe would be a percussive polearm and have +2 to hit targets with 16 AC or more.

Lose all bonuses and get -1 to hit if in a place with very little space to move (if you can't stretch your arms out in every direction without touching a wall).

Polearms have been the default killing implement for as long as anyone can remember. And with good reason, as they're fast, long and versatile. However, carrying one down the street would be regarded in the same way as walking around with an M16: that you are crazy and dangerous.

Dagger:

They have inherent bonuses because of their form and socially accepted status, inherent penalties because of their small size.

Flail:

Ignore shields, on a natural 1 you twat yourself in the head.

Not the sanest of weapons, but they get a specific job done.

Morning Letters

"That particular confusion is remedied", Garu nudged the man with his foot. "He was alive."

The corpse twitched and blood pumped from the hole in its chest as though bailed out by tiny hands. Kahn let the shard slip back to the white sand, slick with blood.

Garu was already headed up the dune, feet crunching through the glass, "I wouldn't throw yourself into the sand because of it. We have important work to pursue and he was undeniably slowing us down. In quieter times we would have cleared the shards days ago. It is fitting they be used to test his mortality."

Not sadness, not guilt, more an irritation and disappointment. He was wrong and wasteful. This man was not of the city.

You may have guessed that I have a new red pen

You'd be surprised at how many people have accused me of being disturbed after viewing my handwriting over the years. They claim it's indicative of latent psychosis, I claim it's endearingly ham fisted.

Either way, have a half baked idea I drew as a break from writing about ooglies and giant lizards.

Ormond

My tower was old but she made it look like the mortar was still setting. By the time she’d perched on the chair opposite mine I had looked up from my work and put aside my pins, she had the look of business and that business wore a guild pendant as big as a baby’s head. I could hear the coin.

“Short, aren’t you?” she said.

“I prefer to think I’m closer to the ground.”

She squinted. She was thinking. I could tell, even on this short acquaintance, that lives were weighed and measured when she thought, and usually came up light.

“But handsome,” she said. “And I bet you know it.” I didn’t commit.

“What’s your name?”

“Ormond.” I said.

“I meant your real name.” She leant in and creaked her chair like she’d been sitting in it for years and knew how best to get a performance out of it. I thought how easy it would be to mistake the sound of coin for a bag full of teeth.

“Are you still hunting?” She knew the answers but she liked the game, I’d forgotten the rules.

“Yes.” I pushed the pinned beetle I’d been working on a short inch closer to her. She didn’t look at it, just ordered one of her wrinkles into a smile. I was trapped, there was no room in my world for a coleopterist.

Fell Shufflers

The synchronised shuffle of chairs sheeesh, bok, bok… Not a note out of place it was the loudest sound in this room and bounced of its hidden ceiling to disturb a century’s restful dust. Speaker spoke the usual meetings, as was his concern, named those present and thumbed roughly at each of them, “Chancellor of the Brief; Cabinet Witch; Minister for Fashion and Agriculture…” he went on, and on, until reaching the shufflers.

“The Ambassador; Ambassador; Ambassador;..”

The point of the triangle of dark figures, fell shufflers, stood sharply and briefly from his chair, “We are singular, thank you. Address me as such.”

Speaker turned to Negotiations and Parks with the distinct look of who the fuck is this guy and a harder thumb than usual. A nod from his superior and the thumb burst into a spread palm of supplication and he sat down and opened his news sheet.

The Polite Cough was passed from seated to seated, bouncing around to a lively 3/4 ba dum dum, but their excitement at the ambassadors made them trip over and steal each others’ part to rising frustration. The hacking breath became terse and patronising and continued its quiet routing until people started to notice that the ambassador had stood up.

“I simply come to deliver this message:” his hand disappeared into the expertly tattered vestments and pulled out a knife like a shepard’s crook, with a handle of cheap plastic, and passed it back along the formation of ambassador who reached forth and neatly dismembered him. Arms, head then legs. The arterial spray made their dark clothes seem like thick night, the Officer for Incorrectness next to them cleaned his glasses as politely as possible.

After the meat fountain had settled the knife wielding ambassador hid it away once more and straddled his fallen self.

“Lord Gerard would like you to know that he is neither eccentric nor strange, but competent, rigorously argued, and carrying conviction.”

Together they turned, pivoting around the new point of the formation, and marched out the room. After a shocked silence the coughing continued.

Don't use the zed word

     He walked passed the wall every day on his way to the club. This time of year the reanimate were reflecting the sunrise in dew, their black helmets spotted like frost with track marks where the water had run down from their occasional twitching. He wondered if they got stiff, they were certainly more peaceful in the morning after a cold night. Sometimes they wouldn’t even follow you with their eyes, just look at the pavement a few metres ahead of them, maybe flexing their jaw like they were practising a speech. That was the worst. In the past few years EvaCor had started removing the vocal cords from the domestic models to stop them alarming people and make them more popular with civilian security forces. Instead they panted like dogs, an altogether more sinister sound to hear from the security alcove in your apartment tower. The guards he had passed every day were newer, fancier. Their uniforms were smart and sharp, they didn’t slouch and they didn’t pant. Instead they had black plastic pads over their faces, riveted into the bone. All they could manage through them was a slight whistle when you walked too close, no more than the sound of whistling through teeth. 
     Today there was something new at the wall. In the night the M-techs had set up what looked like lampposts with multiple heads, but where bulbs should be were pipes dangling down and splitting into smaller wires. Each attached to the mouth of one of the reanimate and they all swayed unevenly from side to side. Together they watched him like babies looking up from a teat.

On The Move

“Did you hear? Jublient is rising.”

Kevin had heard it on the lips of every walker and sop-seller trying to build a quick, profitable rapport with the village. “He’s bringing back the fun times, the gravy train will return.” Now would we like a tamlic neck bead to help complete our set? How about a bottle of claymore, guaranteed to get the native girls a-buzzing round your head like botflys? Mo always told him to steer past these oil traders and snake merchants with their split tongues and big hats, steer past and keep on walking to the well and back. Fetch the water, pop the seems and bring us back some time. Mo always used the old words, older than she had much right to use; she wasn't grey and she wasn't crooked and she didn't sit by the fire with the children because she was kept out of the smoke house. Some of the children didn’t even know that she was Kevin’s mo, she belonged to them all and gave them stories and stories. Stories about the Mountain Carnival and the fat-dark-thick winds, stories about the Uncles and what they did when they went to the lakes after the freeze. She knew stories, and she knew a hokey story when she heard one, which is what she claimed the sleeveless travellers sold us, “they can cut their sleeves until all that’s have left is a bra, but they’ll still have something up it.”

-

To sustain my blithering withering mind during a large-ish project I'll be returning to making  these tiny cries for help every day or so. It's hard when the times between being able to say "screw it, that's good enough" are long, and this has been months. My brain is falling away like wet bread under the constraints of having to return to the same stubborn piece of work, where the troubles of the day before are also the troubles of today and more than likely tomorrow.

It's so nice to abandon things again.

Tell me the old old story

tell me how you like it
tell me how you feel
tell me have you seen her
tell me on a Sunday
tell me you love me
tell me exactly how to eat
tell me why I don't like Mondays
tell me about yourself
tell me lies
tell me now where was my fault
tell us once
tell no one

Watcher

“The centaurs are coming!”

Gamon could see the water pouring down the hillside, washing away farms and farmers in its muddy surf, the survivors quickly swallowed by a black column of smoke that followed lazily after the torrent in heavy sheets. It would be a tranquil scene if it wasn't for their apprentice.

“ They've burst the aqueduct. What do we do? Fort Ernest should have stopped them. What do we do?” The boy was new, hadn't developed the stillness of a Watcher. He twisted from one man to another, pleading with his eyes, “what do we do?”

“We do what we are supposed to do. We watch, we record and we leave.”

“But the centaurs, they will carry us off and make us tend to their stable, hold our women for them to…”

“Tosh, until I see it I don’t believe it. They would be the first creature I've witnessed procreating solely with another species. Quite unsustainable. Besides, they have trouble with stairs at the best of times and the Duke has installed the most obnoxious spiral ascent I've ever put the trouble into climbing when not under the influence of mortal peril. We are quite safe up here.”

“Relatively speaking. They will burn us out eventually.” Gamon had to turn to hide the grin from the boy’s increasingly desperate whimpers, Mord always raised his spirits at the most inappropriate times. It was unfortunate that the centaur front had moved so quickly, their obligations were over and they were set to return to the priory comfortably ahead of the advance, held back by the thick headed men of the marches. Plainly, their walls and moors weren't as thick and deep as they claimed. The propaganda that had kept the southern kingdoms to their own squabbles for so long had passed by the centaurs, never known for their social awareness or acceptance of anyone’s opinion but their own. The centaurs, as a people of single bloody mind, had decided to cross the swamps and and plains to reaffirm their right to the horizon, the pack master only needed to point the way, and it was currently pointed at Marigold. A city unprepared for war, softened by amiable neighbours, its people didn't even know how to panic. Below the Watchers they gathered in groups in the muddy streets and asked each other What to do? Where was the Duke? How is your harvest coming? Has your boy sent money back from the front? The islands of awkward conversation drifted and waned as more and more soldiers ran to the walls to watch the smoke on the water.