Wednesday 14 November 2018

G+ Salvage - Cyberpunk Hack and DCC Adventures

Putting up PDFs of shit I only ever done did post on G+ - in both cases click the picture and get a PDF


Dungeon Crawl Classics Adventures

Now fuck off yeah

Tuesday 6 November 2018

Castle Overlook


First up, WFRP1e is fucking great - barring the career system which needs some fixing.

This is a little patchy but whatever

Roll 1d20+number of rooms visited and just kinda riff off the contents, letting things slowly get worse. Speed it up by doubling the number-of-room count.

1-20 is normal
21-40 is eerie
41-60 is strange
61-80 is weird
81+ is CHAOS

Guest bedroom
Guest bedroom
dining hall
dining hall
servants room
servants room
servants mess
great hall
childs room
chapel to no god at all
cell, sign of recent use - bed is a mess
armoury, but all weapons subtly blunted and bent
room of mirrors
death-mask room - all of them seem in slight pain
single book detailing the current activities of Guy
single book detailing the current activities of Harvey Boatman
potraiture of the Emperor, with subtle deformities
family tree with many many connections to witches - if researched
collection of disparate diaries and logbooks and journals - victims
kitchen of rotten food
ballroom, but the orchestra pit is full of broken instruments
altar of sigmar, reversed
altar of taal, built of city goods
suit of armour in traditional style - full of rodents and insects
completely empty, bare of all ornamentation
servants quarters - but all bed clothes are under the beds, like they sleep there
torture chamber
surgery, all the tools blunt and cruel
horrendously overgrown greenhouse, signs of tending
jars of human hair line the walls
blackened crib
indoor pool, stained wine-red, surrounded by bottle of wine
collection of fabrics, patternless, and a box of blindfolds
just full of classically styled statues in mildly lewd poses
two legged dog with wheels endlessly circling the room
glass display cabinents full of murder weapons and marital aids
huge amount of drug paraphanelia and substances
mummified horse limbs
single servant in empty room, unable or unwilling to acknowledge your presence
dogs suspended on hooks, alive, silent, pleading….
iron maiden in room of overstuffed sofas and opulent cushions
BDSM torture chamber - but medieval and such
abandoned wedding reception, rotten bouqets
seemingly endless chains hang from the ceiling
bathtub with bloodstains to the brim
room entirely stripped down to the stone - signs of endless scratching
lab of glass specimen jars, all pickled foetuses and organs plucked
portraiture of the Emperor as a horrendous mutant
open casket empty, yet flowers are scattered
stuffed manticore , sign of wear on back
witchblood paintings
whale skeleton set into the walls themselves, bones scrimshaw'd
gibbet hanging from the centre of the room
ballroom full of skeletons, posed as dancers
human trophy room
human trophy room
human trophy room
human trophy room
suits of armour rent apart, posed mannekins having struck them down, bones within the armour
wicker cage, open, inviting
room of man-traps, all yawning wide, teeth aglint, stained brown from previous feasts
seemingly the front entrance - but how?
master bedroom - skin quilts, bone furniture, unknowable sensual furs
dark grimoires form an inpenetrable wall - all detail the readers death
sacrifical altar with all implements
jackson pollock but used to be human
pool of mixed in/human fluids, full of the damned cavorting
walls of screaming, pleading faces
pleasure-pit of wailing unfortunates and their whooping tormentors
the nightmare sea
a huge eye growing pseudopods, grasping for you
gullet of a warping-melting gential faced monstrosity pleading
walls are all pulsating slugflesh oozing and horrendous
figures impaled on phallic spikes writhing in ectatsy
tree has impaled them and grown into them, they feed off it's drug-sap thankful
mawed portal to the Ouside of the House
mawed portal to the Ouside of the House
mawed portal to the Ouside of the House
mawed portal to the Ouside of the House
writhing dancing pillar of meat made of loved ones, victims, eternal pleasure and agony
endlessly falling waterfall of flesh sensual and awful and utterly rotten
long chamber filled with procession of blasphemous monks - all are one, bound by endless vermicular tendrils sprouting from robe face, sleeves, tangled
people being cut down into the smallest organs and strands and rebuilt as new creatures, aware in pain moaning in ultimate pleasure divine blasphemy
room of half-people frozen in spotless ivory, all possible emotions and configurations can be found amongst the tangle of still figures
no-light area, antithesis of sight, all sensation is heightened to near inhuman levels - the ultimate hunting ground

obviously I didn't call it castle overlook in the game I'm not that much of a hack


Friday 14 September 2018

River Trolls

more monsters for envisioned Swyvers expansion or whatever - less of a thing to murder this time - maybe? whatever. Not 

RIVER TROLLS, Rotten Jenny, BilgeTroll, Bridgetroll

HD 9
Attack x1
+3 Smash 2d10 - those struck are flung 3d12 feet
-2 Flail - 360 AOE 1d10, uses both attacks
Defence 8
Armour As Decent Light (rubbery skin)
Mov as huge shambling mound
Init As long weapon
Morale 5 Bilge OR 11 Guardian
1d4 Bilge or 1d4-2 Guardian Appearing

All stand as high as two men, despite their hunched over posture, round misshapen faces low between shoulders broad, skin rubbery and foul, ranging tan-green to mossy black. All speak a broken half-tongue, yet seem not to struggle to understand men.

There are two types of River Troll - those which guard bridges, a task set by the invaders from across the sea. Then there are the Bilge Trolls, those who have abandoned their tasks, running rogue, flesh forever rotting and regrowing, despoiling rivers and wells. They will often build standing stones, marking territory and giving them a new 'bridge' of sorts - although pointing this out drives them wild.

Both varieties are delighted by drink.

1 Drowners
2 Dwarves
3 Other Trolls?
4 Mosskin

1  Bury a dog in the foundation of the bridge, and that`s how you get a bridgetroll. Remove the dog? Remove the troll!
2  Smell exactly as bad as they are.
3  Petrified of goats?
4  Filthy stinkin wellpissers
5  Cannot abide yew smoke
6  Adores the flesh of cats
7  Slumber only during full-moon
8+  Must be paid in drink

ACTIVITY - Guardian
1  Only allows passage to those carrying hard, expensive liqour, rather than the traditional [local drink]
2  Has been stealing stones to repair bridge with rather than requesting them
3  Bridge is falling into disrepair and the troll is getting slimier...
4  Local ruler thinks it very backwards to still have a bridgetroll, wants it removed.
5  Theft of local livestock
6  Destroyed something in drunken stupor/rampage
7  Has gone missing - please bring it back
8  Entirely disallowing usage of it`s bridge, has already killed someone attempting it.

1  Poisoning the water supplies in the town, 70% chance accidentally
2  Theft of livestock
3  Acting as bandits of land and water
4  Continiously threatening violence if not plied with alcohol
5  Still attempting to collect some form of toll
6  Deliberate campaign of terror, general mayhem

1  Just upriver of the settlement
2  Squatting about a tiny tributary
3  Beneath a waterfall in the wilds
4  Down an abandoned well
5  Important water resovoir
6  Moat of local fortification
7  Flooded basement
8  Local fishfarm/fishery

1  General malaise for a thankless task
2  Getting over failed troll-marriage
3  Bad mating season
4  traveller opened it`s eyes to other possibilities
5  being coerced by someone threating to destroy bridge
6  something stopping access to traditional source of material/booze etc

Saturday 25 August 2018

horrible jungle


I bought a Pomera which is a fancy japanese electronic notepad and it's cool

this is a thing from that which is barely even tidied up

would be statted for Stormbringer but I'm sick 

use your imagination

The jungle is thick and moist, home to endless poison blooms, striking flowers with barbs across the shaft, strangle-coils, winged lizards, apes of all sizes and predatory cats.

The bat riders of the Mountain hunt for rare herbs and chattel here, using the thermals of the desert to stay aloft, pig-faced goblinoids with lances and billhooks, their monkey-slaves descending on chains and scampering about, fleeing all danger unless commanded to attack by their masters, when they descend in a wild flurry of nail and tooth.


1 - site of recent deadfall
2 - stranglevine infestation, roll again, 50% on playerside, 50% other creature
3 - ruins emerge from the foliage...
1 temple 2 "castle" 3 house 4 barracks 5 mysterious 6 unrecognisable
4 - a choked river winding through the maze of fallen wood
5 - the centre of a fallen tree bridging a chasm or such
6 - clifface in a valley
7 - crawlspace underneath fallen trees
8 - near fireant nest roll again
9 - near pool of waterfall pool
0 - entagled in the undergrowth, thick with fern and creeper.

1 - Barkskin Halfmen 3d4,
  1) defending
   2) hunting
   3) curious
   4) fleeing
   6) sabotaging
2 - Half-intelligent monkeys 3d12, chattering and swinging, roll again and combine
   4)mating display
3 - Great Apes, degenerates of the civilisation of the jungle, some still bear stone weapons, artefacts of what has been lost. 25% entire tribe (3d12) else smaller group (1d8), of various purposes
   1 warparty
   2 foragers
   3 shelter-builders
   4 worshippers(ruins)
   5 "farmers"
   6 exiles
4 - Dream Tiger, and you are it`s prey. Can evoke fictions which are real to observer.Incredibly cruel, loves to toy with food, but loves itself more
defeat through vanity.
5 - batriders (1d6 (one bat each) + 3d4 monkey slaves) from the mountains, seeking SLAVES or HERBS or SCOUTING.
6 - carnivirious vegetation, prowling, using potential supplies as bait.
7 - stalked by vampiric bats, potential to carry some manner of disease, 1 large swarm
8 - huge swarms of flying lizards, all bright colours, confusing and dizzying
9 - Pirahana-equivalent infested waterway
10- Gigantic Spiders, weaving tunnel webs and watching eight times over...
11- Toad face, lower body a mess of slimy tentacles, with evil intention
12- Animate stone golem, weeping at the loss of their civilisation, brought
out of their black anger by a new purpose.

Tuesday 21 August 2018


cw - sa, child kidnap, animal abuse 


Still working on monster hunting for a hypothetical swyvers (hence swyvers stats) expansion. This is what a monster entry would look like - probably not this layout though. That's just because why not

Monday 2 July 2018



The knife-edge of cosmic horror is that single moment of realization wherein an inky black vista yawns wide before you, utterly engulfing the entire world you knew and rendering it insignificant whilst being utterly unknowable by it's very nature - not only have your illusions been shattered, you're not getting a new one - this being the cut, severing you utterly, leaving you floating, alone. And that's pretty neat.

In the abstract our insignificance is relatively easy to grasp, but the illustration, or demonstration, the rendering literal of such a fact, is the cutting moment that severs us utterly. Survivors are wounded and left detached with nothing to cling to.

The unknowablity of the outside directly correlates to it's cutting ability - the less comprehensible, systemisable, the fewer links and logical consistencies it produces, the further enhanced it's wounding capacity.

That's why we need to stop focusing on the surface level aesthetics of cosmic horror, the recognisable characters and entities and forces - we're way past that point now. These surface trappings are graspable by anyone with an internet connection and some time to kill - both their fictive biographies and their genesis in the waking world. They are stripped and bereft of their edge, blunted for easy consumption.
comparable to how punks had sharp studs and now fashion loves blunt square studs. atrophied and nonthreatening, fucking pointless. PUN UNINTENTIONAL

Stop leaning on the old names and techniques - players/readers will guess Hastur! Cthulhu! Yog-Sothoth!, a flight from the actual simmering mindless pointlessness that cosmic horror attacks you with. What's more, they'll shit themselves twice as hard when you cut the guide ropes and push them away from the shores of knowledge and into the black ocean of the unknown.

Fuck 'em, let them drown.

I love day drinking.

Friday 15 June 2018

Forgetting Bears

The mist coils endless, wrapped about trees tighter than snakes, ghost breath obscura. All sound dies in it's embrace. And so the woods are silent, animal cries localised, shrunk, extinguished. It solidifies to a wall when subjected to light, drawing into itself in defiance of sight or understanding. Bats slice effortlessly through the sea of fog, snatching small lizards midair as they leap from branch to branch. Figures cavort at the edge of comprehension, taunting.

From the mist emerge bears with bone masks, human fingers, fur russet, teeth needles and eyes bleeding*. There are always four - kill one and the rest seemingly dissipate into the fog of unknowing, leaving nothing but their slain companion. They meat causes Forgetting, a dangerous state wherein navigation through, into, and out of the Wooded Mist is possible. There is a standing bounty of £100 on a breeding pair of Forgetting Bears - their unmasked cubs would be slaughtered for meat, allowing the colonisation and harvest of the Wooded Mist to begin.

To capture a bear, a true Idiot is needed, unfettered by knowing or thought. They can grapple them by the mask, and hold them there.

HD - 7
ATTK - BITE +2 -  1D12+3 + AMNESIA OR 2x CLAW +1 1D8

*this said pleading on when handwritten but I typed bleeding so bleeding it is

Monday 21 May 2018

Parasite Architecture Quivering Stone

The designs are innumerable, hidden in the tombs of infamous architects - sealed in lead, cast to the bottom of seas now deserts - the ugly centre of star-metal deposits - the dead basins of volcanoes.

They speak of a tower.

Mind-breakingly gigantic, both in scope and physically immensity. Koan made stone.To gaze upon it, even the ruined stubs of hundreds of failed attempts, is to be rendered as nothing before sheer mass and determination.

It demands to be built, the idea of it too large to die, but also too large to force its way into being - perhaps a cousin of the spell, lurking on the edge of reality, waiting for a opening. The portal is the structure is the idea is the behemoth, craving a physical permanence complete and resplendent, the gravestone of a world.

Entire empires would collapse under the construction project - a hundred thousand slaves could perish in the foundations, a mere speck, the very beginning. Hope a mad, royal architect does not first find the plans, and then discover a previous generations work - a solid foundation to build upon.

Incremental with the fall of empires, nestled in the rhythm of collapse, it will grow and break minds and enslave relentlessly until complete.

Somewhere in your world, the foundations were always ready, if only you had eyes to see before.

Wednesday 14 February 2018


The sun shone. The greens, yellows and purples intensified, warped by the greenhouse glass. The plants inside coiled thick, although the cunning order of it was plain to him – a complex weaving of species from across the globe, flowers blooming from the wrong plant to the untrained eye. A riot of plant life, exotic species flourishing in the controlled environment. He moved amongst them, pruning and binding where needed, at peace. This finished, he set about watering, carefully controlling his distribution, ensuring all received what they required. This done, he slid open the door, closing it behind him, shutting away his precious flowers. The warmth outside was drier, more comfortable. He set about caring for to his outdoor plants, tending to them with a practiced hand. Finally finished, he turned to survey his work.

There was an intruder in paradise. He approached, no small amount of discomfort present. Crouched, he examined the outsider. A thorned, sickly-green plant in the middle of the empty bed. Dead centre. A small, tight bud resided at the top of the squat growth. He was sure he had weeded, and this was nothing he grew. Nothing he'd seen. Cruel thorns twisting together into fractals repeating into impossible spirals, too fine for his eye to follow. His frown intensified. There'd been nothing there the day before, he tended the patch daily for such weeds. He swallowed his misgivings and elected to leave it until he'd researched it - a new species could be interesting. He levered himself up, and breathed, filling his lungs with the morning air. His serenity returned as the sun washed over him, over the garden. After a few more minutes enjoying his craft, he wandered back inside to dig up his botanical guides.

The many tomes lay open around him, like fat alchemical treatises, cut-away diagrams and illustrations staring upwards. Nothing. His searches online had been fruitless. He sipped his drink, considering the ugly invader. The idea of something new, something novel was uncharacteristically appealing to him. Something unique - something for the show next year. He grinned, took up his camera, and snapped several pictures of the intriguing growth before measuring it with his ruler. The stem was leafless, only bearing those still-unnerving fractal thorns and a single, unopened bud. Perhaps an import? Most of his guides, whilst comprehensive, focused on the more popular exotics or the local flora. That could explain the lack of search results online, his normal avenues of information similarly inclined. He examined the pictures over his simple dinner, chewing without tasting.

There were more now. Four of them, creeping above ground almost reluctantly. The term 'Invasive Species' burned across his mind. He spied on them from inside the greenhouse, almost afraid to go outside. His garden was being tainted. Defiled. He shook his head, attempting to clear the mounting panic. He'd dig them up, burn them. Just like any weed. Why they worried him so much was beyond him. Mindful of the thorns, he retrieved the thick gardening gloves and trowel from their place of pride in the greenhouse. Equipped for battle, he strode out to face the invader. The trowel bit, shifting the well-tended earth away from the outermost stalk. Worry grew to confusion to dread as he kept digging, no end in sight. Two feet down, he stopped. The stem continued downwards, beyond the extent of his excavation. The bed scarred by the hole. He resolved to pull out the plant, and grabbed the stem, frustration seeing the course. Pain ripped up his arm, and he fought to swallow a scream. What remained of the inside of the glove was stained red, the rest of it still stuck to the stem, pierced a thousand times over. His hand was a mess of thorns and torn skin. He whimpered and beat a retreat from the plants, abandoning his trowel. Rivulets of blood slid down the stem, gripping the thorns as they went.

Removing the thorns was no less painful, and he fought the urge to vomit several times. Irrespective of his twistings and manoeuvres, they tore indiscriminately at the flesh upon attempted removal. Several excruciating hours were spent whimpering, thumping the desk and gritting his teeth, the time stretching far beyond its hours. Seconds crawled like crippled ants. By the time he had cleaned and bandaged the ruined hand he was exhausted, and slept. The painkillers guided sleep to him swiftly, and he dreamt of beaked rabbits with the voices of old women. They spoke Spanish fluently, and it meant nothing to him.

He awoke with the throbbing still present, although receding. His hand had bled in the night, seeping through the bandages and staining the sheets. He acknowledged this blearily, his usual morning-clarity missing. Something to deal with later. He stumbled across the house, made himself his morning coffee. Only luck saved him from grabbing the mug with his wounded hand. He sipped it clumsily with his off-hand as he moved to the greenhouse, operating on auto-pilot, planning his normal routine, forgetful of or unwilling to address yesterday. He glanced through the glass to check the sun, and was near-floored by the ruin. The garden was over-run with the plant. Those thorn instilled a new fear within him, and the sunflower sized stems were impossible. Nothing grew that quickly. They pressed eagerly against the glass, seeking an entrance. He shook. The fear blossomed into true terror. The rug was pulled from underneath him and he was left floating over a void. Dazed, he stumbled around the greenhouse, clumsily sloshing water over his beloved exotics. He over-watered the succulents. He did not see. Routine complete, he floated back across the house, and slept atop his bloodstained sheets.

The greenhouse was dark, and smelt of rot. The glass was entirely covered in endless waves of the loathsome plant. He stumbled unseeingly through the tangle of shelves and beds, throwing water over himself as much as the dead plants. The bandages were a blend of dark, crusted red and pus-yellow stains, unchanged since the injury. His face was unshaven, eyes wild. The animal stink of fear rose from him. The greenhouse was a grave, a mausoleum, a testament to organic rot. He hummed a broken tune.

A pane had broken, and the monstrous fractals hung in hideous tangles. This he did not see. He knelt before the only living thing in that dark glass cage, plant matter pressing in from every direction. A thorned, sickly-green plant in the middle of the only upright bed. The bud was large, heavy with sap, angled towards him. He stared, his face slack. The flower bloomed.

Sunday 7 January 2018

Prince of the Woods

They brood in the dappled twilight of the old forests, beyond the twisted secret warrens of thicket and undergrowth. The wolves and deer, the owls and badgers bend their knees in fealty, unbreakable til the pitted iron crown is destroyed. Insects and reptiles lend their ear, and do not take his counsel lightly, but owe no loyalty to the prince - they are apart, and have their own agendas.

Locals know Him as…
Green George
Arthur of the Oak
Goblin King
Lord of Teeth

The rumour goes…
The crown he wears is the first crown ever forged, and it put humans on top - in charge of nature, and that’s why the animals do his bidding.
The forest? Used to be a kingdom, and the edge marks the boundry. The king were reduced to a mere prince, or was it a prince robbed of being a king? Regardless, he now rules the animals and holds court with them. He’ll sleep at last once his throne is returned.
He doesn’t rule the animals, he is the animals, get me?
If it weren’t for him the forest’d die.
He’s held in thrall by a tree what seduced him - and still is, waiting for her to marry - why else is he a prince and not a king, eh?
He’s actually a witch with a glamour, and so is the court of his animals - they can’t pretend to be lizards and bugs, because they’re not warm like people or witches.
Conflict Arises…
The Prince is at war with the insects and lizards - you can hear them fightin’ in the woods.
A wolf is leading a coup, and both sides are trying to drag the humans into the conflict.
The Prince would see his domain expanded - the forest goes rapidly, cutting off the local village from (something essential, or entirely)
The Prince demands oath of fealty from domesticated animals, thinning the herd, causing a potential food crisis.
The Prince has killed the charcoal burners - not that the villagers care about them, but who’s next?
The Prince has stolen a child to take his place - but isn’t he supposed to be immortal?
Folkloric monsters and shit. Stat is however you please, you can change the ending of the story through the stats I guess. My players would probably just burn the fucking forest down. Also he could just be an Arboreal Vampire to mess with people/