Remember those cliché taverns the storyteller took you in a hurry? With the fat bartender who's just cleaning a mug as you enter? Yeah, none of those here...
drawn from/inspired by Hellfire: the Summoning mobile game
From sticks and stones to the modern faith. (May be offensive to some readers, read with caution)
Part 1 of a Shadowrun novel, I wrote a few months back, that I decided to place up here for public enjoyment, and commentary, after yet another rejection letter for dead tree publication.
This novel is Rated R for graphic violence, adult situations, and general all around Cyberpunk goodness.
GM's and players may find it useful for character concepts/backgrounds and adventure ideas, enjoy, more to follow every week.
Lounging around in the Cantina, Kolburn kept a watchful, yet unassuming eye on those around him as he finished the last morsels of what passed for a meal in this joint. Brushing off the crumbs, he glanced round, careful not to make eye contact with any of the other patrons who might later remember him as he made his way unobserved to the entrance and out into the cold of the port. He would come back and pay off his mounting tab, when he next came across a few credits, or found another odd job. After all, he wasn’t completely without his honour, unlike some people.
Falling Toward Grace: Profiling Sarah Voltaire
--by Jamie Easton, New York Times
From one of the world's most powerful and prominent Deltas to part-time barista in Greenwich Village, the life of Sarah Voltaire might seem like a fall from grace. But spending a warm afternoon with her recently, I came to know a woman who has fallen not from, but towards grace.
One day a man named Koret claimed to realize what was wrong with humanity. Shortly after that he claimed to have figured out how to fix all the world problems, and he wrote down a series of commandments aimed at saving humanity from themselves. Over 500 years after his teachings were literally set into stone people are still talking about what he wrote, and some are even trying to follow it.
After she ate the middle part of my wife’s body she gestured me out the door. Then she paddled me to the den of the Sage. All the while I stared at her rune marked back, my hand on the hilt of my sword, and I thought of my father and the hens.
''Rrrbit! Rrrbit! Great Jove has found you unworthy, human! Now prepare to die !''
Methinks we have hugely mistaken this matter of Life and Death. Methinks that what they call my shadow here on earth is my true substance. Methinks that in looking at things spiritual, we are too much like oysters observing the sun through the water, and thinking that thick water the thinnest of air. Me thinks my body is but the lees of my better being. In fact take my body who will, take it I say, it is not me.”
All you need to stop a brain is a bullet.
An introductory text to the demands of demon summoning.
The author's quips and comments on making the most of your first submission
Knowing is Half the Battle, red and blue lasers are the other half.
A short tale about a shovel, a spade, and two trowels
From the same school of thought as, "Hey GM, which book did I just randomly pull from the shelf of the wizards' library?" No plot hooks here, just flavor additions.
A tall lanky man with a distracted air, well versed in arcanotechnology, parapsychology, and a collector of molds, spores, and fungus.
"Dat woman... She was terrible to behold. Terrible but beautiful. She sat on a great throne, surrounded by her gatorfolk servants. She stood and she looked mighty angry. She look down at me an' Tergryn an' de rest, and she yell in some strange tongue - de elf-folk, I tink. She had a fury in her soul, an' I could feel her evil eye on me. Doric - hui, poor Doric! - she had 'er gatorfolk slash his belly wit' his claws and tore out his entrails. De gobbled dem up... Poor Doric..."
- Jorif Grisold, survivor
She is the high priestess of Jampiri, the outcast of the Kanaar, the guardian of the gatorfolk. Swynmoor's resident witch is powerful and knowledgeable, keeping the natural balance in the swamps.
"What do you mean the vault is empty?!"
"Just that, sir. It's empty."
"There was a half tonne of gold coins in there! Did you see a cart? Any orcs or ogres? A dragon?! It's not like it just got up and walked away!"
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.