His faithful will devour the world
"Drinks or info chummer, both cost. One costs cred and the other costs favors. Too much of the former will give you a killer hangover, and too much of the latter might just kill you altogether."
A bartender contact/info broker for the Shadowrun rpg setting, can be easily adapted to any cyberpunk or other high tech campaign.
It's hiding in the dark, it's teeth are razor sharp
There's no escape for me, it wants my soul, it wants my heart
No one can hear me scream, maybe it's just a dream
Maybe it's inside of me, stop this monster
Skillet ~ Monster
The failed prototype of the artificial race, the Oraki, it was Kain's misfortune to be found, and resurrected by those who bore a special hatred for his kind. Twisted now in mind and body, this monstrous man machine haunts both its kin and its former captors.
He had done it a hundred times, taken eyes. It was so easy by now, he rarely used a spoon or knife, but, with his own fingers, would pilfer those beautiful orbs from the skulls of the deceased...
For your pleasure and entertainment, here we present, thirty fiendlings seasoned with a whiff of brimstone, teasingly clad in shadow, accompanied by tunes played on pipes of angel-bone; likewise do we tell of the gifts they might bestow upon one in their favor.
So get them before Hell freezes over!
Bells tolled continually, announcing new deaths.
Anger is a great business, people will share it with you for free and if you're savvy enough, you can sell it back to them. The Rage Mages descended from Belligerus's early followers have found that modern world has just as much use for anger and magic as the ancient world.
'If you see a Rage Mage and he's swearing like an army of pirates, then he is a novice and you might be safe. If you see a Rage Mage and he is not only civil towards you, but even pleasant, then run for your life and pray to whatever gods you hold dear, for he is a master of hatred who has conquered his emotions and can turn all of his negative energies directly at you."
- Unnamed mercenary working with a Rage Mage.
Note: not a PG entry.
The Master of Starlight, Player of Games; This Quizzical Fey knows Everyone's Names.
The Crystal Scholar is a feminine Quasi-Soul with a passion for knowledge.
In the Time of Dying Stars, countless children warped by the black rain were slain after birth as monsters and hellspawn. A special one lived, to her dismay.
Some of the gods worshipped in Teleleli and surrounding lands.
Robotic Poet or Paperweight
The brave, the hateful, the good and the nasty-30 officers, for those who like to game in a military style.
Summer riots are a fact of life in the Cities of The Peninsula. So are wild city dogs. Yet, this one seems different.
Forewords to the supplement I'm working on: Teleleli. Or, The City Never Dies; It Just Smells That Way.
The Baron Trotha is responsible for most of the recent trouble in Vallermoore, and yet not even his most trusted minions have ever seen his face, as he wears crimson robes and a skull-like mask of black-painted steel. Why he is attacking the Kingdom is unknown, as he has never bothered to explain his actions. But with the kidnapping of King Montor's daughter, he may have gone too far this time...
The Voice of Time
An optional pantheon of deities for your fantasy setting.
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.