There are places, you have to understand, where the dimensions-I'm not talking about that parallel dimension metaphysical stuff, I mean dimensions like length and breadth and time-where they curl into themselves, and begin to fester. Where foul things evolve and spread...
The Totem of Nehual is something of a Maltese Falcon. Many have spent long periods of their life searching for it, spending vast sums of money, and in the end never finding it, or only finding it long enough to lose it.
It's always the creepy little kids
Guilt is a powerful force
The Tulu are an evil and devious race, demonstrating the canny wickedness of Faustian devils and the perverse pleasures of hentai tentacle pornography.
The door to the building is open, but inside is nothing but darkness. The lights are out: What do you do?
A few quick and techniques any GM can use to make a zombie apocalypse campaign a success without becoming to stressful or repetitive for to run over the long term:
"Living in a town that sits on a dimensional nexus can wear thin after a while. It's not so much the crawling shadows, bizarre weather, or late night visitors from places that never existed; but carrying on with your normal life and trying to act like nothing out of the ordinary is going on in your little corner of the world that gets to you."
A small rural town with surreal secrets, that happens to be situated on a dimensional crossroads, suitable for modern day supernatural/mystical/horror campaigns.
Bob and Alice are being chased by something/someone dangerous. They move into a new area, and the pursuit suddenly is nowhere to be found. What does the pursuer know that our heroes don't?
The Diary of young girl who finds herself trapped in purgatory, searching salvation and trying to make sense of that which is deliberatly insane. (A prelude to the entry found in my Chasers submission.)
Ideally the creatures described within this (ongoing) sub will be detailed in turn as their own seperate submissions eventally painting a complete picture of purgatoy.
A horror short story that was inspired by of one of my Kult rpg characters background. Disturbing content, adult language, graphic descriptions, and horrifying situations are contained within, reader discretion is advised.
From that silent place fear flows in unseen waves, like white fog. The shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. Through it's frowning walls and dark window openings there's a lantern of the spirit which none see by but those who bear it.
"Captain's log, date unknown. We have been exploring a region of dead space, wandering between the dull cinders of dying suns, looking for an explanation to what happened in this sector of space. Our charts show that this sector should be bursting with life - young stars and verdant worlds - but all we have seen is a stellar wasteland." -Log entry recovered from a derelict exploratory vessel on the fringe of the Miros Waste
"It was just after nightfall when it came; a horrible, rotten mass of bone and flesh, with a voice that was like a thousand screams braided together. I only survived because I ran - I ran and I've never stopped running, because I know it's after me. Me, and everyone else who was there when the city of Vesta was slaughtered." -Hans, Former Captain turned nomad
Silent and invisible, the only herald of the arrival of Kayrun the Disintegrator is the screams of his victims.
Most weapons of legend are made in the days of legend; Nightfall is an exception, birthed in violence and vengeance.
"Yes, there are some unusual patterns to these - her patients, but we have nothing to prove anything other than statistical anomalies."
The large blades slowly rotate, feeding on the wind, you have seen the image before. But could these be feeding on something more?
“There’s something not right, up on that hill. Something about that place makes men go mad. The de Lahsk family never should have built the mansion there. That only made it worse.”
Be wary, adventurer, of the smoke of Mal’Mennoth, that dread, choking cloud that blots out the very sun! Be wary, adventurer, of the demon’s dread shadow, of the things that prey on your mind!
While traveling trough farm land the PCs come upon a merchant sitting on a wrecked wagon without a mule attached to it, hid face burrowed in his hands. He explains that he was robbed by petty goblins, unable to defend himself he had retreated. He asks the PCs to help him retrieve the mule before the goblins roast it, as a reward they may keep his goods. How hard can it be?