The Feytroll – Now with Video!

Heya folks. Jonathan asked me if I would be willing to do a character portrait of Felix Sundown. Intrigued by the concept of the feytroll, I jumped at the chance.

Here on the left is the initial sketchwork stage. I emailed this to Jonathan and asked if he had any suggestions/critiques he could offer at this point.

I like this stage in the process. It’s ‘fast and dirty’, but it feels like real progress very quickly. Later in the process, things move a bit more slowly and I sometimes get bored too quickly. At this point, I’m able to make massive changes to the image without feeling like I wasted time with previous versions.

Jonathan’s suggestions all seemed to point to making our little friend a bit more… repugnant, so I moved in that direction fairly quickly.

And here we have a more refined version in greyscale.

Hairy little bugger, with those bulging eyes (though he tries to hide them a bit with his glasses and hat) and I think that I managed to make his wings a bit more realistic. And those jowels… yeesh.

Anyone else think he looks like a certain singer who really liked his peanut butter and banana sandwiches?

Anywhoozle -- I’ve included a quick video to show you the process better than I could describe. As always -- I welcome your feedback! Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

Loaerth & Feywyrd’s Feytroll And Other Possibilities

Edited by Cassey Toi

As I alluded to in the opening post about Loaerth & Feywyrd (Interview with Felix Sundown, Part 1), there’s much more than just “MAN” walking around in the world. Or, at least, there used to be. What I haven’t decided on yet though is exactly what the other races will be. Stock fantasy races, even if you mash-up the cultures a bit (elves underground! dwarves living in trees! oh my!) has been done well enough. Now, this isn’t to say that “been there done that” is something to avoid though, obviously it works. Players get a lot of options; they are familiar with the stock fantasy line up (dare I say Tolkien-esque line up?); and they know the sticking points of each race from the start. This means there’s less overall pre-game work that needs to be done to get a good handle on what’s available.

On the other hand, L&F is a blank slate that I’m hoping to develop collaboratively with the community (meaning you – the reader). So, instead of just dropping all 35 (!) races from the D&D cosmos into L&F, the better approach is perhaps to come up with some themes first, choose which races work, which don’t and what new races we might want to see. We have to work backwards, flesh out the back-story of L&F a bit more, and develop what races are present in the game at the start. But even before we do that – we know already that there’s one race that is new.

Feytrolls – Concepts and Backgrounds

Felix Sundown is a feytroll, but I don’t explain much as to what exactly that means when I introduced him. Obviously, we need to explore the concept behind feytrolls a bit more.

In appearance, Feytrolls are somewhat like faeries with a strong dose of house fly thrown in. They are small, plump humanoids standing about 2 to 3 feet in height, but often weigh in at over 50 lbs. or thereabouts. Their rotund faces feature a pair of prominent, bulging compound eyes that are glazed over like stained glass windows. Humans frequently feel uncomfortable in the presence of a feytroll because there’s no telling what they are looking at. In fact, they are quite capable of looking at many things at once.

In addition to their eyes, the other striking feature of a feytroll is the fly like wings that adorn their backs. While functional and flight worthy, these can not, however, carry them more than a dozen yards or so before they need to sit down to take a rest. They are usually too fat to go much further than that. More often than not, they prefer to simply walk at a leisurely pace to “take it all in” as they say.

As a race, they are generally cunning, quick to react, persistent in the face of opportunities, and patient while waiting for them. They see beauty in the grotesque, and much to their disgust and frustration often find value in the trash of others. Humans, who are often apt to throw away things that are broken or seemingly useless, could learn a thing or two from them.

They are not a violent race, which is perhaps one of the reasons why before the Helfay they were frequently enslaved by humans and the other races who could tolerate them. With their keen senses, and quick reflexes, Feytrolls often made excellent servants to kings and wealthy merchants on the lookout for assassins or tricksters looking to fool them. Feytrolls are not easily fooled by anyone. They see the world as it is, and are quite skilled at adapting to and surviving the worst of it.

Before the Helfay, feytrolls in the more civilized areas of the world integrated in to society as best they could. Many spent their lives as servants or serfs trying to buy their own freedom. Those that did, usually became merchants who traded in rare books and antiquities. They never did well as merchants who traded in foodstuffs or other perishables, except perhaps for the Sugar Cartels (who were rumored to have all been led by a brotherhood of rapacious feytrolls). A few feytrolls became great scholars in their time. Their powers of observation served them well as academicians, and even better as practitioners of magic and sorcery.

The Short Story of Felix Sundown

Felix Sundown, a feytroll, is an academic and sorcerer. He is the son of a petty bookseller who managed to buy his family’s freedom at an early age. Felix never knew slavery as a child, and he was better for it. To him, nothing was impossible to achieve. He entered Aram Court as a young adult, and stayed there for years of scholarly training. Eventually Felix received the title of Steward, which permitted him to openly study the Old Ways (a complex set of rituals and spells that are kept secret from Provincial Wizards). In only a few years he managed to master Aram Court’s most secret rituals, so he left to seek out training from the Archivist Eurig Talfrun in Loaerth City. Eurig agreed to take him on as a student, but only if Felix agreed to bond himself as a thrall to Eurig. Felix agreed, and remained his silent servant for centuries as a result.

Other Races in Laaerth & Feywyrd

As I mentioned above, these haven’t really been nailed down. This may be because I need to rough out the history of the world first, or at the very least come up with some general themes to help decide the issue. So far in L&F we have a couple of themes already: the humans that remained in Loaerth are a society of low-tech steampunk with a heavy dose of manifest destiny and witch burning; the rest of the races who vanished in the Helfay are back, but have vastly sharpened their knowledge of the arcane in the centuries that have past (likely due to isolation or surviving the harsh world of Feywyrd… hasn’t been worked out yet). What else works with this?

Stock fantasy races I think would rub the existing themes the wrong way. Maybe I’m wrong (leave a comment and let me know!), but if we were to include elves, dwarves, gnomes, dragonborn (blech…) and the like – it just wouldn’t work. We would need to pick and choose. I’m currently thinking that elves and dwarves might work with the least amount of tweaking. The other races? Not so sure. Tieflings and Dragonborn? No way, just doesn’t resonant at all with the setting. Gnomes? Perhaps. Haflings? Maybe, but i feel like the feytrolls fill that niche for the most part.

BEARS

Yes, the last thing that keeps crossing my mind is that perhaps what might make the setting interesting is to introduce some more “naturalistic” races. Talking Bears keep coming to mind. Maybe its because I recently saw The Golden Compass, or that my son (who is learning to read) keeps reading Father Bear because he can. But then again…  I mean.. who wouldn’t want to play an armored steampunk talking bear?

EVIL GENIUS RACES

What sort of evil genius race works well in a fantasy steam punk mashup? Illithids – nope, that’s WotC “product identity”. Chtulu? Sure, but – HP Lovecraft just scares me. I’m thinking of (typically) non-playable humanoid races – in D&D these are often referred to as “monster races”. Once again, I keep thinking of a more naturalistic angle. The juxtaposition of naturalistic races against the brass and steam of the Loaerthians (the humans that stayed after the Helfay) is just something that keeps me interested. Perhaps something completely new? Or a derivative of something that is already out there? A race of porcupine-like gnolls who live in the Highlands of  Korgugo? Xenophobic chameleon-like yuan-ti isolated for centuries on The Island? Do you have any suggestions? We’d love to hear them.

In any case, this is all open for discussion and fairly fluid. If you’re a fan of Nevermet Press – or a content developer – throw in your input and leave a comment! This entire post is intended to drive discussion and get people thinking. Everyone’s input, no matter how small, can be a spark…

Interview with Felix Sundown (Part 1)

I am not really sure why I have agreed to do this interview. Perhaps I’m worried that, once I do eventually die, there will not otherwise be anyone else to tell my story. Or, perhaps its because, given the recent discovery of the Feywyrd, I am now finally able to speak about things that I’ve been forced to be quiet about for over four hundred years. Whatever the reason, consider yourself fortunate to be the one to hear it first, before things get twisted by history’s lens. There is so much to tell though, I guess I might as well get started at the beginning. You asked me to introduce myself? Fair enough.

My name is Felix Sundown. In a children’s book, I might be called a gnome or perhaps a troll, but these terms are in truth derogatory names that have replaced the proper name for my kind: Fey. I have lived for more than six hundred years, with the last four centuries confined within the walls of Loaerth, the city of my captor and once teacher, The Archivist. Recently, I finally managed to escape the cursed bonds that have kept me silent for so long. How? I can only guess, but I suspect that it is because someone else discovered the fate of the Feywyrd, and thus unwittingly released me from my bonds. Allow me to explain…

When I first arrived in Loaerth the world was a place full of colorful and fantastical creatures of all sorts. Mythic demihumans, fey beasts and strange magic were commonplace. It was a world of abundance and diversity, where imagination was the only limit on possibility. I was a student of this magic, a Steward of Aram Court in fact. I had come to Loaerth to further my training under the tutelage of the Archivist Eurig Talfrun. He accepted me as his last student and bonded me into service. The bond was one from the Old Ways, a curse really. At the time I felt it was worth the sacrifice: a little of my freedom to be the sole pupil of one of the most influential archivists in all the realms. Little did I know of Talfrun’s ambitions, and it took decades before I eventually regarded my bond to him as a curse.

You may have heard a story of something the Helfay that happened an eon ago. It is often used as the reason humankind can lay claim to all the world and why Loaerth can expand the boundaries of its empire unopposed. But the Helfay is not a myth – it happened. The whole world was as I described it: a fantastical place full of strange and magical things. Then, in an instant, poof! On one mid-winter night all the world’s strange and mythical creatures, the Feywyrd as they were called, vanished in a silent icy moment. From wizards and students sleeping in Aram Court, to dwarves deep in Forgeholme. From dragons sailing on the winds of the Faertwins, to myrmidons a thousand leagues under the Degra Sea. Their lights just went out as they vanished like fireflies in the twilight. Whole kingdoms vanished in fact. I expect all the world’s Feywyrd vanished, save for one: me. You see, the Helfay was not an act of the gods, but an act of greed and hubris by a man, my master Eurig. It was the result of an ancient ritual he believed would return the Feywyrd the world he believed they came from. But he failed, and the failure carried with it the instant annihilation of not just the Feywyrd, but every other creature beyond the horizons of Loaerth.

Since I unknowingly participated in this ritual, I was fortunately protected by it, and soon found myself to be the last of the Fey. Eurig also allowed me to live on as his assistant and pupil. I was now a curiosity to him. He was the last of the Archivists, the only remaining practitioner of the Old Ways, and having the last of the Fey as his personal thrall was too great a prize to ignore. He bonded me to him again, only this time his bond would last until the Feywyrd returned, something he believed would never happen.

It was no coincidence that, after the Helfay, the people of Loaerth soon discovered the King and the royal family had vanished as well. They soon appointed Eurig Talfrun as Regent of Loaerth, and in time he became the leader of the world’s only remaining civilization: the Empire of Loaerth.

What else would you like to know?

Hell Holds No Candle

False Hope’s finest creation was not one of flesh. Rather, this strange amalgam of torture, surgery, clockwork and blood magic is its laboratory of choice and it is perhaps the foulest place in all creation. Inside, the creature-machine that is False Hope goes about its horrid work and contemplates the state of the world its twisted mind envisions. All its collected knowledge and a good portion of its power lies in this place, but there is no one and nothing else that could ever hope to defile or distort the pocket dimension False Hope calls Future’s Form.

Background

False Hope’s first inklings of Futures Form came while he was still a mortal man, or as mortal one could call him shortly before his death. He initially thought of it as a place where he could reflect on the nature of the universe and the laws that guided it. He planned to fill it with his life’s work, but none of his great advances. Rather, he wanted it to be a monument to his minor accomplishments and the few family members he valued. Small clocks and gearwork statues would entertain the guests he invited to visit, and his colleagues, such as they were, could talk with him on the subjects that mutually interested them, perhaps leading to the deep, caring friendships Illam unconsciously sought but never managed to achieve.

In the final years of Illam’s life, he worked on and off on the basic construction of Future’s Form, then called Home of the Minute, putting it together in a small, secret room beneath his manor house. When he died, many of the clockworks were in place, the steam powered planar viewing pools all but complete, and the library stocked with the books of his profession, holding both his research and his personal diaries. Reborn as False Hope, the once-Illam returned to the Home and reforged the whole place to suit his new purpose. It traveled the dark corners of the world and beyond, venturing into unknowable realms and dealing with beings no mortal could to craft its eye’s twisted version of a perfect home.

To ensure Future’s Form stayed with him at all times as a last refuge in the unthinkable need for retreat, False Hope shunted its creation into his mechanical heart and then into those unthinkable places beyond the bounds of known reality. In order to enter Future’s Form, False Hope collapses in on itself with a mind-bending rip in the air. Not a trace of the machine man remains once the rip ends, leaving it to its hideous devices for as long as it wills.

Methods of Reformation

Below are three of the torture methods of Future’s Form, described as clearly as possible to show the full extent of the evil False Hope represents.

Lose Three Minds: Perhaps False Hope’s most esoteric piece of equipment, this mechanism doesn’t seem possible, but it exists just the same. When a victim is placed in the device, its head is separated from its body while remaining alive but without dulling the pain. Then, through a process not even False Hope fully understands every minute piece of the skull, brains, eyes and tongue is transformed from a state of matter to energy and funneled through an infinity of dimensions and then completely obliterated.

Because False Hope wants none of its victims to die, the process is immediately reversed, pulling the very idea of the victim’s head from beyond the bounds of space back to Future’s Form, where it is reassembled into a head and reattached. The process takes around ten minutes, and usually ends up driving its recipient insane three times over. Reversion to full sanity takes a little over a decade, time False Hope gladly takes.

Flesh from the Flesh: A solution of indescribable color delivered through a complex system of twenty needles, once administered, causes each of the body systems to separate into their component parts. Thus, the skin opens and falls away; the musculature of the victim detaches from the bones; the bones separate and fall to the floor; the vital organs leave their cavity and organize themselves in a circle. The brain remains in the skull, however, allowing full cognition of both the pain and the disturbing image of a body coming undone.

Eyes of the Devil: A method of torture False Hope finds particularly entertaining involves it getting its hand dirtier than usual. After inserting two claws into the eyes of the victim, one of the claws breaks through into the brain cavity and scratches the brain itself. False Hope studied various ways of mental stimulation and by pricking and prodding different places on the brain’s surface, it can make the victim feel almost anything. What they do feel is best left unsaid, but, like the Lose Three Minds device, insanity is all but certain.

False Hope’s Quarters

The machine man, between marks or while studying them, retreats to a small corner of Future’s Form where it keeps possibly the only “normal” collection of items in the entire chamber. A small fireplace for ambience, powered by gases extracted from past experiments. A collection of books on history, torture and magical theory and a simple but what many would call comfortable chair for reading. Hooks on the wall above the fireplace hold many of the robes False Hope wears during its sessions, many of them bloodstained or otherwise soiled with the work of reforging humanity.

When working on a subject, especially while returning one to sanity, False Hope uses this area as a relaxation area while the subject screams, sleeps or undergoes a drug treatment. The screaming helps False Hope concentrate, and sometimes it puts one its many devices on automatic for an hour or so it can peruse one of its favorite texts or simply make minor repairs to its form. This usually amounts to scraping blood from joints, oiling gears and winding springs, and always involves a thorough examination of the heart.

Hell Holds No Candle by Nevermet Press is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.nevermetpress.com/contact.

Portrait of a Villain: False Hope

Written by Steven Schutt Illustrated by Rob Torno

Concept/Archetype: Man Made Machine Keywords: Clockwork, Steampunk, Societal Change Race: “Human” Profession: “Morality Guide”

I followed the darkened places of the world, saw the slime of the earth, the dross of civilization, and made it my own. My veins run thick with the sludge that powers this place. My heart does not beat but clicks, counting along into eternity. This eye of mine I lost long ago. I replaced it with the mechanisms of this age, and now the future, the future I will make, stands before it.

But why do I tell you all this, if I seek your destruction, you ask? Because I do not. You are nothing in the scheme of things now, not even worthy of your current existence. Instead, you shall become an experiment in futility. When I release you from this place, you will remember everything I did to you, every torture, evil and destruction. You will tell everyone you see of the horrors I committed, to no avail. You will break under the dual strain of my wrongdoing and the people’s apathy. Then your mind will take on the traits I tenderly placed within it, and your purpose will be clear.

You will no longer be slave to the desires and passions of men. You will be a being who can perfect those in your charge: something above humanity. You will teach the world to see the truth I instill in you. Know this, and know that I pray each day for your success.

Background

Some three hundred years ago, Illam Rapesh died a lonely death amid the blackened roses of his estate’s large garden. His home burned behind him, the oil and coal in its cellar fueling a fire that lasted weeks. When the blaze died, Illam’s innards were all that remained, for they were made of wrought iron. His veins were copper tubing and his heart a mass of gearworks, sprockets and springs; his left eye was a glass lens inlaid in a single, large cog set with diamonds. Why he died when he long before ceased aging no one knew. His service was short, few in his family could truly say they knew him. He asked only his closest friends to grieve for him if he did die, and such was the case.

Once in the earth that gave him his skeleton and vital organs, the people did not forget Illam Rapesh, for his many inventions, while strange and often useless, were memorable and cute. He gave them clocks with faces of moon dust, teakettles that sang opera when the water boiled, windup toys painted with liquid smiles, and switch-on showers that gave the water the fruity taste of its user’s choice. These toys served the people well, but, on some level, it was Illam’s life that gave them any meaning, and on his death, the people saw no reason to maintain them. Their lack of value in his work would lead to horrid events far in the future.

For, while Illam’s spirit rested peacefully in the heavens above, what he left behind on the earth did not. Illam did not fear death, and neither did he expect it, but he was no fool, and knew that even the strongest fall. So he crafted a mechanical brain and copied his mind into the mass of iron and steel. He then situated this brain next to his heart, for he needed no lungs. A few weeks after he died, the brain activated as it was built to. By that time, Illam’s family was deep into a dispute over his fortune. The mechanized Illam watched as the events played out, not wanting to add to the chaos. When things settled, animosity remained among various members of the family, and it did not take long for this to boil into a seething rage. The murders were expected; the fall from grace all too obvious. Illam only shook its head and walked away from its ruined, debased family.

Illam found that those in the cities of the world were no better. Clothing itself in thick robes to remain unknown, Illam traveled the alleyways and main streets, watching the world and those in it. Illam saw, to its horror, what became of its inventions. Some lay rusting in the gutters of wealthy men, others modified into weapons of death, still others melted down and recast as “more useful” items. Anger took hold, and Illam’s mind began to think dark thoughts, but this is not what caused Illam’s full mental breakdown. That came in a form most unexpected.

Brooding over its what became of its legacy, Illam didn’t know what it should do to right the wrongs it saw. For many years the wheels, gears and cogs that made up the mechanical mind spun, working on an answer and considering all possible contingencies to its actions. As it wandered the desolate wastes far from civilization, Illam passed a small shantytown, understandably devoid of life. Through this quiet empty town it walked, until a spell of some kind seized it. Unable to move, Illam watched as a figure emerged from a house to the north. With a wave of its hand, Illam’s many cloaks fell to the ground. The figure took a step back in amazement, then chuckled and brought magical chains to bear on its mechanical prize.

For the next hundred years, Illam Rapesh served this long lived wizard as a guardian and advisor on the nature of clockwork magic. As the years passed, Illam’s mind underwent tremendous strain. The magic used to keep the many gears, cogs and steam generators going did not mix well with the mental bindings that kept Illam beholden to the wizard. In the end, the inevitable came, as it always does, with death.

On the last day of Illam’s hundredth year of servitude, it snapped. With the dawn of the hundred and first year, Illam walked out of the shantytown, its hands stained with gore. Behind it walked the horrific form of its first creation in over a hundred years. People on the opposite side of the desert saw the smoke rising from the burning ruin Illam left behind.

Since that day, Illam, which now calls itself False Hope, seeks out men of power, be it magical, financial or political, and breaks them. Torture, both physical and psychological; starvation, brainwashing, destruction of self-identity and its restoration, implantation of clockworks; it subjects these men and women to this and more. Once finished, False Hope returns it victims to their lives and waits for its implanted suggestions to take. All it does then is wait. Change comes shortly thereafter. Two hundred years have now passed, and False Hope’s work is only just beginning.

Motivations & Goals

False Hope wants to end the existence of weakness and falseness of those in the world. As it moves from town to town, city to city, it continues to learn the many methods of breaking men and giving them new purpose. By removing their baser notions of life, False Hope believes it gives people the ability to be completely true to the world and live the perfect life for themselves. However, deep inside, this is not False Hope’s true goal. No, that wish is far more insidious.

In short, False Hope wishes to remove the humanity from humanoids: to return them to a state of either mindlessness or perfect order. If the latter is the result, False Hope’s self-imposed mission is a success, since, in its mind, order needs no policing, and the chaotic influences of the world no longer occur. If the former occurs, then the mission, while technically a failure, is not without its upsides. With only the mind of animals, the morality of man no longer matters.

Organization

False Hope is a one-machine organization, and it wants to keep things that way. Any mortal interference, any at all, and the whole plan might spiral into chaos, the anathema of everything False Hope works for.

So upon finding its next target, False Hope watches the victim for many weeks, months even, learning everything there is to know about their lives. It then proceeds to temporarily silence everyone who might be a hindrance to its mission, then makes its move. Once the target is secure, False Hope flees to a prepared hideout it made sure no one could ever find. It works quickly, stealing only three to five scream filled nights of its victim’s life. They then return with a story that, while strange, is not at all out of that person’s actual lifestyle. Then, False Hope moves far away, looking back in a decade or two in order to gauge its progress.

Plot Hooks

Penny for Your Thoughts: A sage disappears for several days, and then returns, saying a planar visitor came calling. When he returns, he has no memory of anything for the past few months, and his house falls to disarray. Just when order seems to return, he dies, but magic cannot extract anything from the sage’s spirit mind. Concerned family hires the PCs to find both the sage’s killer and discover some way to retrieve his stolen memories.

My Kingdom for a Kingdom: False Hope kidnaps a local mayor as the PCs rest at an inn within his city’s walls. The delicate balance of power the mayor kept in check dissolves into chaos and the PCs are caught in the middle. When the mayor returns, he swiftly restores order, and things settle. Soon, however, the mayor begins slipping into insanity. False Hope, realizing one of its rare failures, begins its standard response to such a shortfall and summons a firestorm to destroy the town. What False Hope did not expect, even after months of planning, was the appearance of the PCs, and he now scrambles to figure them into the equation. The party must travel to the mountains in the south to remove the artifact causing the holocaust and uncover the trail of the being that tried to kill them.

Combat Tactics

False Hope is no stranger to conflict, and has seen its share of battles. It detests direct combat, and its lairs always have five-fold defensive layers before anyone reaches the final redoubt. A fan of intricate, clock-based traps that end in death, False Hope’s defenses always contain some intricate riddle or puzzle that sets off the trap either way. In fact, answering correctly only makes the trap stronger and more painful. If faced in direct combat by worthy opponents, False Hope fights with an array of modifications it’s made to its body, including blades, saws, steam cannons and less-describable implements. The machine man always has several escape routes and, if pressed, has a wide array of steam and clock based magic at its command.

False Hope by Nevermet Press is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.nevermetpress.com/contact.

Encounter: Rooftop Rumble

Written by Paul King

Difficulty: medium-hard Magic: none Keywords: construct, rooftop Terrain: urban Treasure: none, minor

The party finds itself in a twisted maze of narrow alleys strewn with refuse and broken dreams, caverns of stone and mortar between the cramped tenements that fill this impoverished section of the city. Washing lines, laden with drying garments, crisscross between the buildings, obscuring the darkening sky and making the alleys, already gloomy by the light of day, even darker. The buildings, put up quickly and cheaply by the city government in an attempt to house the growing number of homeless and destitute crowding their streets, are roughly the same height and layout – built around a central stairwell that services each of the four stories and leads to the flat-topped roof. It is from the roof of one of these buildings that a cry for help suddenly pierces the deepening shadows.

Background

While adventuring in or around a large urban setting, the PC’s a drawn – by tavern whisperings, rumor, petty thievery, or supernatural means – to this depressed area of the city. Being outsiders, they are greeted with suspicion and fear by the disenfranchised and neglected members of this society. Up till now, the City Watch had all but given up on trying to maintain peace and order in this neighborhood, with beatings and muggings an all-too-common occurrence. A recent rash of mysterious and unsolved murders has the locals living in fear and doing their best to ensure that they see and hear nothing that might draw the attention of the mysterious killer or the authorities determined to get their city back under control.

Wandering the streets, the party hears a scream and a crash emanate from one of the alleys. Upon investigating, they discover the body of a young man who appears to have fallen from one of the buildings into a convergence of the alleys between four buildings. They barely have time to perceive that the worst of the wounds on the body were not caused by the fall when a sharp crack – the splintering of wood – and a cry for help is heard. It would seem that whatever caused this death is preparing to claim another victim.

Should they decide to help, the PC’s much choose – as either individuals or as a party, which building to ascend. The first PC to the top will see the NPC, a young female (race is not important) cowering in fear as a mysterious humanoid advances upon her, the wooden crate behind which she had been hiding shattered to pieces around her. The figure is hard to make out in the darkness, but the blade which seems to extend from its arm clearly reflects what light is available. The sudden appearance of each new interloper seems to disorient the figure for a round before it decides to continue with its mission.

“The curse is real! It’s come to kill us!” The girl, cowering against the low wall the surrounds the rooftop wails and attempts to half run, half crawl (at half speed) her way to the nearest rooftop shed and lock herself inside. It becomes clear to the PC’s that the flimsy wooden structure will provide little more protection from the mysterious figure than did the ruined crate (one round to breach it from any direction).

Objective

Save the NPC from being killed by Sentinel 5.

Tactics

Sentinel 5 is only interested in silencing the NPC. It will ignore the PC’s unless they attempt to attack or physically impede the construct from reaching its intended target. When a PC performs an act of aggression against the Sentinel, it will retaliate with an attack or a push – should they be close to the edge of a roof – and attempt to shift out reach of any PC’s before continuing to move towards the target.

Should the PC’s act in a single formation to block or attack the Sentinel, it will retreat and attempt to flank the party, using terrain for cover and concealment, in an attempt to reach the target.

When a PC attempts to jump to or move across a sloped tile roof, the Sentinel will become aware of the effect such terrain has on the PC’s and attempt to use that to its advantage.

Once the Sentinel has lost 75% of its HP (rounding down), it will disengage and retreat across a series of sloped rooftops, ending the encounter.

Notes

The PC’s start out arranged around the body (B) in the alley. They have no idea of the building from which it fell or where the scream originated.

The Sentinel and the NPC do not move until the first PC gets to the top of any of the buildings.

All the interior doors to the buildings are locked, the front doors and stairwells are not locked. Rooftop sheds are not locked.

Environmental Effects

The encounter takes place in the late evening (low light), as Sentinel 5 prefers to strike under cover of darkness, minimizing the chance of being witnessed.

The flat-topped buildings and alleyway are considered normal terrain, while the sloped, tile rooftops are difficult terrain. PC’s can attempt to make running jumps between the buildings. If a character jumps onto a sloped tile rooftop, an Acrobatics check is made to see if they slide down the loose tiles – possibly leading to a dangerous plummet to the alley forty feet below.

Chimneys and assorted rooftop constructs (coops, sheds, etc.) provide cover while smoke from chimneys may provide concealment.

The Sentinel’s movement and vision are not affected by the environment. Additionally, it is resistant (but not immune) to damage taken from magical attacks.

Awards, Findings, & Treasure

If the PC’s succeed in driving off Sentinel 5 and keeping the NPC safe, they will be told the urban legend of ‘The Curse’ – a story about a place called Hidden Vale, forgotten by the outside world that is so secret, once you hear it’s name, you will be killed (This of course marks the PC’s as targets of Sentinel 5 as well). Additionally, if the NPC is separated from the PC’s for the duration of an extended rest, Sentinel 5 will return and finish the job.

Should the PC’s fail to save the NPC, they will come under scrutiny of the local authorities as the cause behind the mysterious deaths related to The Curse.

Click on the image below to download the map for this encounter.

Rooftop Rumble by Nevermet Press is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.nevermetpress.com/contact.

Changing Directives

Written by Matt Cicci

Sentinel Five hunkered low, remaining hidden from the view of the men surrounding the campsite. This act of stealth was an impressive feat considering the figure’s tall, metal frame. Unmoving and unbreathing, Sentinel Five had sat still behind a thick bush of gooseberries for approximately three hours. The only evidence of the steel warrior’s presence was a faint whirring noise, the sound of the crimson-tinted lenses that served as eyes readjusting to the dimming light of evening. Through the ever-focusing gaze, he, the sentinel had only recently adopted the pronoun, had spent silent hours studying a quintet of dwarves carouse around a roaring flame.

Seeing the sturdy folk, axes and hammers at their sides and a bottle of whiskey being passed around, reminded Sentinel Five of his father, Rendersson Forgegrinder. Though Rendersson rarely drank in the fashion these dwarves were, the mere physical qualities, the stoutness, the beards, the deep voices all reeked of his creator. For a scant moment, Sentinel Five envisioned Rendersson, wrench clutched in hand, oil smearing his stone-hued skin. He knew his father had fled his own kind, but was also aware of the fleshed races capacity for emotion and sympathy . . . would Rendersson be capable of killing members of his own race?

The question quickly left Sentinel Five’s mind. It was a thought of purely inconsequential matter. Even if his father could not, he had constructed his children with the capability to do so. He watched one of the dwarves fall backwards clutching his sides in laughter, and realized now was the time to put that capability into action.

Sentinel Five strode through the sparse woods, his heavy frame carefully snaking through branch and brush. His objective became clearer with each measured footstep; these dwarves had mentioned the Hidden Vale, therefore they must be eliminated. A blade sprung from his right arm, ushered in by the sound of grating metal.

He was five paces from entering the ring of campfire light, four paces, three paces . . .

A quick blur of motion sent Sentinel Five ducking forward and down; he heard the thrown hammer thud solidly against a nearby tree. He was not surprised by the suddenness of the dwarves’ perception and action, he knew from previous encounters, and from the military history books he had read, that the stout race valued combat prowess. Still, Sentinel Five allowed himself a split-second of hollow disappointment before sprinting towards the dwarven encampment.

Sentinel Five broke into the orange light of the campfire only to see dwarves with brandished weapons and eyes already clear of the night’s drunken glaze. They shouted tactical commands in their thick, consonant-heavy tongue. Sentinel Five spoke the language fluently; however, he refused to register the dwarves’ baritone chatter, his thoughts instead focusing on his own strategy.

He sprinted towards his most visible foe — a young dwarf with a wild blond beard — with his sword arm held high and leading the way. His blade came down in a heavy cleave, but rang hard off the hilt of the dwarf’s battle axe. Sentinel Five was prepared for this, his automated reflexes were already responding as his brain whirred through myriad maneuvers and strategies. His foot was kicking out before the dwarven warrior even had a chance to smile at his defensive success. Sentinel’s steel heel landed solidly in the chest of the axe-bearer causing him to roll backwards with a pained exhalation of breath.

“By the forge! He’s made of metal,” one of the other dwarves remarked.

Sentinel Five did not offer a verbal reply, but did spin towards the speaker.

The dwarf, a pot-bellied old warrior, was flanked by two of his brethren, one who spat out a thick wad of tobacco through gold-plated teeth. “I guess that just means, we’ll get to melt down your bones when were done, eh?” He nodded slightly to his compatriots , who began to fan out in a tactical approach Sentinel Five realized was designed to cut off any angle of retreat.

Sentinel Five realized their tactics were in error immediately; retreat was not an option for him.

The metal soldier charged towards the fat dwarf, an action that forced the flanking dwarves hands and pulled them towards him with the hopes of collapsing his flank. Seeing their thick hammers rising for a synchronized strike, Sentinel Five swept his sword-arm low and horizontally across his path. The sword swipe was so sudden, yet so strong and fluid, the dwarven warriors immediately dropped the heads of their hammers to block the vicious cut. The moment the dwarf to Sentinel’s left lowered his hammer, the steel soldier raised his free hand level with his foe’s face. A spring-loaded dagger jumped from his wrist and sank into the dwarf’s skull.

A gout of blood sprayed upwards and out, barely preceding an inhuman and high-pitched wail of pain. The dwarf fell backwards clutching at the dagger buried hilt-deep in his eye socket; his movements, spasmodic and weak, were quickly recognized by the arrayed combatants as death throes.

To their credit, and as Sentinel Five had predicted, the dying dwarf’s companions pressed on, their faces etched with a clearer hatred and a battle-hardened determination. The pot-bellied dwarf raised his shield and barreled forward; despite his girth, he moved quickly and efficiently, leaving the metal warrior no hopes of avoiding the rush.

With a resounding crack and the splintering of wood, Sentinel Five was driven backwards by the heavy dwarf’s pumping legs and great weight. It was all he could do to maintain his balance as the dwarf continued to press. Still from the corner of his eye, he noticed the blond dwarf he’d kicked earlier standing up and preparing to rejoin the battle.

The remaining dwarf, the older, craggly faced man with gold plated teeth, followed in after the shieldbearer. He brought his hammer downwards with an overhand swing. The crushing chop came up short as a series of swift jabbing parries from the harried steel warrior kept the blow at bay; the gold-toothed dwarf cursed loudly and spat a dark stain of juice on the sentinel’s metal exterior.

Sentinel Five was acutely aware of the battle’s rising threat. While it was true one dwarf lay dying, another was returning to the fray, one was pinning him backwards with heavy wooden shield, and the other was taking advantage of that distraction. Assessing the threats and running impossibly quick strategies through his mind, Sentinel Five formulated the most efficient plan to ending the menace.

He bent his knees and leaned forward in an impressive display of strength that stopped the pushing dwarf stone cold. Following through on his sudden use of applied force, Sentinel Five drove his free hand forward in a fist. The steel gauntlet crashed through the shield and connected with bone-breaking force into the dwarf’s jaw. Accepting inevitable retaliation from the gold-toothed dwarf, he swung his sword-arm from its defensive riposte into a cutting arc that cleanly severed the now shieldless dwarf’s head from its shoulders.

Before his latest victim’s head had even touched the earth, Sentinel Five was driven to his knees by a wicked hammer swing that rang into his back with enough force to break stone. Unable to twist himself into a guard, Sentinel Five braced for another impact, one that came as the gold-toothed dwarf dropped the hilt of his hammer into the sentinel’s metal face.

Sentinel Five’s vision splintered into plethora of fractured images; one of his lenses had been cracked from the heavy handed smash that had also sent him spinning to the ground. Above him, Sentinel Five saw a number of gold-toothed images standing with a thunder cloud of hammers waiting to rain downwards.

“Gods-be-damned machine. If ye have a soul, may it burn in hell!” The dwarf brought his hammer down in an arc on course to crush the sentinel’s face.

With clockwork precision and speed, Sentinel Five shut off the damaged eye, bringing his hammer-swinging enemy into sudden, crystalline view. He shot his sword-arm up and inside the arc of the dwarf’s swing; the blade cut tendon and muscle. The vicious wound stole the strength of the hammer swing and the head of the weapon bounced off Sentinel Five’s skin with only a faint force and a dull, weak thud.

He kicked out, sending the dwarf backwards and down. Instead of rising to his feet, Sentinel Five rotated his head around and backwards. The sentinel’s awkward, inhuman motion gave the blond dwarf who’d been sneaking in from that angle pause. Sentinel Five took advantage by raising his free arm and letting fly the remaining four daggers loaded there. Sentinel Five had risen and turned back towards the campfire before the dwarf even fell.

“By all the fires that light the forges of the Great Hall, that was impressive.”

Sentinel Five realized the voice belonged to the fifth dwarf, the one who’d remained out of the fight. He turned towards the figure who stood on the other side of the fire from him. The dwarf was skinnier than most, with a long single-braided, red beard that swept the earth with its length. He was also unarmored and unarmed, wearing little more than a brown cloak and travel-worn breeches. Sentinel Five began formulating plans to deal with spellcasters.

“You must be the one sent out from the Hidden Vale.” The skinny dwarf ran a hand backwards through his scraggly red hair. “How long have you been . . .”

Sentinel Five jumped forward, clearing the fifteen feet and the fire in a single bound. His great weight came crashing down on the dwarf, his sword-arm twisting free to deliver a killing blow. Instead, surprisingly as he landed a sudden jolt of electricity welled up from his felled foe and blasted him upwards and back. He landed hard, his arms and legs twitching.

Sentinel Five lay motionless for what he realized to be a dangerously long few seconds. Only the whimpering of the gold-toothed dwarf with the wounded arm, and the heavy, pained breathing of the spellcaster alleviated his concerns. The dwarves seemed to be in equally bad shape and unable to capitalize on his sudden lack of mobility.

Sentinel Five’s one functioning eye focused on the swirl of stars lighting the sky above the forest’s sparse canopy, and wondered if, as fleshed races sometimes believed, his father was looking down on him from above. If he failed to gain his feet first and was killed, would his father be disappointed in his failings? When his father died, would he join Sentinel Five in some form of afterlife? Was afterlife even an option? Did it even exist?

Sentinel Five realized that these were inconsequential thoughts; he felt his legs regain movement while the sounds of incapacitation still emanated from his foes. He stood and raised his blade; the spellcaster was the main threat. He strode forward with steps still uneven from the electrical blast and poised his sword for a quick kill.

The dwarf lay there watching the sentinel approach with a slight smile on his face. He lifted his arm. Where flesh should have been, a thin steel skeleton, full of the same bolts and connectors as the sentinel’s arm, existed. “Sentinel Five, I presume? I’m Vanfried Forgegrinder, son of Rendersson.”

Sentinel Five paused, sword still held high and deadly. The firelight danced and flickered along its edge impatiently, as if unable to stand still with blood so close at hand. “You are my father’s son?”

Vanfried chuckled. “Your father? I suppose so; it seems as if we are brothers.” Vanfried propped himself up on his automated arm. “Regardless of relations, Five, we need to get back to the vale.”

Changing Directives by Nevermet Press is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.nevermetpress.com/contact.

The Hidden Vale

Written by Steven Schutt

Introduction

Nestled between two mighty mountains and set within a small depression in the earth, Hidden Vale was, once, a quiet place where those seeking peace could come and go as they pleased. There was always a warm bed available, simple food, light ale and friendly people. It is now a cracked reflection of its former glory. The town remains quiet, though now it is an unnatural thing, as no one wishes to make themselves or their home known to the world at large. The guardians at either end of the pass are vicious in their defense, and none in Hidden Vale have any way to remove them from their posts.

Worse, with no influx of new arrivals due to the quarantine, the inhabitants of the Vale grow old and die, sometimes without leaving heirs. Those couples already with children do their best to raise them in a cautious fear of the guardians at the edges of their prison-home. This serves only to further isolate the town from the rest of the world, hastening its spiral into oblivion.

Perhaps the greatest harm for residents of Hidden Vales comes in the form of knowledge, or in their case, the lack of it. As the fifth and final guardian annihilates the last vestiges of the Vale’s history, the less chance there is of anyone coming to the rescue. Scholars of the region have little to go on nowadays when it comes to finding the Vale, and several adventuring parties sought out its now well-hidden location.

Of the two that returned, one had only one remaining member, and he died of his injuries before he could relate what slaughtered his band. The second group was more successful, and came away with information on the tactics of the golems and topography of the region. Unfortunately, that information disappeared too within a few weeks of its transcribing, and none of the adventurers ever reappeared after leaving on their next journey.

Background

The history of the Vale itself is a long one, as the town inside it only appeared recently, perhaps within the last two hundred years. Settled initially as a buffer zone between two nations with old, often hostile relations, its first inhabitants were military personnel. These troops fell under the command of an exiled colonel who thought little of either nation. Within weeks of its founding, what would become Hidden Vale cut off connection with both nations after the drafting, signing and ratifying of a loosely binding treaty. So long as the nations did nothing to harm the citizens and any trade that came through, Hidden Vale would not knowingly harbor traitors from either nation. Both nations agreed, and dismissed their troops to commingle in the city proper.

Several years passed and the soldiers either settled down into families or left to pursue their futures. A steady stream of immigrants, adventurers, exiles and aging folk began to come and go, some staying, some leaving after a time. The town did well, and the population grew at an even pace, reaching a healthy three thousand at the height of the Vale’s prosperity. Money was not an issue for a good majority of the townspeople and crime, though a problem, was never widespread enough for any more than a few dozen watchmen to be on duty at one time.

This all changed when the nations that founded the town and gifted it to the colonel went to war once again. The treaty still stood, and the nations, while not kind or gentle, were honorable and let the town go about its business. On and on their war dragged, neither side gaining ground. Refugees from destroyed towns flooded the Vale several times, and many a tent went up in the fields outside the town. One of them, a tinker named Renderson Forgegrinder, went so far as to set up a shop on the outskirts of town. When men of the king came to retrieve him for escaping his duties, the people remembered the treaty. On the one hand, now that they knew a traitor lay in their midst, they were honor bound to return him. On the other hand, however, the soldiers possessed no evidence of the dwarf’s treason. Until such could be procured and presented to the town governor, Forgegrinder went nowhere.

It was not long after that the people realized that they should have sent the dwarf packing. The guardians in place, their creator dead, the people of Hidden Vale were trapped in their own home, left to watch as the world forgot them. Nothing they could do would prevent their slow decent into eternity.

Appearance

Once a bustling town filled with the sounds of life and progress, Hidden Vale now sits destitute and stagnant. The houses have begun to fall to the winds that sweep through the pass, and the lack of incoming trade and materials further deteriorates the brick, wood and stone buildings. The signs on the three inns of the town are no longer readable, the well dried up some time ago, and several homes collapsed within the last year, leaving piles of rubble scattered throughout the town.

Two areas of the town, however, remain in perfect condition: the military barracks at the north end and the gates to the south. The barracks once served as disadvantaged housing and its basement held weapons and supplies should the need arise. The sentinels positioned themselves at these places and maintain them to better protect the town from without and within. The gates are literally welded shut and their size makes it all but impossible to ever open them again. The barracks, while of no particular use to the guardians, are incredibly defensible. The store of weapons allows the guardians great leeway in how they deal with intruders or escapees.

Using Hidden Vale

Hidden Vale is easily placed into any fantasy or steampunk setting that allows for golem creation and rune magic. The only requirements are two nations with strained relations and a valley between them to serve as the site of the town. There need not even be mountains, though this certainly makes the town more difficult to invade. With the guardians standing watch, it makes for a wonderful site to hide ancient evils, artifacts or malcontents who somehow manage to slip inside, only to be trapped once within its walls.

Adventure Hooks

• I Left My Heart in Hidden Vale: An old man approaches the PCs and offers them everything he has, which is quite a bit, to secret his wife from Hidden Vale to his arms before he dies. In his age, he neglects to mention the guardians and the awful state of the town. However, before he can secure his last remaining map of the region, the fifth golem murders him and destroys the map. The party must find an answer on two fronts: who committed a murder and where the town of Hidden Vale actually is. Until they secure the wife, the fortune remains in the bank.
• Lights of Heaven, Fires of Hell: A strange light appears in the western sky, bright as the sun and shining at all hours. Indeed, the sun does not rise while this light sits in the sky. When the PCs find an entire village scoured of life, they discover clues that point to the strange light as the cause. Following the light, they arrive at a strange apparatus in the heart of a desert. Once they disable it, the party finds the rune of Renderson Forgegrinder etched onto the glass emitter. If the party wishes to discover the perpetrator, they must hunt the dwindling information on the dwarf tinker and his creations. This brings them into conflict with the fifth automaton, who too seeks the criminal that stole its old master’s creation. Who arrives at the answer first: the destroyer or the savior?
• Let Me Sleep: A king of great age falls ill to a wasting plague unlike any before it. Only the magic of his clerics keeps him alive, and he wants to keep it that way. Unfortunately for him, he knows a great deal about Hidden Vale, as he rules one of its border nations. When the PCs wish to entreat the king for some quest he asked of them, they find themselves stymied at all levels. No one gives them a straight answer as to what goes on in the castle and everyone seems to have conflicting information. The king long sewed dissention among his ranks, and the fifth automaton takes advantage of this to work his way up to the royal bedchamber. When the PCs intervene, the golem races to finish its plans and makes a critical error, putting its mission in jeopardy. Can the party catch a killer before it commits regicide, or will a king live to see another day?

The Hidden Vale by Nevermet Press is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.nevermetpress.com/contact.