Remember STEAL THE EYES OF YASHOGGHUH?
Still working on it.
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Remember STEAL THE EYES OF YASHOGGHUH?
Still working on it.
Fiona ran STEAL THE EYES OF YASHOGGHUH again at GenCon and (at least as someone that didn’t go) it was the most entertaining thing about GenCon aside from her documentating her search for a temp sissy.
I don’t have a play report, but I do have screenshots of her google+ updates, and they are glorious.
In showing a friend some character sheets I realised that I had a couple that I never posted, so here we go:
The first illustrated character sheet I ever made, for a mutagenic Jeremy Duncan game that never actually happened.
From a couple of sessions of Mateo Diaz Torres’ FLOWERLAND.
He killed a swamp bear, got shot by an overly protective mother, saw his witch groupie get mauled to death by a starving coyote and had her possess his armour so they could stay together, lost it a bit when butterfly men tried to put him to sleep and vomit acid on him, and walked into the forbidden black tower and became MAGIC.
The revised and expanded edition of Petty Gods is now available, so here are a few of the entries I wrote for it back before this site even existed.
(I mainly just want to show off bigger versions of Rose’s illustrations because they’re excellent. Everything but the goat is hers.)
The Divine Worm, Mother of the Stillborn
Symbol: An x-ray style depiction of an earthworm holding multiple foetuses along the length of its body.
Talisman: A gold piece stamped with a newborn’s face, eroded by tears.
Armor Class: 9
Hit Points (Hit Dice): Randomly determined (Roll d20 HD)
Save: As Fighter of level equal to HD rolled.
Hoard Class: 8,888gp, d% will melt the moment they’re taken into sunlight.
XP: 2x amount of stillborns spilt from the Divine Worm’s amniotic sac.
The Divine Worm, patron Mother of Miscarried and Stillborn Children, invoked by grieving families, worshipped by others for reasons that are their own.
A coin is cast bearing an image of the child and melted in a boiling pot in offering to the Divine Worm, beseeching her to carry the child in the beyond.
Manifestations of the Divine Worm are sometimes found in fragrant caverns below sites of plague or infanticide.
In form the Worm’s body is like that of a giant hairless and eyeless mole, lined with damp axolotl legs and a toadlike mouth. Pendulous breasts appear almost at random on its flanks and legs and a swollen amniotic sac sprouts over its lower back and hindquarters, within the sac you can see neither flesh nor bone, it sinks forever. Floating calmly amidst the rotten amber fluid are more infants and foetuses than you can count.
The Worm sits atop a gleaming pile of gold coins, swaying lichen and moss hangs from the cavern roof above it.
The Worm never attacks, never defends itself. It sits there with its mouth open, hundreds of infantile heads emerging and weeping in chorus even as you hack into its flesh, the sound is almost soothing. Every round save vs. Poison or suckle from one of its breasts. The sac squelches and heaves as you drink its amber nectar. You age d6 years of life unlived.
If the worm is killed its sac will burst, spilling 253 stillborns per HD about your feet, there are so many more than you imagined.
The Lady of Tasks Forgotten
Symbol: A bottle filled with the faces of dying ants and locusts pressed against the glass.
Talisman: N/A. Most of the time her adherents aren’t even aware they’re adhering.
Movement: 120′ (40′)
Armor Class: 9
Hit Points (Hit Dice): 16hp (2 HD)
Hoard Class: See final paragraph.
XP: 1,000. 546,000 if you’re the one to kill her.
You settle in and try to block out the din of the tavern, contemplating your next step, weighing the options.
A tankard slides beneath your nose, the frothing ale spills slightly onto your hand.
There’s nothing extraordinary about the waifish woman who put it there, she’s pale and without a curve, or is she terribly obese under that dress? You’re too preoccupied to really notice.
She smiles pleasantly but emptily, “You look worried about something, burdened, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you so much.”
And you do.
You tell her everything, every twist every turn, you tell her everything there is to know about what you’re trying to achieve. And you do feel better for it. You feel fantastic, purged and light, and someone has left a full tankard of ale here on the table for you. Wait, what is this place?
The Lady of Tasks Forgotten can be called on by those who have lost their way, those that feel there was something important they were meant to do but can no longer recall. The elixir they prepare probably shouldn’t be consumed under normal circumstances, distilled liquor and locusts flavoured with datura, poured into a flask with live winter ants, already kept in the flask for days and belly-deep in secreted poison.
If they survive drinking this concoction they will remember the task without fail, but it is rarely their own, and they will never understand that it never was. The Lady has many tasks to remember.
You could likely kill the Lady quite easily if you desired, but how would you know her?
If you find a way to summon and bind her, her flesh softly broils and churns, melting in places while expanding in others, forming impossible beauty then rotting like a bed sore. She looks on you with such sympathy, you have so many troubles.
Every round that you are near her in this state you will forget something, save vs. Magic for it to be something unimportant.
Use the table below for important things or pick something the character will really miss.
|I'm sure I'm forgetting something..
|You forget why you're here, who you are, you don't know who these people are, or this thing floating in front of you, you want to go home, you don't know where it is. You'll only find out if you kill her.
|Correct use of your weapon eludes you, -4 to hit with melee/ranged weapons depending on what you were using from now on.
|You lose all memory of a random companion. Everyone else seems to know them, she must have done something to their minds, you should kill this imposter before they can do any harm.
|You can no longer speak in a common tongue, you understand it when others speak it, but you're oblivious to the fact that you're replying to them in another language entirely.
|You lose all memory of the flora and fauna of the world you live in, everything is strange or terrifying. The first time you see a swamp will be interesting.
She has no gold to steal, no relics, and whoever kills her will absorb every task she still held, convinced beyond question that the tasks are their own, crippled by overwhelming responsibility.
The Turquoise Idol of Communion
Name: Turquoise Idol of Communion
Symbol: Imagine the purest light and assurance, it looks like that.
Talisman: A rough stone cylindrical idol, carved with intricate scrolling symbols.
Movement: 180′ (60′)
Armor Class: 9
Hit Points (Hit Dice): 10hp (1 HD +1 per being absorbed)
Save: As Fighter of level equal to HD, immune to all Magic.
Hoard Class: 500 river-polished pebbles of turquoise inside its belly per HD.
XP: 4,000 per HD at the moment of its untimely demise.
They hand you a piece of broken stone, the outside is timeworn and dark, graven with symbols, while the alluring turquoise surface within glistens like an adhesive.
They speak of four joining pieces that were lost, they say that if you reconstruct the idol it is told to strengthen your mortal shell, to unite you with a greater power.
The inner surface of the idol is dry to your touch but when you join it with another piece you find yourself unable to force them apart. Every piece amplifies the stench of the swamp wafting from it.
You find and join the final piece and place it before you, ready to receive its power. A wet blue skin seeps from the fine cracks on its surface, smothering it and expanding as a toad in the shape of a man, with five hanging arms protruding from its body. Its skin glistens and it wishes to join with you.
The only attack it will make is a wrestling check, either by leaping at you or with its 10′ tongue. The moment it takes hold you can feel your skin incorporating into its body, sucking you in. Take a -2 penalty to your rolls every round, taking damage equal to your penalty if you manage to escape, and incorporating into the toad completely if you haven’t escaped after 3 rounds. With its increased mass the toad gains a HD, sprouts another arm and a further bonus to wrestling checks, and its tongue grows another 5′.
If you hit the toad in melee your weapon sticks in its flesh, make a Strength check next round to get it back. The toad will try to grab anyone that comes near enough, or with its tongue if no one is already in its mouth, but won’t move until it has finished incorporating those already joined to it.
You will never completely remove its flesh from anything it touched.
The Moss-Worn Goat
Name: The Moss-Worn Goat, bearer of Sterility
Symbol: The head of a goat crying tears of sperm.
Talisman: A carven wood phallus, left to grow moss and fungus.
Movement: 120′ (40′)
Armor Class: 5
Hit Points (Hit Dice): 46hp (7 HD)
Hoard Class: That depends on how long you keep him around.
The Moss-Worn Goat can be called upon to dry up the seed of men seeking it or those whom they wish to inflict it upon.
Offerings of gold are left in the damp parts of the woods with a phallus carved from a discarded branch, hidden by rotting hollow logs. Some desire temporary affliction, but unless they save vs. Magic they are permanently sterilised.
The Goat himself will be found in a dark hovel of a cavern, sweating amidst lichen and mounded monoliths of dirt, sprawled on the floor, moaning mournfully in a reverberating howl.
Below the huge malformed head and horns of a goat his body is human, and the whole time you watch him he never stops masturbating, shuddering intermittently with spasms that force enormous single golden sperm to spurt from his cock onto an already squirming pile, creaking like bending metal.
If you attack him he doesn’t know how to defend himself, he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t stop masturbating. Eventually he will try to flee, leaving a golden trail of creaking sperm as his crooked body stumbles away.
Name: Deiphagous Maggot
Alignment: As the god it currently serves. It’s nothing if not helpful.
Movement: 120′ (40′)
Armor Class: 9
Hit Points (Hit Dice): 24hp (4 HD)
Attacks: Wrap, d4 needle patches
Damage: 3d4, d4 each
Hoard: Find a wondrous item table and roll on it.
The bloated body of the maggot squirms through the air, contracting and expanding towards you, several feet from the ground in deliberate, hypnotic movements.
It draws itself up like a snake, a patch of glistening needles extend from beneath the rear of its body, supporting it before you.
Mouths cover the underside of its body, one speaks for every emotion, there are many mouths. Eyes filled with broiling red fog are held within them, winking out and opening elsewhere as each begins to speak.
It is not the nature of the maggot to harm the god it serves, but when it dies the maggot will swim amongst its flesh, supping on the decay of divinity. Of course the maggot hungers, but the longer a god lives, the more fervently it is worshipped, the sweeter its flesh. You see its conundrum.
It feels you’re here to spoil the meal it is cultivating.
Static physical barriers mean nothing to the maggot, it slides in and out of them like reality, be careful not to fall into a hole that isn’t there. Sharp swinging metal is harder to account for.
In combat the maggot will try to wrap itself around you with gnawing mouths and squirm away in one fluid motion, leaving you like a ringbarked tree.
If caught or cornered its skin bursts with patches of bristling needles.
The maggot’s digestion is slow, if it is killed there is a 50% chance of its ruptured belly releasing the power of a god it has fed on. Have you killed a god lately? That one. Otherwise roll or flip to a random godling in this book and inflict their wrath.
Shed Godling Skin Suit
Some godlings grow as their following does, sloughing off their old skin to make way for a glorious new facade.
The translucent leather stitched into this full-body suit still responds to praise and worship, either of its wearer or of the godling who shed it.
The skin will allow one use of an ability of the godling it came from within a period of time equal to hours you spend in ritual worship beforehand.
Pick a god, roll or flip to one randomly in this book, or use whatever horrible thing these abilities came from. Roll randomly or worship twice as long if you want to pick.
1. Swollen pustular mounds swell from the neck of the suit, allowing you to expel boiling black bile as a 6′ ranged attach or a 90° spray within 3′, bypassing armour and dealing 2d6 damage. If you can bite someone you may vomit directly into their bloodstream. Save or Die.
2. If someone makes a successful melee attack against you, you can allow their weapon and arm to pass through your body, trapping them. The arm will need to be cut away, but whatever is left on the suit will be absorbed soon enough.
3. You leech the life out of anything organic within 6′, regaining d6hp. Roll under Constitution or secrete it back out in noisome streams.
4. You regurgitate d4 phlegm-coloured tiny men. Lose 1hp for each tiny man and roll for their loyalty. Every round you want them to do something roll loyalty, you may need to think of incentives. The only way you can regain those hit points is by swallowing the tiny men.
The skin’s AC 8 improves by 1 for every person that worships the wearer like a disciple, as the skin flushes with life and moves in a distracting, unnatural way.
If you gain 14 followers you will fuse with the skin, becoming a malformed bastard demigod. You will not like it.
Here’s some recent commission work for Robin Zink, which I think is going to be tattooed on his lady friend’s legs because she’s a goddamn winner.
The old hag Baba Yaga:
Her Chicken House:
And a close-up of the weathervane because I love it:
More illustration work for Pernicious Albion, the ancient war witch, dissipated divinity, majordomo of the House of Death; The Morrigan.
So Petty Gods is being re-revived, and here’s one of my awful entries.
Text from a year or so ago, art from a few days ago.
Hidden away in the mountains, living in whitewashed caves, away from the prying eyes of those who would call themselves holy.
Their god is a walking mountain of flesh, all-consuming, ever enduring.
When the stars are deemed right, worshipping before an idol carved into stone wall, when their ululations reach fever pitch one of their number is blessed with transformation, alchemy of the soul and body. Their limbs atrophy and their back bends, their torso expands to the floor like a dropped sack, skin grows dark and pocked, their flesh is doughy and pliable, it is forbidden to touch during the transformation. Their head rots and retreats into the body, new pink-flecked quivering orifices open on their belly and across their sides, dissolving anything placed before them into atoms and breathing in the spore cloud.
Holy manifestation of their god, the Atmungsgebirgshund is carefully moved to a dais, carved from a crop of stalagmites, fed and adored. As it feeds, the Atmungsgebirgshund’s body becomes ever more stone-like, fracturing, forming peaks.
When the stars again proclaim the time right, crowning spires of light grow from the pinnacle of the Atmungsgebirgshund’s spine hill, and the Delvers fall upon it with pick and hands. They drink deeply of the golden blood that flows as they break away the shards of its flesh, and they are once more blessed to live long in worship amongst the mountains.
Their god does not exist. Their god is communal. Their god is them.
If they were destroyed, so would their god be.
Their number never exceeds 40, breeding is only permitted when another member has been lost, either by violent death or ascension.
Memories of persecution have rooted deep over the ages, and any intrusion into their caves will be seen as an attack. The Delvers are non-violent, their god is not. Some will delay the intruders, throwing their bodies upon the blades, others will fall against the Atmungsgebirgshund in supplication to be consumed.
Cracking shards of primordial blue light extend from the Atmungsgebirgshund’s belly, roots worthy of a mountain god, the orifices penetrating its side expand and howl like rushing wind, every Delver sacrificed on its body increases its HD.
You will see a mountain walk, you will see your flesh drawn across the room like pollen on the wind.
Movement: 120′ (40′)
Armor Class: 0
Hit Points (Hit Dice): 8 (1 HD + 1 per self-sacrificed Delver)
Hoard Class: The Delver’s art may be worth something to the right person
XP: 2000 x HD at time of death
Once the first Delver has been sacrificed on its side, the Atmungsgebirgshund is able to digest the flesh of one creature within 4′ at the rate of 1hp per round. Every additional sacrifice increases the range by 4′ and allows another creature to by consumed simultaneously.
Every round there is a 10% chance of fragmented spikes of blue light bursting from the earth, impaling the unlucky creature above, consuming them from within in floating blue sparks that rise as the spikes retreat. Save or Die.
If anyone other than a Delver attempts to drink the golden blood of the Atmungsgebirgshund roll below.
|Effect of the Blood of the Atmungsgebirgshund
|Your torso turns to stone, brittle internal walls crack and break, you're alive as your body splits in half and stone organs spill across the floor.
|An atomising black hole forms in your belly, consuming you from the inside, lasting another hour after you have disappeared, affecting anything that comes within 10'.
|Roots of molten stone seep from your feet and embed deep into the earth, your legs petrify up to the knees. Better find a hammer.
|For the next 4 days you gain no nutrition from anything you eat, you grow weak, but a solid gold nugget is forming in your belly, worth 2000gp if you can pass it.
|You can hear the Breathing Mountain, you weep at its glory, you remain in the caves to rebuild its family and live forever. Slay any who would stand in your way.
|The blood of the earth fills your veins, you will never age, decrease your Dexterity by 1 every year that you do not drink the golden blood of the Atmungsgebirgshund as you slowly turn to living stone.
I’ve been doing some illustration work for Mateo Diaz’s absurdly lovely Pernicious Albion, and so far it’s producing some of my favourite things I’ve ever drawn, so I’m looking forward to it being an actual thing that I can hold and play and you should be too.
The link above goes to Mateo’s initial concept and content rundown, but follow the label at the bottom of that post to see all the other things he’s posted on the subject.
Penemue, Mad Angel of Secrets, who taught people writing before it was meant to, and will say hello to you via personally-addressed thousand-year-old dungeon graffiti carved into the walls.
And the Incubus, which is fairly self-explanatory.
I really enjoy drawing fat girls.
Xanthuulia, Devotee of the Corpulent One.
Another character sheet commission for the adorable Wil McKinnee, Hakaak the half-orc who carries his halfling lady friend around on his back for “combat maneuvers”.
Did you know that I played a game with Wil where he jumped on a Pterodactyl being ridden by a javelin-thrower, stabbed it in the side, then used the sword as a rudder to make it crash dead into the ocean, backflipping away from it in the nick of time? Well I did, it was epic.