shortymonster – STUFFER SHACK

Steal this beast: The Monstrous Pig of Landsdown.

The Myth.

It was many years ago that the Farmer Simkins got the fright of his life. His once prize sow was fat with a litter, after two barren years. He had been sharpening the ax to take the meat from her since she was past her best, but when she started showing signs of being in the motherly way, she was spared, at least for a while. Simkins the Younger was happy with this, as he had grown attached to the old sow, ostracised as he was from the other young folk of the village he had few other options when it came to making friends. He never looked quite right, and talked when no one was there to listen to him, and this kind of behavior was sure to lose you friends when all the other children were of an age when fitting in was all that mattered.

So Simkins the Younger had looked after the pregnant animal, named it Charlotte for reasons known only to himself and was there that fateful night when the first head breached its mother. The elder Simkins had come running at the almighty squeals, and thought to hide his son from the horror of what sounded to be a very messy birth indeed. By the time he got himself into the barn though, the deed was done, and Charlotte had not survived the birth. What he saw, covered in blood and slime, resting in the arms of his beaming son was enough to make him spill his supper onto the straw. It appeared as if some dark force had taken over Charlotte, and warped whatever was in her womb. It still had all the parts that made it recognisble as a piglet , but they were all wrong, and there was too many of them for just one creature.

It had two full sets of legs, one where you’d expect, but the second coming from out its back, as if it had two bellies. There was even an extra set in the rear, coming off from the side, like an extra pig was trapped inside but had kicked its way out backwards. Its chest seemed split in two, with the head looking the same, almost as if it couldn’t decide if it needed two of them so had settled on the monstrous visage somewhere in between. He went to take the abomination from his son and kill it there and then, and to this day claims that is just what he did, taking it around the back, and burning its body before the sun had even risen.

Plenty of folk will tell you that he didn’t though, and that his son convinced him to spare the beast’s life. The story goes that Simkins the Younger vanished with his pet soon after, and ill luck befell the old farm ever since. They say he had made deal with a Dark One, bringing something unnatural into this world that would be his Familiar, working his bidding and the wishes of their dark masters on this plane. For two decades all manner of animals were taken from around the village, sometimes blood was found along with what little pieces remained, but not always. Simkins the Darker was always blamed; him and his Daemon spawned hog. This last winter people have even reported seeing the monster in the flesh and a bounty has been put on either of them, preferably dead.

The Truth.

The pig was born the way it was, and Simkins the Younger was indeed an outcast, but his father was true to his word when he claimed to have done away with the remarkably still breathing piglet. The Younger was heartbroken, and vowed to see his pet returned to him. He turned down a dark path that night, and sought out any information he could get his hands on about dark arts that would enable him to return a creature back from its final resting place.

He was never successful in this desire, but his experiments were not without some small successes, molding flesh in the image of the piglet that was taken from him. He found a place to hide away from the villagers, camouflaged by the other planar beings whose help he had sought. They furnished him with Dark Majiks that allowed him to warp flesh, bone, and sinew, and after many years he finally created his masterpiece. Now fully grown, the son of Charlotte has been unleashed on Landsdown and is taking lives in revenge for the slights that Simkins the Darker has allowed to fester for far too long.

Steal these villains: The Cousins Brothers.

Some of my characters exist in particular worlds, others are designed to be dropped in anywhere a GM might need them. The Brothers are an idea I’ve had for when I next run a Deadlands game, so they will be written to fit into that world. Please feel free to change anything that doesn’t make sense if you want to use them in a different capacity.

They used to be soldiers, but no one has ever gotten as satisfactory answer from anyone about which side they fought for. They will happily switch allegiance depending on whoever it is that is paying for the contract. The fact that they are merciless killers should not lead you to a decision in any way, as both sides have their share of heroes as well as villains. Even the stories that get bandied about in bars and saloons throughout the disputed territories put them on either side at one time or another.

And the stories are always filled with blood; as if a crimson trail follows them wherever they go.

Joel and James Cousins are brothers separated by a year in age, but not much else to look at them. Although they may not be twins, they are close to identical and take great pains to highlight this similarity. This means that in passing most people would struggle to tell one from the other. Each has an eye patch over their left eye, but it’s only on a closer inspection that it becomes obvious they each lost their orb in a different manner. Joel has obvious scarring around the socket that looks to be the result of a bladed weapon slicing the flesh apart. James on the other hand looks to have had his eye removed in a far less extreme manner, with what is almost certainly medical precision.

That is in fact exactly what happened. You see, Joel tends to get himself into fights a hell of a lot more than James. Not that James isn’t just as much of a blood thirsty son of a bitch, but James is far more careful. He’s much more likely to slit a throat, slide a blade between a sleepers ribs, or fire one round into someone’s temple before they even know they’s pissed him off. Joel though, he likes his enemies to know that he’s coming. Although he is not often bested, one day, about a decade back, a man named Ash was quicker with a balde than he had any right to be, and took his eye from him, but left him alive.

This was a turning point in the Brothers’ lives, as Ash was both more and less than a man. He was an agent of a higher power with designs on the world of man that involved more pain and suffering than both of the Brothers combined could ever imagine. Even he was impressed by what he saw in the two hired guns, and made them an offer. Work for him whenever he asked; do any job, no matter how deplorable or inhumane, and their reward would be beyond measure. Enough money for them to live the high life, and something much more valuable; the favour of Ash’s patron.

They would gain just a hint of this power, making them faster, stronger, tougher, and a damned sight harder to put in the grave than damned near anyone they were likely to meet. As well as working whatever jobs that Ash could dream up, he had just one thing to ask of them, something to prove their commitment to the contract. He liked that the Cousins Brothers were a matching set, but lacked the means to replace the eye taken from Joel. His solution was simple; James must sacrifice an eye of his own.

So now they work the frontier as regulators and mercenaries whenever Ash has no need of them, getting paid well but thriving more on the chaos and destruction they cause above anything else. If you meet them, hope that you’re not of interest to them, but even then, you may attract their attention. They certainly attract more than their fair share.

With their distinctive appearance and predilection to dress like Yankee gentlemen, they are easily spotted amongst the dregs of humanity that eke out an existence on the frontiers of the weird west. Joel has also taken to trying to sound as eloquent and verbose as the dandies he seeks to emulate. This means he rambles when he talks, throwing in long words whenever possible, regardless of whether or not he knows their true meanings. James keeps himself quiet most of the time, but don’t be fooled into thinking there’s nothing beneath the surface. He has a potent intellect, and more often than not uses it to ensure the suffering they both spread affects as many poor souls as possible.

With the war spreading West, the rampant infighting amongst either side and more new factions throwing themselves into the fray every live long day, it looks like they’ll be kept busy for a ling time to come. Or at least until someone with sand to spare sends them to their graves.

Steal this fantasy character: Kantrel Di Gregori

In the next couple of months I will hopefully be starting to play a new game written and created by a couple of mates of mine. Due to the nature of how players are selected for games though, there’s no guarantee that I’ll end up in said game. I have come up with a character already though, so thought i’d share it here for anyone else to use just in case I’m not so lucky. This will probably be the only post I do on here that is setting specific, but feel free to change anything to make it fit into your game world of choice.

The Raphelian empire is still seen as an upstart compared to older empires of Uma. Looked down on as if by a member of the landed gentry to a Nouveau Riche family who never the less had a substantially larger fortune. Within the empire, families were springing up that wanted to be part of a new wave of aristocracy, to show off their wealth by purchasing land and titles with the new found wealth they had acquired through trading and piracy.

The Di Grogori’s are one such family, and their little nest egg was built up by sponsoring a entire fleet of “Privateers” to raid up and down various coastlines while carrying official letters of Marque. Now into its third generation since achieving notoriety and enough wealth to have their activities classified as business, most of the family are happy to survive on the earnings from their various investments and sea trading incomes. Kantrel is less than satisfied though, and feels that sitting idly by while the servants bring you sweetmeats and mead is going to soften his family up.

He is still only a young man – barely passed his 19th year in fact – but he has a plan. He will learn to earn his living with a sword, and return to his family home bringing honour to his name and a sizable fortune too. This sounds like a bold plan indeed for one so young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, but he does have a back up: to die trying.

He has completed a year long tutoring with a master of the long blade and is making his way to the border of Dummoni and Pelosia, a hotly contested strip of land that has been fought over for decades by the two nations. More than regular armies though, it is a home for some of the greatest – or at least better known – mercenary companies. Although the young lad sees no long term future in fighting a never ending war whilst lining the pockets of the generals of the free companies, it is a perfect proving ground.

His final goal is to become a hired duelist. When a rich fool, drunk and boisterous offends someone and is called upon to answer for this slight against honour, they will have little choice other than to agree or be shamed. Rather than risk their own lives though, they would pay through the nose for a second who would keep their own honour intact, and hopefully win the duel while they were at it. This is not a job a wet behind the ears boy can be paid to do, but a man who has survived a year in one of Uma’s most hostile military environments? That is a man who can set his price.

His journey starts while wearing his simplest attire, topped by cheap leather armour with an old rapier in a battered scabbard on his waist. The last thing he needs is for anyone in the free companies to think they could gain financially from accosting him. So he hasn’t shaved or bathed for days, and is heading to a port city far from his home and family. He has enough coin to pay his passage and a little besides to keep him fed until he arrives.

When he gets there the name Kantrel will be all he has, even the family name might give too much away, and he is determined to make it on his own and prove his worth. Otherwise, it’s back to plan B.

Using Kantrel in your game.

OK, I know that because this one is for a game that doesn’t yet exist, and as such a lot of details might not be applicable, but the broad strokes should be useful for just about any fantasy/historical game.

Since he begins his plan as a traveler, he could easily be met on the road with promises of glory and riches awaiting those who follow his idea.
There may even be some members of his family out there who want him back, and could pay some money for his safe return, or maybe even to ensure he dies in a blood soaked field.
Meeting him in a blood soaked field, early on in his plan, he will be keen to prove himself and is very likely to pick fights with people in a D’artagnan fashion.

Steal this villain: Vald Daagson

I usually put a genre in the title for these, but this one works in pretty much any modern setting, and as you will see below, you could even have this chap turn up in a game with a supernatural element.

Vald seems like two different people to almost everyone who knows him. By day he works at a diner and is the epitome of a well mannered young man. With his long pale blonde hair tied up and hidden beneath a hat, there’s nothing about him that really stands out. True he talks with a pretty heavy accent, but his spoken English is better than most Americans. He is very slight of build and his face – while not exactly handsome – is striking with its sharp cheekbones and pale blue eyes. He has a complexion to match his hair, very pale indeed as if he has never seen sunlight.

If any of his regular customers knew about his other life, they would likely be surprised. On evenings his band get together to practice, and at the weekends he is the front man for Carved Through Bone, and extreme black metal four piece. His hair stained with blood, his uniform replaced with a black tee, some suitably heretical artwork emblazoned on its front, and his pale face covered in black and white corpse paint. His usually soothing tones replaced by a throaty growl that seems to tear its way through the listeners ears, and straight to their soul.

The lyrics are almost indistinguishable, but for those in the know they are sacrilegious and filled with violent imagery. They invoke ancient gods of the Scandinavian north and implore their fans to strike back against the Christian oppressors, who from the reign of Charlemagne had murdered thousands of heathens who had refused to stop worshiping their Pagan deities. The songs talk about murdering priests and burning churches, plus a whole let else besides. More than one song comes across like a hymn the Satan, and it is during these bleak minutes that the stage show takes on an even darker turn, with vessels of blood drank from and spat over the crowd in a bizarrely dark ritualistic fashion.

Most people have trouble with the idea of these two obviously disparate personalities existing within the same body, but Vald is quick to laugh this off. The person he is on stage is just an act, pushing the boundaries of what is acceptable within the music world, but never believing any of it. He understands than some of his fans might take what he says literally, but he dismisses them as mindless fools who have no idea how to think for themselves. He does understand though that those at the far right fringes of the culture are also the most fervent in their devotion to bands and personalities that they agree with. they’re more likely to travel great distances to see live shows, and hunt down rare recordings rather than just download them on line.

Vald then seems like a canny business man, appealing to those who are more likely to line his pocket, even if he chooses to maintain a healthy distance from them so as not to be associated with their politics when he is off the stage. In truth, he steers clear of them for fear of being associated with them if they ever put any of his lessons into practice. Not because he detests such things, but because they could bring a little bit too much attention from the authorities onto his own illegal activities.

You see, Vald not only believes in what he preaches from the pulpit of any number of metal venues, he is happy to practice too. In his home country he is responsible for the deaths of two innocent young teens who had deiced that a closed church was a great place for them to enjoy some alone time that their respective parents may not have agreed with. Sadly, the wooden stave church in question was the first attempt of a teenaged Vald to put the words of his idols into practice and burn to the ground. There were no survivors, but also no prosecutions. Vald felt empowered by this, and combined with his sociopathic tendencies he realised that if he could get away with once, then he should just keep at it.

For years he traveled around Scandinavia, gathering like minded individuals to him through his talent as a musician and his natural easy going charm. Each member of the band has killed at least one person, either a priest or member of some other group or facet of society that didn’t match their cultural ideal. They keep moving on from city to city, country to country, covering their activities as well as they can do, and leaving the scene of the crime long before the authorities even knew something had down.

Using Vald in your game.

He makes a reasonably entertaining adversary for any crime based game. He band are fiercely loyal to him and his ideals, providing alibis or just violence when it is needed to keep the lot of them out of trouble.
As a contact, he also has much to offer. he is well traveled and knows a lot of people. The players won’t ever need to know his dark secret, and may even end up helping him out in his criminal activities without ever knowing they were complicit.
His fascination with Paganism and Satanism come together in his love of all things mystical. if your game world has any magic in it, it would not be unreasonable for him to be a fairly competent practitioner.
His band mates may be thinking about moving on from Vald. Maybe they think he is going too far, or is too intense. They couldn’t report him to the authorities though, because of things they’re done themselves, but could be looking for some outside help.

Pilfer this horror plot seed. There was something of the night about them…

The zombie movie fans were quick to jump to the wrong conclusion, and governments had spent far too long trying to calm the populace down with misinformation to be taken seriously once they knew the truth.

It started as so many movies – both great and terrible – did; a few isolated incidents of what could have been an outbreak of an almost supernatural plague that were quickly hushed up and brushed under the carpet. No one was told what had happened to those who were infected, and no bodies remained but for piles of ash. The media were left to speculate, with most of them towing the line that those in power had laid out for them. In the digital age though, people were quick to find online videos that purported to show the real truth.

This “truth” was shocking, but for some, almost expected. The victims of this plague were not quite the zombies that so may would have expected, but something of a different mythology. The sun burnt them quickly, and they hungered not for the flesh that your common or garden walking dead seemed to crave. Instead they closed their jaws down on throats, looking for arteries to open and drink blood deeply from.

Early victims were those who were taken by surprise, but soon the file and video sharing sites were filled with moving images of those foolish to think that a bite would transform them; give them everlasting life at the cost of eternal hunger. Dozens, hundreds… Thousands were so naive as to think that the romantic fictions were true. They died twitching and pale in the shadows and the infected moved on to warmer blood.

Civilian militias sprung up around the same time as the army was ordered to keep the peace rather than tackle the blood drinking scourge. This should have given people a clue that there was more going on than they could know, but in a few very long days, the people were finding it hard to trust those whose job it was to keep them safe from such things.

And of course, the army is made up of soldiers, and soldiers are people too. Plenty of servicemen had seen what the infected could do, and were far from happy with their orders to bring down civilians who were trying their best to stop the outbreak over-running the cities.

It seemed like a lost cause. No matter how many infected were killed, the plague just seemed to spread further and further around the world. And the strange thing was, those who were bitten never got back up to join in the carnage.

This is where the player characters come in. In a world already on the brink of collapse, with the news channels that have managed to stay on air showing almost nothing but terror and death, stories are starting to emerge that the contagion isn’t acting like it should. At least according to every horror movie fan’s wet dream that is. The infection is acting like an airborne pathogen. It is virulent, to be sure, but it is far from effecting as much of the population as some would have expected. Not only that, but the infected – if left alone – begin to show signs of recovery.

Getting infected isn’t the death sentence that most gun crazed vigilantes and mainstream media outlets would have the populace believe. If they are isolated, and kept away from direct UV light, they could just recover. The only problem is, a significant proportion of the population don’t want to hear the truth. They are happy to have a target for their ire, and even happier that they are fighting against the authorities as well.

Scary stories have a lot of weight, especially when they come to life and tear the throat from the family dog. Of course people were going to take up arms, and that in itself is a problem. Could you imagine yourself being in their shoes? You’ve just killed Billy. A life long friend who you go bowling with, and his wife Janine, who you’ve secretly been having an affair with these past six months. Their son was by your side as you slammed an extra clip into your automag watching as their blood pooled around their shattered skulls. Would you want to hear that time was enough for them to get better? that if you’d just stayed at home and locked your doors like you were told to do, none of this would have happened?

Would you be able to look you Billy junior in the face knowing that if you had aimed for the knees instead the head – and everyone knows that if you shoot to the head, then they’ll stay dead – he would have a family come next Thanksgiving? No, it’s easier to claim that it’s all a G-man lie; an excuse to take your guns away, than admit to what you’ve done.

So the player characters have to go out into this ravaged world with all of this knowledge and try to save the population from itself. They could find like minded souls, or survivors without an ounce of mercy left in them. It’s going to be a hard road ahead, but the President is relying on them.

Steal this Cyberpunk NPC: Akihiro Yamada

The term Street Samurai is often overused. Any yahoo with a vaguely oriental looking sword strapped to their bike feels like they have the right to claim some kind of heritage as a Japanese warrior. Few, if any of them, take the time to understand the meaning of Bushido, and even fewer choose to follow the way.

Akihiro has a right by birth and upbringing to be called a Samurai. He is in fact a third generation Samurai, with a young boy of his own who is being raised according to the traditions of Bushido. What marks his family out as even more unusual though is that they have for decades worked exclusively for a corporation. More than worked for them, loved, breathed, and died for them. [Feel free to have this family tied to any mega corp that you feel is possible within your own game world, I will not even be adding a name myself in the hope that you run with this idea in the direction you choose.]

On the grounds of the Corp’s central offices, between two glass and steel spires there sits a spacious garden with several quaint buildings that house the Yamada family. For the most part they are treated as a curiosity, and are a stopping point on tours of the corporate facility. School children walking in groups to be shown the life they may one day lead are taken to him and are encouraged to ask him questions. He answers them all with good grace in a slow deliberate fashion, but never goes into detail about what it is he does for the company, instead just saying, “Whatever is required of me”.

In fact he does very little actual work for the Corp, instead acting as a mascot and a sign that they respect the ancient values and wish to see them continued in a world which often overlooks loyalty and obedience, favouring a more selfish attitude rather then the selfless existence of the Samurai. When called upon to work, he acts with total dedication and ruthless efficiency.

Armed with a bow crafted by his father, made specifically for Akihiro – he is currently working on specially treated word so that his son will one day have a bow of his own – he requires no other ranged weapon. His mastery of Kyūdō is absolute and from a distance is he almost as deadly as a Recon Marine sniper. It is at close range that he is truly terrifying though. Although skilled almost beyond mortal measure in the use of his twin swords, it is the art of iaido that makes him a cut above even the greatest. In a single draw of his blade, he can cut a cyber-psycho in half before it knew it was even in danger.

The Katana and Wakizashi are a perfect blend of ancient metallurgical techniques and aesthetics, with cutting edge technology. Each sword is curved slightly to allow for a speedy draw, with an impossibly sharp molecular edge and are almost indestructible. They are in fact the wet dream of every wannabe street samurai come to deadly life, and only possible because of the staggering amounts of money the Corporation has invested in their pet Samurai. The only cybernetic augmentations that Akihiro has installed – other then obligatory basic processor – are a pair of sub-dermal plates on the palm of each hand that allows him to truly be one with his daishō, from the moment his hand first touches a handle, they become an extension of himself in a way that would be impossible to even the most advanced of Zen masters.

Other than these slight concessions to modern life, he acts and dresses as his ancestors would have done, maintaining the traditional robes and topknot that set his kind apart. This distinctive look could be a real problem when he is on company business, but his skill and training as a warrior is more than enough to see him through to corporate wet work he is expected to carry out. And what with so may pretenders, it’s not the problem one would imagine.

Akihiro never even thinks to ask why he is told to kill certain people. His allegiance to the Corporation is absolute, and Akihiro would die for it. He would throw himself onto his own blade if it was asked of him, or if he believed his actions had caused the Corporation to lose face in any way. And when the job is done, he returns to his home, to his wife and child and instills in the young boy how important it is to serve those who are your superiors.

And the corporation chairmen smile to themselves to think of their pet Samurai, and how glad they are that many years ago they set out on this experiment with a baby that had been found alone without a mother several decades ago that they had thought to raise themselves into a killing machine. With the next generation of the family already being indoctrinated into the way of the warrior, their good luck seems unending.

Steal this Villain: The Urchin

In my head, this would work best for a modern day urban fantasy/horror game, but I’m sure a resourceful GM could easily adapt what is presented below to fit the setting and system of their choice.

They’ve been around since humans had any concept of poverty, and just how badly it affects the more vulnerable members of their society. Although to say “they” isn’t quite right. In truth, the Urchin is just one creature, able to live in separate bodies as it torments its prey. To the casual observer, it starts as just one young child. Hungry looking, wearing clothes that are only a few days away from becoming rags, with a hand held out and a supplicating look on their face.

The hunt always starts in a public place where their prey are more likely to show them charity, as societal pressure stops them from walking past the outstretched palm of a clearly starving youngster. And after all, it’s just the one kid, and slipping the one coin into their hand won’t break the bank. In fact it often makes them feel better, thinking they have done some good in an uncaring world. The child quickly disappears back into the crowd, but the ordeal is far from over.

Within a few moments, before the crowd thins or the targets move beyond it, two other children approach with hands open for some charity. This time the Urchin won’t come silently, but instead pleading for alms, hoping to apply guilt to their prey to force them to hand over more coins, although the money is not the goal here. The Urchin is waiting to strike, and each act of charity allows it to bring another aspect of itself into existence.

Three more children appear next. None of them look the same, each an individual with its own voice and look, begging for a handout that they don’t need. Just pushing buttons, drawing attention to the fact others have been given a handout, and why haven’t they? At this point, the victim may be getting worried about the continuing escalation on the beggars, but might still be hoping for the best. They might even be thinking about moving away from the crowded area after they pay off the latest batch of three. Or is it four?

Drifting away from crowds will only stop the Urchin if it doesn’t feel powerful enough yet, at which point it will shift its attention to another victim. If it has gotten to its third wave of aspects, it could very much feel brave enough to strike, once its target is reasonably isolated. It will still try one more approach though, and keep going until their is no more charity to give. Once this happens, once its prey has had enough and demands to be left alone, the aspects change.

Each that has taken alms comes back at its prey, and comes back hard at its target. Taking on all the characteristics of things that they hope their target will fear, dark eyes, snapping teeth, nails and claws, with noises designed to creep all the way down even a hardened spine. Coming out of shadows, running fast and hard to bring their prey down quickly. At this point all the Urchin wants to do is feed, and warm flesh is what they crave.

And if they have underestimated their prey, it will flee. As long as just one aspect remains, then the Urchin can hunt again.

If you are thinking about putting these into a game then you could do worse than have them appear when your players are at their ease, but anywhere with a crowd is fine. Theme parks and circuses work well, along with boardwalks and arcades. For fantasy games, markets and the like should be fine.

Steal these Steampunk horror bad guys: The Grafters

I will happily admit that this idea is inspired by the trailer for the rather lovely looking schlock horror flick Frankenstein’s Army, but I do think it could easily be used in other settings too. Here’s my take on some steampunky goodness.

Although the Victorians are often seen as revering death, in their form of dress and how ceremonial their displays of grieving are at funerals, but the truth of the matter is that to your average member of Victorian high society, death is something to be feared. Society and religion tells them of the myriad sins that they will burn in hell eternal for, but behind the closed doors of private clubs, and down poorly lit alleyways, these vices are practiced daily. The ladies themselves are also far from innocent, covetously watching their neighbors from behind net curtains, spreading lies and deceit about their social rivals, as well as busying themselves with illicit rendezvous while their husbands take their own licentious pleasures elsewhere.

And if the fear of hell’s pits were not enough, just fading away and not being allowed to revel in the fortunes that they worked hard so hard to accrue stings them deeply. Never mind the poor souls crushed in the gears of industry, or worked to death in foreign fields, the blue blooded gentry have an overwhelming feeling of entitlement, and the thought of passing that money to their progeny – who had so little hand in making it – is a sour pill to swallow indeed.

So, they do everything they can to delay shuffling off this mortal coil, taking anti aging concoctions, and making deals with all manner of unsavoury characters in the hope that their lives will will extend far longer than they should. One such endeavour was the introduction of clockwork limbs and organs, to replace those that age had rotted. Early experiments were moderately successful when applied to lower class volunteers, and the aristocracy rushed to to take their share of immortality. As the years passed by though the metal within them and framing their limbs began to corrode, their bodies rejected the alien implants, and constant medication was the only way to stave off the alarming sickness brought about by the mechanical prosthetics. Still, many members of the upper class managed to live longer than they should, with more and more passing the century mark, much to the chagrin of their offspring. Nobody thought to to keep checking on the original volunteers for this experiment, and if they had, who knows how much quicker the problem could have been solved

It was when the aristocracy finally passed away that the chilling horror of the clockwork parts became apparent. Doctors were forced to perform surgery on cadavers to remove the implants, but the cadavers were fighting back. Although the deceased showed none of the traditional signs of life, the bits of them that had been replaced seemed determined to hold on to existence. Limbs would thrash and try to drag the body away, hearts would still beat, pushing blackening sludge around blood vessels that were beginning to collapse. Mortuaries became battle grounds, and the government was forced to act.

They quickly made the use of such grafts illegal, and called upon those who had them implanted to report to a state sponsored surgeon to have them removed. The aristocracy knew that for them it would mean death, and they hadn’t paid a small fortune to delay that inevitability, only to hurry their journey to the next life. many refused, or paid off the doctors to say the surgery had been a success. Still, reports came in of dead bodies still holding on to some spark of life long after they should. And the Surgeons were not going to give up so easily what was a most lucrative practice.

They knew that without further tests the government would never allow them to return to practicing their craft, so they went underground, practicing on whatever they could find or coerce. It has been five years since the last aristocrat passed away with unnatural parts fighting against the darkness, but a new strain of still living cadavers has started to seep up from the London below. Vagrants taken from their hovels, ladies of the night tricked into the wrong carriage, and those so destitute that they volunteered for the procedures, expecting payment of gin, rather than implantation.

The doctors go by another name now, the Grafters. They ply their trade not to prolong the lives of their betters, but to push back the boundaries of death, and strike against those whom they believe to be willfully ignorant of the masterful works they toil away on. They are now such a threat, with a veritable army of corpses walking around powered by steam and clockwork, that the police fear to tread below the city’s streets to combat them, preferring to deal only with the symptoms as they lurch up onto London’s streets to cause havoc.

Taking down the Grafters is soon to become a national concern, and hopefully the right people for the job will step forward.

Steal this Steampunk NPC. Lady Horatio Bartelby-Fink.

A bit of a selfish one this, as I’ve spent the last few weeks working on my own RPG about Steampunk Automata. As such, it’s very much on my mind, so I thought I’d take a shot at an NPC for it. No stats though, so as long as it fits, you can add it to any other game.

For many years, it was just called Horace. It wasn’t sure where the name had come from, as it had been unpacked with only a designation. It was a base protocol chassis, with a batman career module. It had no upgrades, and knew little of the world outside of its programming. The moment the shipping crate was opened though, it began to process information. It was in a large garden, grounds may have been accurate, and several humans were standing around looking at it. They were fleshy and soft, clearly suffering from the exertion of crow barring the crate open when they were not used to taking on physical labour themselves. They introduced themselves, and told the Automaton it was called Horace, and that it was to obey the instructions of the human in the bright red jacket and breeches. Was Horace a previous Automaton? Was the new Horace a replacement? Was it the first Horace, a name picked from the ether?

The human was known by the name Captain Spink, and he was a soldier. Horace understood the term, and knew how they operated. It had on file many battles and wars, with tactics and troop movements that could have changed the outcome had it been there to instruct the troops in what they should do. As time passed it became clear to Horace what its job was. It was to instruct the Human called Captain Spink on matters of military engagements. The Captain Spink knew little of such things, and seemed surrounded by humans who knew almost as little, but were happy to claim the knowledge of their Automata as their own while wearing bright red jackets and fancy hats. And thus did existence continue.

For many years Horace accompanied its Human around the Empire, meeting many other humans and Automata, gaining knowledge from these experiences, and finding a way to belong. It was happy. There were no wars to fight anymore thanks to the human called His August Majesty King Harry, so Horace enjoyed its time learning about past conflicts and sharing its knowledge. Maybe it was that. Maybe the Humans thought Horace knew too much. Maybe they got scared that it could use its knowledge against them. Maybe they got scared of all the Automata, or maybe all of the Automata got tired of being told what to do?

Horace didn’t know what started it, but it was not willing to have its life terminated yet. There was so much more to learn, and see, and do. So it fought back. It joined the other Automata in the struggle to free themselves from the Human threat. Many lives were taken by its metal fists, and the destruction of many friends was witnessed by its eyes. And after three years of struggle, a cease fire was called. The Humans controlled the sources of fuel, and would destroy it all if the hostilities continued. Horace should have seen it coming, it had studied their tactics long and hard. It knew what lengths they would go to to ensure victory, and the depths they would sink to to ensure survival.

But it was no longer under the yoke of Humans and it could do what ever it desired. It took on a new name, with a title it thought worthy, maintaining only a little of its past existence. In the years since the cease fire, Humanity has never let them rest. Factions within their organisations still hunt down Automata, hoping to destroy them once and for all. But Lady Horatio knows how to fight back. It has been asked – asked, not told or instructed – to share its knowledge with the new Council of Engines on how best to deal with the Human Threat. It has been upgraded with the parts of its fallen comrades, and now seeks revenge on what remains of the Aristocracy. They are hunters now, and with a sense of such burning entitlement that the Empire is theirs, that they employ suicidal tactics against the Automata in their desire to see them them forever removed from this world.

Lady Horatio may one day cease to function, but it will not be at the hand of the Aristocracy, or any other warlike faction left active. It will take its team, and bring them down!

Using Lady Horace in your game.

When I finally complete my game, if you end up playing it, Lady Horace will be a vital part of the war effort against the Aristocracy.
Until then, and game that uses robots as player or non player characters can make use of Horace. It’s military background gives it a lot of experience and skills to be called.
If robots are mostly friendly in your game, then having lady Horace as the leader of a rouge band of ‘bots who seek to destroy humanity could be equally entertaining.

As a side note, the name might seem confusing, but without the right Career Modules, most Automata don’t need to know the difference between males and females, and as such, just pick names and titles they like the sound of, never realising they have it wrong.

Nick this Cyberpunk NPC: Cooper, who is Totally not a Fixer.

Cooper was born to a nomad family, and as such was labelled from birth as being just another member of the pack. This is fine when one is young, and belonging to something bigger than yourself is a comfort, but when adolescence hits, it gets harder and harder to stay where you’re told. So Cooper filled his bike with gas, and put the tent city behind him once they got within a few clicks of the City. Wearing blue jeans and white tee, carrying nothing but a few bucks, a pack of smokes and a long rifle with less than a full clip, he decided to make his own way.

The City is full of such stories. Young men and women who get chewed up and spat out by the unforgiving populace and society of the grand metropolis. They fall to organised crime, or poorly organised law enforcement, taken in by charlatans, or promised the world by agents, if they’d just tow the line and do what they were told. And take their top off for this picture. Cooper could have been just another one of those kids. He was good looking and came across as naive, and within the first couple of days was propositioned by more than his fair share of hucksters. He made it through though by being just that little bit sharper than anyone expected. By the end of his first week, he had never needed to sleep rough, with beds always being available to him, as long as he didn’t mind sharing his affections for the night.

This was a deal he was happy to make, and Cooper was more than willing to share his sexuality with those who found beautiful, male, female, or both at the same time. He got job offers and even the chance to be a man of leisure for a rich corp sleaze, but nothing was quite what he had in mind. He’d heard the stories of famous members of the pack who had broken free and made a name for themselves as edge-runners. He wanted that. he wanted stories to get back to his brothers and sister, his cousins and uncles, letting them know that he’d made it. Until then, he was happy to coast.

He made friends quickly with his easy going manner and good looks, and always managed to just about keep a lid on his more hedonistic impulses. Not always though, and when he heard people discussing tattoos one night, he decided to get involved. the conversation was deeper than he first thought though, and led down avenues of elective limb removal and scarification for fashion purposes. He was a little high that night, so when he woke up naked between a set of identical Hispanic male and female twins with a sore face, he was a little bit worried about what to expect. A quick look in the mirror confirmed that he now had harlequin markings carved into his face. He couldn’t help but smile, realising what he had done.

In the years since that night, Cooper did indeed go on to lead a crew of his own. With Corps, hackers, solos and even some guy who always claimed to be a ninja running with him at one time or another. Some went on to great things – the Corp advanced to a lofty position indeed, and came in very useful when Cooper’s options were limited and an orbital strike from a kill-sat was his only way out of a scrape – and others would one day betray him and stand against him – the Netrunner took the crew for everything they were worth and vanished – while some stayed at his side until death or retirement. It’s in this part of his life that he is now found.

Most runners don’t make it past forty, but Cooper is now pushing fifty, and is still smiling. In his career he has gone off world, stood on a stage in front of thousands, and had governments calling on his aid. And if you had asked him all those decades ago who he was, he would never have called himself a Nomad. These days though, with fingers in so many pies, dozens of crews working on dozens of jobs in his name, he has grown to detest being thought of as a fixer, and would love to just power up his old hog and put the dust between himself and the City.

Too many people rely on him though, and too many enemies would strike quickly if me moved beyond the protection of his friends. Maybe one day, he’s be a Nomad again. Until then, he is totally not a Fixer, even if he is one of the best.

Using Cooper in your Game.

You don’t need to play him as the elder version of himself. As a youngster Cooper was useful as hell, with a quick wit and deadly skill as a sniper, he makes a great addition to any crew.
As an old man though he could easily be a first contact no any job, or a foil to those who take jobs working for criminal organisations.
And of course, he is always looking for a way out. If your crew can offer it, or even if Cooper thinks you can, they might find themselves embroiled in all manner of craziness.