Category: Steal this Enemy

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I promise, this is the last of the crew, and I’ll do something different next week.

It is well known that a handful of years ago, Lucius’s countrymen invaded the city state. Lucius did what a lot of ex-legionaries did and strapped his armour on, grabbed his shield and gladius, and went down to the docks to help repel the invaders. This made it a lot harder for the invading army than they would have liked. The packed and winding streets meant that it was near impossible to maintain unit discipline, and the fact that the people fighting them were often wearing the same armour made it very dangerous indeed. On several occasions units fell to pieces for minutes at a time before regrouping to take another stand. This carried on for hours.

Lucius was there, and almost died defending his adopted home from the soldiers of his past existence. So was Gaius, but on the other side and totally unaware of man who might once have called him a brother, and who would one day do that very thing. In the final hour Gaius’ unit was once again pulled apart and scattered. The invading army had not expected so much resistance, especially since their government had deep pockets and had bribed at least a couple of watch cartels to back down from the fight, or throw in with the invaders. The city folk were not going to go down easy though.

When Gaius looked for his fellow legionaries they were turning tail and heading back to ships that were already burning in the docks, and he was surrounded by city folk. It was all over, far quicker than it had any right to be. But he was far from an idiot, and knew his options were limited. He had already spotted others from his home land fighting against him, wearing armour that matched his own. All it took was swiftly pulling his double crossed belt off and dropping it before anyone noticed, and he should be fine. The belts were new, only issued to the rank and file three months ago, and set the invaders apart. Then he just started shouting abuse at his fleeing comrades. He knew less than a handful of words in the language of the city, but jeering and insulting seemed to be the order of the day.

For the next week he survived by theft and intimidation, taking food and money as and when he could, but trying to keep himself from being noticed. Luckily, it was men from the northlands who were taking the brunt of the city’s distrust. Many of the watch cartels who had sided with the invaders were made of men from the snowy north, and as such they were hounded and abused in the streets, many taking the worst possible punishment for such betrayal.

Eventually Gaius was caught with property that did not belong to him, and had to run through the city to escape being brought in front of the law. His lack of understanding of the native tongue would certainly do him a disservice, and could easily lead to him being uncovered as an invader. So he ran until cornered, and then fought. It took longer than it should have done until he realised that he wasn’t fighting men in uniform, but what looked like dock hands and barge-men. He was still outnumbered though, so asked for mercy.

Luckily for him, one of the men spoke his language, and after a few minutes hasty translating, the situation was explained. Well almost, Gaius knew he was still in danger so fabricated the truth somewhat, claiming that he had peeled away from the invading force as soon as they had landed, and had been hiding since then, stealing to stay alive, not trusting that the legions wouldn’t return. He must have been convincing as the men led him away and fed him in a watering hole called the Silver Skrite, The food was terrible, and the beer worse, but he made a couple of friends, and even got some dog’s body work to tide him over.

It was never going to be enough to keep him going though, and before long he was asking for other better paying jobs. And then one night, he found himself back in the Skrite, stood in front of an ex-legionnaire and a red headed archer, getting told what would be expected of him in the criminal cartel known as the Lethain Umbruc. He has since worked side by side with the crew, trusting to his guile to keep them from the truth, and struggling daily with the idea that he is know a career criminal. There may never be a way back for Gaius, but as long as he keeps the crew on side, he should be safe.

Using Gaius in a game.

•  Gaius is a big lad, barrel chested and broad across the shoulders. Any criminal gang would be happy to have him on side, and he has spent many a year in the legion training to be a soldier. Useful for almost any game.
• If you’re using the crew at all, he’s a well respected member, but quieter and less prone to drinking than the others. Probably for fear that alcohol might loosen his tongue and cost him his secret.
• If the players have it in them, they could offer him a way out in exchange for information on the cartel.
• Gaius is the only member of the crew is not a criminal by choice, but by necessity. To cover up for this, he has become a master con man, capable of fooling some of the sharpest minds in the cartel. If something pushed him far enough, he would be a force to be reckoned with as a master criminal.

Being the only progeny of one of the city’s richest families meant Red had a very easy life early on. If she had been born a son, her most pressing concerns would have been finding a wife and not frittering away the family fortune. It was not the case though, and her father doted on her magnificently. Everything she wanted was provided, every whim acceded to, no matter the cost. When she expressed an interest in her family’s business, her father Gregor, was more than happy to take her under his wing. She was invited to all the best parties, and paraded around like a prize heifer to all. Lellandra was not happy being treated like this, and pushed more and more to learn of what her father did.

As in all things, Gregor gave in to her will, and began teaching her about imports and exports, hoping that she would soon grow bored and move onto other things, as she had done after spending a summer determined to learn how to use a warbow. He was partly correct, but not in the way he had hoped. She grew bored with figures and mules, and started to wonder how her father made as much money as he clearly did from such ventures, when the profit margin was low, and the risk factor high. She began asking the wrong kinds of questions, and angered Gregor with her curiosity. The the right questions started; finding out just who her father dealt with, and how the profit on his illegal activities could be increased.

By this point she was in too deep and Gregor saw no other option but to bring her fully into his business dealings. For two years, she was happy with her life, enjoying the thrill of it all, without ever thinking about who the family was hurting to make its money. She started coming up with schemes of her own, and Gregor encouraged this; her freshness meant paths to riches that he had blinkered himself to through years of treading the same path. On more than one occasion, she joined in on overland trips to ensure no problems prevented coin from finding its way into the Vespera coffers. Until of course, it did go wrong.

She knew how important this was, and how much money it would make. More than that though, just how many enemies her father would make if he failed to deliver what he had already taken payment for. She wasn’t ready though. Her warbow was barely a help, and her lack of experience in leading men meant that the guards scattered as soon as they knew what was going on. Lellandra had no choice but to do the same, or die. She fled her city and became “Red”, took a job with a conjurer that was set to travel the continent. Her father wouldn’t think to search for her in the company of a Wizard, but she hoped he thought of her as dead in the ashes of his caravan. Although she was his beloved daughter, in matters of business, he was ruthless beyond measure.

She had seen the anger in him, and heard tales of business dealings gone sour, and his former partners’ bodies being found after unimaginable horror was visited upon their physical form. She was far from sure he would not do the same with her for letting him down, and so chose not to risk encountering him. IN her time away from her home, she devoted many hours of practice to the warbow, hoping to never again be let down in a fight because of her confidence outweighing her experience. She Also picked up a thing or two about magic, and wields what she calls the “Heart’s Fire” to a deadly degree. She has yet to learn total control however, and risks herself – both mind and body – whenever she uses her gift. The more destructive force she unleashes, the greater her chance of harm.

Only two years ago she moved back to the city, but kept away from the high born and business districts. Gravitating instead towards the waterfront docks and taverns, it didn’t take her long to fall in with the Shadow cartels. She has the criminal credentials to lead a crew of her own, but prefers to stay working with others, in the hope that this will keep her away from her Father’s attention. So far it has worked, but who knows what fall out to expect if the two should ever cross paths again.

Using Red in your game.

• Like the last few, she is a part of the Lucius crew. The closest in fact to a second in command, as she has a lot more experience than most, and being born to the city, knows how it works.
• It is possible for player characters to be hired by either Red or her father to pull off a job, and the conflict of interests could easily spark a plot line all of its own.
• And of course, they could just be hired by the father with the express mission of hunting down his daughter after rumours start to fly about her return to the city. This would bring the players either against a formidable enemy in the shape of Red, and even more so in the form of the crew, and the Cartel as a whole.

Another member of the Lucius crew, and I thought I’d give you a magic user of sorts, this time round.

In his home country, summoning a Daemon to do a job is normal. People who can do so well are highly prized, but almost half the population have the ability to bring forth smaller denizens of the other realm to work for them. What is key though, is that they are not bound into servitude. Instead a deal is struck, and they are paid for their labours in a matter agreed upon by both parties. Sentient Daemons are afforded all the rights of other sentient creatures, first amongst those is that they shall not be bound into slavery of any kind. They walk freely amongst the cities, and some of the more powerful beings even attain office in government. But, having such a powerful creature bound to your every whim, would make a man powerful indeed.

Drona began summoning daemons when he was but a child, and quickly revealed an aptitude for the craft. He was given all the schooling required and in his early twenties was already regarded as one the most highly gifted Daemonologists the college had produced in living memory. He continued to push the limits of his craft, but quickly realized that those whom he sought to bring into his world were too powerful to be contained, or too clever to be bargained with.

As a man of fierce pride, he was often frustrated by these impositions on his talent, so he began to devise ways of containing such beings in a manner that would allow him to stay in control. In deep caverns in the desert that surrounded the cities of his homeland, he created wards and controls that would bind such creatures to his will, turning them into instruments and tools, removing from them the freedom to act as they saw fit. For several years he worked secretly and with each success, saw to push further the boundaries of what was thought possible by the rest of his order.

It was his pride that was his undoing though, and in the end an entire city would pay for his sins. He never saw the cracks in his defenses, believing himself to be the superior to any Daemon that he could summon. Adramalech Daemon-prince of swords was something that no Daemonologist had encountered before though. In human terms, he would be a God to the Daemons, taken from a realm separate even to that of the Daemons that had been summoned in the past. How Drona stumbled upon it is a question for another time, but one which haunts him still. The Prince quickly shook free the bindings that had held other Daemons, and walked the sands towards the light of the city. Drona did what he could, but almost every life was taken before Adramalech was brought to his knees. The most powerful of Daemons that Drona had so far summoned were all brought to bear on the being, and eventually it was weakened enough to be banished.

The city lies there still, haunted by creatures allowed free reign due to the scars left in reality by the battle. And Drona was left a shadow of his former self, mind addled by the fight. He left his home land behind and looked for new shores. When he arrived at the city, he saw few daemons, and those that walked were bound, and of limited power. As he tried to ply his trade he suffered abuse at the hands of the city dwellers who trusted not the power of Daemons. It was a member of the criminal cartel who saw the chance for profit in his gifts.

He was given run of the sewers beneath the halls of the cartel, and put to work. Although far from his prodigious best, he has recovered somewhat and has proven useful indeed in summoning creatures at the will of others to aid in their criminal endeavours. And still he works beneath the city, reclaiming his lost knowledge and testing his mind against others who live in realms not of his own.

In appearance Drona looks considerably older than his 32 years. The battle against Adramalech was hard on his mind and body, and he appears to have aged by at least two decades more than he should have done. He wears the robes of his old order still, but by some strange twist of fate, his skin is not as dark as the others who were born to his desert culture, instead looking more Mediterranean than Arabian.

Using Drona in your game.

• As mentioned before, if Lucius is a part of your game world, then Drona will be a part of his crew. Although they do not get on at all. Lucius does not trust the Daemonologist, and abhors the idea of living creatures bound into slavery. His boss knows Drona’s value though, and has forbidden him to act on his mistrust. Drona knows this well, and constantly pushes Lucius’ buttons.
• As a solo antagonist, Drona could be a main villain to a campaign all on his own. He can summon powerful beings, but may not always be able to control them.
• He is also very knowledgeable indeed about his craft, and if others are using Daemonic means to harass the player characters, his advice is easily sought. Although it may not always be trusted.

I’m afraid the regular readers here will have to indulge me on my next few posts. I had a great time last week writing up Lucius, and I have since been working out some other members of his crew. What follows is the first of several that all work with the disgraced Legionnaire. After the description there will be a small section on how to work them into your current game, if you have need of such a character, and I will make sure that each can stand alone if you don’t want to take the whole set.

The first thing that stands out about Stalland is his height. Not because he is a giant of a man, as so many are who come from the Northlands, but because he is actually closer to the average height of any other city dwelling male. This makes him particularly short by Northlandish standards, but everything else about him is so obvious from that cold and empty region, that none doubt he is from where he claims. The long blond hair and brown beard, often with precious metals and gems wound into them, if he is not expecting a fight, are almost enough to give him away. Add to that the fine hand axe hanging from his belt, and the picture is almost complete. His build makes him look a little shorter, being fairly heavy set, with a barrel chest and a stomach that almost matches, means those close to him can be overheard calling him such nicknames as “half-pint” and “little brother”.

Only those whom he respects get to talk about him like that, and he is quick to respond to anyone else who thinks they have a right to insult him as such. Unlike his relatives to the North, he will not quickly draw steal and seek to insert it into his foes, instead he will disarm with this quick wit. Stalland is a poet and raconteur of the highest order, and in almost every instance can leave his tormentor at a loss for words and the subject of such carefully woven scorn that they will retreat rather than allow themselves to be mocked even more.

Sadly not everyone is so delicate, and it is at this point that his usefulness to the criminal cartels comes into play. In a flash he can throw two small hand axes with unerring accuracy, and swiftly follow them with a charge, his hand axe leading the way. Although he looks a little portly, and his style of living does nothing to help matters, he is still in his prime and fights like a beserker once he closes on his enemies. swinging his axe brutally into them, he also kicks, punches, and bites until they fall before him.

Once the dust has settled, even his closest friends know to give him some room to catch his breathe, and will do nothing but make sure his tankard is full and wait for him to compose himself. Within a few moments, all will be back to normal, and apart from some blood spatters, it is as if nothing has happened. Stalland will continue regaling the crowd with stories of his home land, breaking into fine verse with his melodious voice and making all the serving girls weak at the knees with nothing but a smile.

When there’s work to be done, Stalland uses his silver tongue to great result, holding his own with professional confidence tricksters and talking his way through locked doors and into bedrooms, all so that money can be made. His reluctance to draw a weapon is both a blessing and a curse, depending on the situation. There are times when subtly is required at all costs, but once he has been pushed too far there is little to be done to stop him in his rage. At other times swift and merciless brutality is all that is required, but without the rage taking him, Stalland’s poetic soul can often stay his arm. All that being said, he is still a very useful person to have involved in any criminal enterprise, and his friends within the cartel, and specifically inside his crew, are always happy to defend him, regardless of his faults.

Bringing Stalland into a game.

• If you are already using Lucius, then the job’s been done for me!
• If not, then Stalland is happy to be paid for his work as a bruiser on any job. As a GM, just don’t forget that he is not always to be relied upon.
• In any bar fight, there’s a chance that Stalland could be involved, maybe even the instigator. Fighting against him will be a very hard challenge, as he is an experienced warrior with a beserker’s temper. Once calmed down, he will seem like a different person, but the damage he has done to other patrons, is not something easily ignored.

Born to an army camp whore, he had few options in life other than to join the outpost garrison he found himself at as a young man. Scrawny and ill suited to military life, he did the bare minimum required to get by without too many punishment lashings, and quickly did everything in his power to make his life as easy as possible. With a quick wit, and a sliver tongue, he ended up in the Quartermaster’s employ, and made firm friends with the old and grizzled legionnaire. The old Bear could see no wrong in his young charge, ignoring the missing supplies – putting it down to book keeping errors and the innate trustworthiness of the the rest of the corp, rather than the pilfering of young Lucius.

This carried on for a few years, and by accident more than design, Lucius picked up the basics of soldiering, all the while stashing money for when he would one day leave. Although that day was always on the horizon, Draco had a comparatively easy life, and was raking in money at the expense of the army, while the Bear’s blindness became physical, rather than emotional, and allowed him even more opportunities for thievery and black market dealings. And of course, he pushed his luck…

Selling armour to the enemy was always going to be risky, but the rewards were just too good to pass up. When his officers saw a barbarian horde screaming towards them wearing armour of the XVI legion strapped inexpertly about their persons, questions were asked. It wasn’t just the loss of equipment though, lives had been lost as they struggled to defeat an enemy that on previous encounters had fallen easily. Draco was going to die for his crimes, and he knew it. The night before his execution, he was ready to repent his sins, and would of done if the Bear hadn’t saved him. With a small pouch of coins, and dressings for the wounds inflicted during his questioning, Lucius was smuggled out of the camp in the dead of night.

Sadly, the fact that had been saved, meant he never learnt the lessons he should have done about right and wrong, and as soon he found his way to a major city, he quickly made contact with the a shadow cartel, and started putting his talents to use. His quick tongue got him a crew of confidence tricksters in no time, and before long they were talking their way into the purses of the city’s most respected community leaders. No Robin Hood style robbing from the rich to give to the poor for Lucius and his crew; they took money from wherever they could get it, targeting the wealthy and naive who listened to various sob stories.

He also found that even his basic training meant that he was the equal of most street toughs in the city. What they had on him in the way of size and strength, he more than made for in speed and precision, mixed in with a fairly healthy dose of dirty tricks. Through his years in the city, he has become strangely proud of his time in the army, and although he had his legion tattoo covered up fairly quickly, he still carries a legion approved short sword on his belt, and dresses in the style of his homeland. He even goes so far as to repeatedly correct people on the proper pronunciation of his name: Sounds more like Luke than Lucy, just so you know. Pretty big talk from a man who can barely read.

When not working hard to screw over his marks, he can be found in waterfront taverns within the territory his guild controls, and is always up for a drink and a laugh. Just be wary of trusting too much that he says, as he is so very rarely not planning his next move. Pretty much the only thing that curbs his relentless spirit is the understanding that it doesn’t pay to shit where you eat. If you live or run a business within his guild’s territories, then you’re pretty safe from his machinations. There are other people, in other jobs who come round to take “insurance payments” from the locals. This means that to those who live and drink nearby, Lucius and his crew are considered stand up fellows, and they will more often than not be happy to provide alibis when asked.

Using Lucius in your game.

There are two simple ways to bring him in as major player, and they both depend on where the player characters fall in the goody guy/bad guy spectrum.

• His confidence tricks are wide ranging and often long in their execution. this means that every once in a while, a mark might start to get suspicious, and ask for help. if the player characters are more hero than not, it would be easy for them to be hired to investigate whatever scam you have Lucius currently pulling.
• Of course if the players have a criminal past themselves, Lucius would happily hire them if needed. Since they’re not part of his crew though, he would have no problem double crossing them and leaving them to hang if things go wrong. Only his superiors within the cartel would really be able to convince him against such a course of action, so if the PCs are in with the cartel then they might just be safe.
• And if you don’t want him as a major player, he’s a great source of information about dockside rumours and criminal activities, and if offered a part in a job already on the cards, could be convinced to lend a hand. But see the above point about his inherent trustworthiness.

Image by inklou