Participating in this event are the following stellar bloggers:
- +Travis Milam with his blog The Rambling Roleplayer
- +Alasdair Cunningham with his blog Iron Rations (That's me)
- +Mike Bridges with his blog Greyhawkery
- +Mark Van Vlack with his blog Dust Pan Games
- +Jens D with his blog The Disoriented Ranger
- +Stelios V. Perdios with his blog The Word of Stelios
- +Charles Akins with his blog Dyvers
- and last (but not least) +Sean Bircher with his blog Wine and Savages
A while ago, I had an idea for a tongue-in-cheek band of pitchfork/ flaming torch wielding, do-gooders, that I labelled P.I.T.C.H.F.O.R.K. I imagined that those who have been wronged, or harmed, by the forces of evil could hire them to right any wrongs. Admittedly, I had been reading more than my fair share of Grant Morrison's work at the time, and envisioned the Pitchfork crew as a motley assortment of heroes, but without the super-powers of course.
When the chance to participate in Vengeance Week came up, I knew immediately what I wanted to do, and that was to tell the other side of the coin as it were. Who does your Arch-Villain turn to when his nefarious plans have just been thwarted for the umpteenth time? Where does evil go when they need help? Who do they hire when they need to get, R.E.V.E.N.G.E?
R.E.V.E.N.G.E.
(You won’t like them when they’re angry)
you've got
trouble in your life of love
you got a
broken heart
he's double
dealing with your best friend
that's
where the teardrops start
pick up the
phone, I’m here alone
or make a
social call
come right
in forget about him
we'll have
ourselves a ball
dirty deeds
done dirt cheap,
dirty deeds
done dirt cheap,
dirty deeds done dirt cheap
dirty deeds
and they're done dirt cheap
dirty deeds
and they're done dirt cheap
AC/DC
Rictus
He
slumbers, ursine, his dreams filled with the sights and sounds of a homeland now
drowned under the weight of the ages.
It is
dry and unbearably hot in the full blight of the sun. They cling like leeches
to the shade, fanning themselves, idle, lazy, watching the slaves toil and
sweat and die, as the temple gongs ripple like a heat wave through the city.
The
dream is sharper now, more vivid. His nostrils are engorged with the bouquet of
sultry spices, incense, and the scent of desert blooms caught on the breeze.
Goats, slaves, and other chattel fill the
market places with their heated discussion and bellicose bargaining; and
everywhere he goes, those around him drop to their knees in reverence.
Such is the power of the Lord of Hawks.
He spies a kohl eyed beauty at his sandaled
feet. He taps her on her shapely back with his golden scepter and bids her
rise. She is canny. She does not look into the depths of his avian mask. He
leads her to his abode at the heart of the city.
He is rough at first, then gentle, and finally
he sleeps, while his lust cools like the stones of the city beyond his window, outside
in the gathering dark.
The day has run its course, the shadows pool
and solidify as a cacophony of gongs and trumpets herald the end of day,
because Ra, ever fickle, demands constant adoration, lest he cast the world
into endless night.
He hears a noise, closer this time, someone
is in his chamber. He opens his eyes but he is too late. They surround his bed,
tall, robed, masked, daggers flashing in the last rays of the day. His blood
sprays, ejaculating toward the ceiling before falling down onto the sandy floor
like the first rains of spring. He is undone, deceived, betrayed. He is dead.
But is he?
Time passes.
He cannot move. The walls press tightly
around him. Torchlight flickers drunkenly before his resting eyes. His slumber
is disturbed. A grunt, a groan, the scraping of stone on stone. He smells
unwashed bodies thick with sweat and the unmistakable aroma of fear.
Then, suddenly,
hands moving over his body, searching, grabbing, pulling… looting. He’s had
enough. He lets out a low moan and sits up, slowly. He is appalled at the noise
his joints make as he moves. They creak, like the timber of his boats when he
sails them down the mighty Elin River.
He
opens his eyes. There is screaming now. He tries to make sense of where he is, what’s
going on. He is in a room, a chamber, it echoes, there are piles of his belongings
all around him on the floor: Mummified cats and servants, gold, jewels, all his
earthly possessions radiate outward from around him like the petals of a
sunflower.
He is not alone. There are others here,
moving backwards, terror painted on their faces as he climbs steadily from his…
bed? What is this thing? A sarcophagus? Is it his? Is he dead?
But if
he is dead, then how can he move? He grabs the mewling tomb robber closest to
him and breaks his scrawny neck. He flings the corpse at the others and laughs
in a dry, grating manner, as they collapse under the weight of their dead
companion.
Soon
they are naught but bloody heaps on the tomb floor, and the Lord of Hawks is
alone once more with his thoughts.
Rictus
awakes. He sits up slowly and adjust his cloak. He might be dead, but he abhors
the chill and the damp on his desiccated flesh and dried out bones. He looks
around the room and feels at peace watching the other members of his group
doing whatever it is they do during the long, dark, watches of the night. Here,
amongst the most reviled creatures in the realm, he feels at home. They are kith
and kin to him now and he would die for them if need be; because if there is
one thing that Rictus has learned over the last thousand years or so, it is that
death, is not the end.
Rictus is a Mummy. Use the applicable stats
for whatever system you are playing, with a few exceptions:
1) He
has a bag of dust, which when emptied into the palm of his hand and blown upon
his enemies, acts as a sleep spell. (See your relevant PHB for spell
information). This can happen twice per day.
2) He
can summon a horde of locusts to confuse and obfuscate magic-users and clerics to
prevent them from casting spells or turning undead. The swarm will be in effect
for 1d10 rounds or until dispelled. Again,
this can happen twice per day.
3) He
is armed with a captured Persian Peshkabz (curved dagger) that gives him
immunity to all fire, either magical or mundane. If the weapon is not in his
hands, or on his person, then the protection ends, and he may succumb to flame.
Eerie
He had
been begging for alms outside the Church of the Slumbering Suppuration in a
quiet town called Barton’s Weevils, when he saw them for the first time. He could
see they were the business, they were just so, menacing. They looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world,
like agents of change answering the prayers of others.
Eerie decided then, and there, that he wanted
to belong to that, no matter what, and no one was more astounded than he when
they asked if he wanted to be a part of their coterie. They applied soothing
balms and ointments to his wounded skin, dressed him in clean clothes, fed him,
and gave him more coin in a single afternoon than he had seen in a lifetime.
And all they wanted in return was his undying
loyalty, and a little information…
Eerie, sick of a life of being of being spat
on, shat on, laughed at, and mocked for his disfigured appearance, wanted
nothing but the sweet, sweet, taste of revenge. He’d spent years pushing all
that hurt and negativity down into the nether parts of his soul, his
consciousness, just about any place he wouldn’t have to think of the state he
was in, or the role he played in his world. He said yes, yes, and yes, a
thousand times over. Finally, he felt like if he belonged.
Eerie, born to the gutter, contracted leprosy
sometime after his Nameday. Since then, he’d spent his time invisible to just
about everyone who crossed his path. It had been a hard life made even harder
by the cruel jibes of the local cleric, Father Swells. He was supposed to be a
kindly soul, the Father, but Eerie knew that all donations to the church went
toward the upkeep of the slovenly cleric, and not for the impoverished as they
were meant to.
Father Swells supped on lavish meals, and guzzled
wines by the gallon, while the poor went hungry and died just beyond the walls
of his house of lies and illusions.
It wasn’t like Eerie was just bone idle and
lazy, far from it. He worked the docks whenever he could, but his ailment often
left him in excruciating pain, unable to lift the heavy crates and boxes from
ship to shore. His skin would slew from his bones and he would weep bitterly
for death, knowing that it was never far away, but for whatever reason, it would
fail to claim him for its own. So he lived and he suffered… Until they came and
took him as one of their own.
It seems as if Father Swells had angered the
wrong person, and that’s why they were here, in the squalid part of the world
Eerie called, home. Their mission was simple: exact revenge from the fat fuck.
Eerie waited for the Bells of Evensong to
fade before leading them to the church. He knocked on the heavily barred door
as he had done countless times before, and waited. But this time, things would
be vastly different.
The tipsy cleric appeared in the doorway,
flushed, sweating, with crumbs and gravy on his portly cheeks, while he readied
his usual retort for those who came begging. They bundled him inside before he
knew what was happening.
The rest of the group had him out of his
priestly robes and spread-eagled on the altar before he could even splutter for
help. Rictus, the Mummy, whispered in the naked priest’s ear and Eerie saw his
eyes widen in terror. Someone handed Eerie a long curved dagger without
instruction.
Eerie
knew what to do, he had dreamed about it for so many years. But as he was about
to plunge the burnished bronze weapon deep into the chest of the beast, he felt
the lid come off all the hurt and anger he had kept bottled up for years. His
eyes darkened over, a strange, bile like substance, ran down his cheeks like
rivers of midnight tears. His anger erupted in a dark, tenuous web, the colour
of fresh tar, and he let his creation wrap its tumorous strands around the
howling priest. Of what happened next, Eerie has no recollection.
They headed south as the flames from the
burning church spread to the mill next door. By the time the group had crossed
the Geert River, the fire was all the way down the main road engulfing the docks,
and when Eerie, and his new family finally lay their heads down at dawn, the
village was naught but a black, smoldering gash on the countryside. He has
been with them ever since, and has never been happier.
Eerie
manifests a Bile Elemental when he is angry. Use the standard rules found in
your monster manual (elementals) for running this special creation. It should
be around 8HD, and should deal a minimum of 3d8 crushing damage. Its primary
form of attack is to manifest itself like a net made of webs, which will then
cling to his opponent and squeeze the very life from them. It is immune to
cold, fire, charm and can only be hit by magical weapons. While his creation is
active, Eerie must concentrate, or
it will retreat back to the Never from whence it came.
If
the creature is destroyed, it takes a full week for Eerie to be able to summon
another one.
Venom
It is hot and steaming in the jungle. A young
boy watches in terror as tall men with bodies of shining metal, sit astride
snorting beasts with muscled flanks and four legs, running riot through his
sleepy village. They wield fear, fire and fury, and kill any unlucky enough to
cross their path.
The once tranquil paths are choked with
corpses. Blood stains the hallowed grounds of the temple. They are here for the
gold. They are always here for the
gold. Why this stupid metal has such power of man, the boy will never
understand.
The attackers run amok, spearing priests, and
kicking severed heads to one another for sport. He hears a baby cry, then
nothing and that fills him with dread. His heart is pounding in his chest. He
slides on his belly like the snake god they worship, trying to flee. But he is
spotted, and dragged, from the hut in which he was hiding.
The savage men laugh and scream like mad animals
as they prepare to kill him like all the rest. But he is anointed, he has
communed, supped with the gods and this will be their doom.
Something stirs. Something writhes, inside of
him, deep in his bowels. He becomes…
The marauders screams are panicked, wild,
like the birds of paradise when they take to the air. They turn to flee, but
the boy is faster now, faster than he could have ever dreamed of. He rises up
from the dirt floor, towering over them, swaying with restrained malice from
side to side. And suddenly, he is loose among them. His hood, fully distended
now, is blood red and jungle green, and the poison of his ancestors, trickles
down his dagger-like fangs. He lunges with the speed of the Hooded Cobra at his
enemies, biting them, impregnating them with his poisonous gifts. They clutch
at their throats, dropping to their knees, hands, noose-like around their
choking throats. Their faces swell and blacken as they collapse, and the boy,
now a perfectly shaped image of his god, hisses ever so, sssslightly.
Venom
is able to mutate into a large Snake Man when he has the need. It takes 1d4
rounds to do so, and he is able to control the change as long as necessary. He
can do this three times per day if need be.
Snake
Man
Hit Dice: 4+1
Armour Class: 4 [15]
Attacks: 2 claws (1d6), 1 bite (1d8) +
Special
Saving Throw: 16
Special: If bitten by Venom, Save vs. Poison
or die. He is immune to any types of poison himself. Because he has hands while
transformed, he can also utilise weapons, and as such, specialise in Poisoned swords
(1d8) Save vs. Poison or collapse for 2d4 rounds. Move: 6/12
Alignment: Reptilian
Elixir
Soft, sensual, voluptuous, she is everyone’s
dream, everyone’s fantasy. She sways, hypnotically, while the drums beat their
frenzied tattoo. The crowd lie in puddles of narcotic slumber around the stage,
watching her from under hooded eyes. She advances slowly toward the King. His
lust for her evident on his corpulent face. She disrobes before him,
suggestively, reducing the King of Kashmir to a sweating, trembling mass of fat
and desire. She runs her dainty finger around the rim of his golden chalice
before sliding it into the red wine he covets so much. She draws her hand back,
like a snake that’s about to strike, then slowly moves her outstretched finger
towards slavering lips the colour of raw liver. His tongue, slug-like and
obscene, flops out from behind lotus stained teeth to seek the pearl of red
liquid that hangs daintily from the underside of her finger. He licks it off of
her fragranced skin, and she does everything in her power not to show her
revulsion for this, this… creature.
The drums beat faster, each volley
overlapping one another until they become a heightened symphony of discordia
and drug fueled chaos. The King prepares to stand, he must have her he thinks,
and he must have her now! But his legs are unsteady and he falls to the
carpeted floor as she sways slowly above him, teasing him, egging him on. But
he is too far gone to even comprehend what is happening to him. The poison is
fast acting and he is dead by the time his regal head hits the silk rugs
beneath him. She continues the dance of death as if nothing is wrong. She backs
away, slowly, sliding toward the door as the guards now begin to break their
trance and rush to their fallen King. She is out the door and loose in the
shadows before they even know he’s dead.
She
rides south with them that night, Noreen far ahead of them, scouting the lay of
the land, while Rictus and Gibber take the front and Eerie and Venom guard the
rear. Once again, someone, somewhere, has got their, R.E.V.E.G.E.
Elixir
is a demon that specialises in assassination by whatever means necessary. She
is able to disguise her demonic appearance (eyes, wings and tail) when she
needs to. She rides with the others because she loves to collect the souls of
the guilty and the damned. See your Monster Manual for statistics on a minor
demon and alter to your tastes.
Noreen
Her father was a woodsman. Broad of back and
taciturn in appearance. His axe shone and sparkled, and was wicked sharp because
he worked its blade every night while the girl cooked for them. They lived in
the heart of a forest that was dark, dim, cool in the summers, and freezing in
the winters. It was their home. Then, one day, the girl’s father went hunting.
Autumn was a few weeks away still but he wanted to stock the larder as much as
he could before the snows came. He packed his belongings and when he was done,
he kissed her on the forehead and left the warmth of the hut. The girl watched
her father be swallowed up by the trees and their slanting shadows. That night,
she could not sleep. The owls hooted, the wolves howled, and the girl fretted
incessantly waiting for the dawn. When the sun split the sky, she stoked the
fire, made tea, ate some bread with jam and went out to cut the wood. She
missed her father terribly. She worked hard that day, harder than she had ever
worked before. She worked the wood and the axe as powerfully as any man could have,
well, except for her father of course. The sun dimmed and the sky bruised and she
finished for the day with a heavy heart knowing that it would be some days
before she saw her father again. That night, as she sharpened the axe, she
heard a tread on the wooden porch and her heart fluttered with joy. She was
about to fling open the door and welcome him home when something made her stop.
The noise was stealthy, sneaky, not the bold tread of someone returning home
bearing meat. She waited and she listened, and sure enough, she heard someone
on the other side of the door, breathing heavily, like an animal before it pounces.
And then a voice spoke asking to be let in. The girl knew that voice, she had
heard it every day since she had been born. But it was different somehow, colder,
grating, and no longer human. She picked the axe up from where it stood next to
the fire and opened the door. She saw a figure before her, hulking, reeking of
life after death. It stumbled toward her. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the
nocturnal visitor and she saw who it had once been. She recognised that face,
how could she not? It was the same as hers. She cried silently as she did what she
had to do. The girl brought the axe down into the creature that had once loved
her more than anything else in the world. When she was done, she drove a stake
of fresh-cut wood into the beast’s heart and disposed of the body by flame.
Later, she sat inside the hut, rocking back and forth murmuring to herself, and
waiting, waiting for the sun so that she may seek out the one who had done this
to her father, and destroy it.
Noreen
lost more than her father that fateful day, she lost her mind too. She spends
her days in complete silence, sharpening her fearsome axe, waiting to put it
good use in felling far more than mere wood. Treat the axe as +1 to hit and +3
to wound versus undead.
Gibber
His visions of the world are not like yours.
Where you may see love and light and balance, Gibber sees the sky on fire and
the skull beneath the skin. He suffers from hellish illusions and cowers at the
feet of slavering behemoths, he surmises are freshly risen from the abyss. He
is their servant, humble, confused, a puppet in their nefarious hands. Gods,
demons, and powers beyond his ken or control whisper to him incessantly. They
tell him what to do and how to do it. Gibber’s days are filled with imaginary
companions and terrifying conversations.
They
found him moaning and muttering to himself in a dark corner of the city. Gibber
was a wreck, and quite obviously insane. But was he? Just because you can’t see
them, doesn’t mean his invisible compatriots are not there.
In his
mind he dances and cavorts with extravagant creations of extraordinary colours.
Rich purples and royal blues surround him, extolling the virtue of submitting
to his fantasies. Rivers of blood and bile flirt shamelessly with him in his
dreams. Audible instructions, sibilant whispers, are given to him by dark
angels that balance precariously on his shoulders. Their messages soothes his
fevered brain and offer serenity when he murders for them. His first victim’s
demise brought great peace to Gibber. But slowly the tide of misunderstanding
and angst rose again, scaring him, confusing him, forcing him to kill again,
and again, and again. But the ones with whom he travels understand him, they
temper the unrest that burns and riots behind his eyes, and sometimes, they
even manage to silence the voices…
Gibber,
although he appears to be demon possessed, is not. He suffers from bouts of
extraordinary rage that can only be assuaged when he kills. The members of the
group are able to keep him calm (most of the time) but they are also able to
goad him into giving in to the voices. When he slips his mental fetters, Gibber
becomes a crazed Berserker. Use the applicable rules for his statistics, with
some exceptions: he can rage for 1d6 round longer than most berserkers, go as
low as -10 HP before death, and when frenzied, treat his strength as 18(100%).
Eldritch
No one knows where she came from but she
reeks of the desert. Her hair is black and her skin is burnished and hot to the
touch. Her eyes burn like Valuvian fire and she speaks of places the others do not
know. Sparks of pure manna, the colour of verdigris, dance and sparkle on her
hands like minute gemstones. She delights in raw, elemental energy, soaking up
wild-storms and dancing frenziedly in the rain. She has scars all over her
body. Jagged, deep, viscous, curved and meandering from one part of her skin to
another. They look like a map of her life at the hands of an unseen tormentor.
But she relishes her wounds, they are like titles and medals to her and she
embraces them all lovingly. Each one has a tale to tale, and if you listen
carefully, you can hear them whispering to one another. She drinks kawa by the
jug and snorts crushed lino leaves and gecko spines to get her going. But at
night she whimpers and grows dim, almost to the point of invisibility. She uses
a whip made from the flesh of her tormentors, and sharpened daggers of bone
that she broke from their bodies. A circle of dried penises around her delicate
throat complete her garb.
Eldritch
is a mystery. At all times is she a warrior, but there is a 20 to 30% chance
(more if there is a storm about) that she awakes as an 8th level
mage as well. She uses a whip, and when it hits, treat as a Staff of Snakes. In
combat she whirls, dizzyingly, like a dervish. Treat her as AC 5(14).
