a4 - BAD CODE

The Ulthydra reaver captain Pseochruhadro Miorg (Level 4 Fighter, HP 18, Att 2, Dmg 1d6/1d8) - Implants: Furnace Bellow Lungs (Can breathe in vacuum), Supermassive left hand (crush attack), Pliable face mask (can change appearance)

is reacting badly to his latest acquisition: an extending skeleton arm (melee attack as ranged)

You know Pseochruahdro a little bit - a stabby guy. Not super smart.

Mark Texiera

It seems something about the new implant is shifting him in and out of dimensional space. Sometimes he's the same old sneaky Pseochruhadro. Sometimes he's more high fantasy type, flowing hair, commanding voice. Sometimes he's really degenerated - full of useless implants and a ten-yard stare. He staggers too and fro, each self with a different center of gravity and seasick.

His men are agitated at all this, and happily wheel on someone to fight, but their heart isn't really in it either (4 of them: AC 7, HD 2, At 1, Dmg 1d8, ML 6 (normally 9), special: pikes - they pick 1 person and all attack them - 2nd one that hits immobilizes afflicted character). Normally Pseochruhadro would at this point waltz in and finish said subject off, but he has problems of his own.

The Pulga and Doc (to do the implants on the spot like any good bravo would want) are sick themselves, caught in the blast from it going bad. If questioned, they can point out the NODE (6) they got it from.

a3 - PITCH and ROLL SAVE vs DEATH RAY or POISON

There has been a recent fight here between Phlotos and Acephaliers, and there is an area at the edge that not only has the crude railing broken off, but the surface is slick and glossy from burns.

If you get too close: the ship suddenly pitches and rolls (alas, a bit of a quantum crowbar here): Save vs Death Ray or be thrown right off the boat! PC who is so thrown gets another save to catch themselves in the rigging, otherwise they are in the drink, and either way are precarious. 

Why would you go here? For 1, there is a spasming Acephalier SERVITOR MOUNT left over from the fight: it is badly damaged, but salvageable, and could be ridden potentially or somehow employed.

If this space is encountered AFTER the party has gone to subsequent levels, a team of 2d4 SERVITORS will arrive to repair the railing. (HD 3, Att 1, Dmg 1d6 (headbutt), Morale 11, Special: on a 20, seize target and throw overboard).

Michael Sieben

a2 - The SKIZO

 Spikes shoot up and 4 crude scarecrows that radiate FEAR (save vs Magic) on poles. Huge coop.

Corrugated steel roof and wire: tiny dinosaurs (HP 2, AC 9, Move 0/12, ML6) clucking and rustling underneath, many nests: filthy. If you really look (letting the dinos in the way move around to give the proper vantage) there is a collection of hairy bodies surrounding a nest around the center. This is a TERMINAL, but the linked pack is dead to a man. They don't appear to have been bitten by the dinos.

SOUND: Clucking

Jim Harris

Players can scurry under the fence into the coop and investigate the nests if they are reckless, or wish to make their way to the terminal and jack in. The dinos aren't aggressive, but enough of them will give little nips that players take 1 damage aggregating per round (1/2/3 etc).

Players can reach 1 nest per turn. The terminal seems to dance just out of reach - never quite where they think. The nests have dinosaur eggs, along with strange bits of sentient meteorite.

Roll d10 per nest

1 - 3        METEOR HATCHED. All dino eggs have been consumed for sustenance

4              IN PROCESS. d4 Damage per turn as the meteorite feeds.

5              CRACKING. Arcane energies horrify. Feeling of horror from the scarecrows intensifies. Save vs magic at -2.

6-9           EGG INTACT. Might fetch a pretty price but roll d6 per Round. On a 6, see CRACKING, then IN PROCESS, then HATCHES.

10             TERMINAL. There you are you little onion!

If an egg is in process of hatching or cracking, within d6 turns a BEJEWELED caretaker will appear (see as of yet unconstructed random encounter table) to tend.

If an unhatched metoriod is carried around, test with 1d6 per turn : on a 6 it begins to crack. An intact meteroid would sell for plenty: between 2000 and 5000 gp depending on the buyer, but good luck with that!

a1 - RELEASE the HOUNDS

The moment the PCs enter this area, 2d4 FLASHDOGS attack

German Shephard-sized, with Fleshhound type lizard frills and grabby beaks instead of jaws. HD 2, AC 4 (scales), Att 1, Dmg d6, Move 10, ML (d4+6), Special: On successful hit, save vs Paralyzation or take addition 1d4 damage per round from being shaken, each successive save at -1 per round.

Vinni Kiniki

From viewing turret jutting from the floor, 6 faces peer out. Each buyer desires a different type of dog.

Hazzi H'zerru, a Phlogisktonesian. BLOODTHIRSTY. Dog must kill something.

Nina Siemdok, a Hesperocyrine. TANK. Dog must be hit twice but not die.

Abeshar Nyas, an Acephalier. ELUSIVE. Dog must be attacked but not hit 3 times.

Yaacas Amamba, a Bejeweled. MACHO. Dog must pass a moral test.

Nezou the Human, a Human. SURVIVOR. Dog must be the last dog standing.

Elshah Bilm, a Degenerate Undydra. GRAPPLER. Dog must hold and shake for 2 turns or more.

The moment one of these conditions are met, the MERCHANT (HP 8, AC 2, Spells: Expeditious Retreat, Write Contract, Mirror Image) emerges from a trapdoor with 10 soldiers (HD1, AC 5, Man-catcher and Short Sword, ML 8) to secure said dog and pay the PCs for their trouble (500 GP - minus 100 per dog killed). He whistles off the other dogs.

JACKAL W.E.R.E.

In response to two particularly evocative posts by Noisms

http://monstersandmanuals.blogspot.com/2016/03/cyberwolf-werepunkalypse.html

and

http://monstersandmanuals.blogspot.com/2022/10/the-apocalyptic-style-and-spiritual.html

I wrote the following. It borrows liberally from various other sources, but not until I peeped into Scrap Princess’s Noo Futura: 

(https://shop.tuesdayknightgames.com/products/noo-futura)

and heard her hozos hum with endless liability did I understand the greatness and genius of the jackalwere.

https://www.deviantart.com/xtianayuni

So first I scrawled down the following treatise:

The Interurbanet is a series of 57 nodes.

You are a courier between nodes.

There will be interference.

You will be the interference.

Outside the Straight Road it's scary as hell out there.

But, on further reveiw:

The Megacorps are Wolfpacks.

YOU wouldn’t say werewolves. You’d say zombies: the stupid, fast Zak Snyder version. Yeah, I hate those too. That’s what they are though: feral humans, tattered, bodies breaking down from sweets and DA on schedule bar-pushing: the Wolf Mind is running things. They shamble about the shabby cityscape but can MOVE when motivated.

They can talk to you, but it will be gibberish. “I looked over and his eyes were white” kind of thing. They are pretty deep in their heads. But they also know stuff. The interface between fallen man and Corporate Wolfgog.

To get stuff out of them, though, you gotta enter the Wolf Space.

There are terminals. Mostly the packs gather around whatever kind of totem object – usually there’s a hidden PARALLEL that you can patch into a safe distance away. You get really unlucky, they found the parallel and have incorporated it into their outward-facing degenerate “civilization”. This TWISTED PAIR is a pain, but play your cards right you can do some sweet infiltration: better not get caught while you’re in Wolf Space though.

And don’t be in for too long regardless, because the rules change. You lose the door. Different personalities influence how its constituted. All according to the whims of the Moon.

(see Patrick Stewart’s http://falsemachine.blogspot.com/2019/06/gackling-moon.html perhaps?)

In any Network Infrastructure, there will be:

The Breeding Pair

Alpha Male – most powerful at the new moon

Alpha Female – most powerful at the full moon

The Pair Apparent

Beta Male – more powerful as moon waxes (Alpha Male’s darkness recedes)

Beta Female – more powerful as moon wanes (Alpha Female’s light recedes)

https://www.reddit.com/r/Inktober/comments/jfbuk3/
monster_manual_inktober_day_21_sleep_jackalwere/

Adolescents

Grubs (Pups). They may or may not actually be children.

The Omega Wolf 

The network administrator. He is still human. The other wolves torment him, and yet they need him. Grizzled but alert. Why does he do it? For the sheer elegance of the system? Terrorized? Lazy, yet driven? Every Omega has a different story.

Dispersers 

Kicked out, looking to form a new pack. Most probably will be killed. Tech Start-Ups. Move fast and break stuff. Look out for these guys. Note that they aren’t a single person: they are an operating PRINCIPLE: gathering a mob until they achieve some sort of stability with another PRINICIPLE or are put down by rivals.

Their Wolf Space is probably pretty wild.

Their Wolf Space might even have more Wolf packs, think of that, hidden away amidst the miasma.

https://www.deviantart.com/mustacheelm

The VCs want to invest in something like that. Mold it to their needs. They need YOU to put in that SEED beans though, get out if you can before the door migrates under the aegis of that silvery satellite. Grow some beanstalks JACK, so that we can get some of that sweet BIOMASS. And further, perhaps even a bit of apotheosis for a derelict humanity:

16 And Jacob awaked out of his sleep, and he said, Surely the Lord is in this place; and I knew it not. 17 And he was afraid, and said, How dreadful is this place! this is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven. - Genesis 28

MYRMEKES ME IN ST LOUIS

In the BECMI game I am playing in, while engaged in operations against a demon/ancient ant-god alliance, we recently found out there are 5 of the f&&&ers : One Dead, One Asleep, One Married, One Captured, One a Master, or say the mushroom men to whom such secrets are currency. In a futile attempt to curtail the dark powers of these antisocial aculeates through cross-platform ridicule, I have reimagined them into a sitcom.

STAN RUFA, a man so ordinary he wears pants, is trying to fix his sink, but keeps hitting his head on the top. Finally he gives up, chucking his wrench in disgust. Then he retrieves the wrench and beats the hell out of the poor basin, breaking it. “Honey!” he calls out. “I fixed the sink!” (laughter). He retires to his chair to read the funnies.His wife’s offstage voice is a reedy thing, needling him. “Staaaaanly,” says she, “Did you get the lawnmower sharpened? I swear the grass is higher than a horse.” (laughter). “Staaaaanly, did you pay the water bill? Is our checkbook balanced?” “Staaaaanly, did you do x-y-z-y-x-w?" He does his best to ignore her, finally giving up and trying ineffectually to move some of these projects forward.

“Okay, okay,” he says, toddling toward his workbench, only to be distracted again by whatever little thing.

My Mother the Car

“If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself,” says the wife, emerging, to cacophonous cheering. Her steps are thunderous. Stan’s wife is AMBLY BLUE, an ant god! Pan out. Their house is giant! Stan Rufa’s living room that looked like a sitcom set is just a tiny little corner of the greater complex.

Behold the cage constraining MYRMICA GREEN, an ant god! This time she has constructed yet another elaborate and spindly mechanism to extend her reach all the way across the house and snatch a key ring that hangs by the television with the affixed legend No Toukc. A key to fit her cage. Nevermind! Somebody on every occasion will carelessly foil her plans. Stan, perhaps, screwing about in his kitchen. “The pilot light is out again! Where is that matchbook?” and noting an open fire nearby

(a fire that inflates a balloon, that in turn twists the wind-up monkey, whose cymbals spook a rat, who so startled, will rush the wall, in so doing hook the ring on his tinfoil hat, etc., etc.),

Stan employs it to light a rolled-up newspaper torch. And, being a conscientious sort (ha ha), puts out the fire with wild gesticulations

(balloon wilts, monkey-percussion peters out, rushing rat becomes disengaged and goes back to gnawing a nearby recliner cushion instead of entangling the keyring with his paranoia helmet).

Escape thwarted again, Myrmica Green’s resigned exasperation is cruel comedy gold.

The aforementioned recliner at all hours contains CAMPON RED, an ant god! She never wakes up, but participates in all manner of wacky animated dreamscapes where she embodies numerous whacky personas: a pirate captain, a corporate overlord, a trainer of hippopotamus whose charges refuse to leave the wallow to perform a car chase after a purse-snatcher. Her snoring becomes more pronounced when the show remembers she's there.

https://www.deviantart.com/jaaaiiro

And don’t forget the dun, decomposing body of DORYL BLACK, a dead ant god! Or almost dead. She stirs periodically, but then the sun comes out and the giant magnifying glass suspended over her focuses its rays and zaps her all over again (to much hilarity, according to the merciless meter of the laugh track at any rate). Her death jerk foils just as many key-acquisition plots as anybody else’s paroxysms, heartfelt or no.

Today’s episode: Stan is trying to make a X-mas card to send to Santa so he can get a new cordless telephone but it's up to Myrmic Green to Linus-like explain the meaning of the holiday to our beleaguered husband-hero. Green’s command of the religious dogma are, it must be said, idiosyncratic.

https://xaltotun.newgrounds.com/

At every episode’s end, pull out further. The studio audience in fact a single creature straddling the seats, PONERINAE PURPLE, an ant god! Her mandibles move in earie concert to the canned laughter as the credits begin their slow, slow descent, ape from man.

BOXBOATS

Gygax 75    Day 1-3

Elevator Pitch (all art by Bill Sienkiewicz)

• A river, with hostile and inexhaustible adversaries on either bank (the Lawful Goodfolk on one side and the Chaotic Goodfolk on the other, more or less demon-fae and devil-fae)
• Thank goodness the water repels them! Islands of civilization exist in between the shores, protected by the poisonous (to goodfolk) river, promontories of light if you will.
• PCs are from a particularly inhabited island, let’s call it Iscyra. Built up in the center. The rulers are your basic Melnibonéan corrupted elite: life-extended by cyborging themselves up with magical do-dads, more high sorcerous-machine now than man maybe. Gools. Sorcerers.

• A steady procession of living barges washes past - full of the things you need (food, potable water, magic trinkets): these ships double as dungeons - they get harpooned and lashed to shore for a bit, boarded by crack privateers (the PCs among others), before shaking themselves loose. If you want to go shopping, stay on the surface and be prepared to jump. You want something more esoteric, you’ve gotta go down a couple levels: but don’t stay too long or you’ll be living there.

• Where do the barges come from? Who can say (on day 3 of the project). They are filled with rats and ratmen who are relatively organized, but whether these are the original inhabitants or hitchhiker's themselves is unclear.

• But wait! As these barges bumble along, sometimes they will pass too close to shore, and one of the two contagions (Lawful or Chaotic) will make its way aboard and so doing jump the water over to Iscyra. So a barge is more than likely to have some of these guys.

• Untydras. Naturally, the gools got a team who fights em off. These are a warrior cult of aristocrats who eschew the modifications of their bodies in exchange for the short, sharp life. White blood cells if you will. They are not very nice.

• But that aint you. You’re the professional treasure hunters. Go deep enough, you’ll run across the engine: usually a shut in group of cyber-ghouls themselves with powerful appendages that someone from Iscyra will pay top dollar for. Unless you want to start modifying yourself.

Well, you wanna or what?

Well, you wanna or what?