30 Minutes: Monsters

(Okay, I actually spent 60 minutes writing...)

CW: death, drowning, body horror.

I'm updating the seed to 2d6, aka 11 possibilities!  Better bell curve.

2: Essay: "Concerning ________" (roll again; on this result, Concerning Players) 

3: Dungeons

4: Tricks

5: Treasure
6: Npcs
7: Gods
8: Adventure Hooks
9: Monsters
10: Traps
11: Dungeon Rooms

12: Diseases or Poisons

The Dice Roll:

2d6 result: 9: Monsters

Incrementing the Chart

For next time:

2: Diseases or Poisons

3: Essay: "Concerning ________" (roll again; on this result, Concerning Players) 

4: Dungeons

5: Tricks

6: Treasure
7: Npcs
8: Gods
9: Adventure Hooks
10: Monsters
11: Traps
12: Dungeon Rooms

Monsters

The average monster stat block fails to inspire me pretty significantly.  The average monster description isn't much better.  I've been trying to think about what it is about some monsters that light my fire, while many don't!  I think perhaps the thing about monsters is they're only as scary as their fictional positioning- and most modern Monster Manuals don't deliver on the promise of the Monster, from a fictional positioning perspective.  Slender Man isn't scary because he has 15' reach and if he hits he strangles for 2d6 damage each round.  Slender Man is scary because of where he lives, and how he expresses threat, and the targets he chooses- because of his fictional positioning.

Especially when so many monsters are just... intelligent races that attack the "Good" races?  Why am I killing these goblins and orcs again?  Shouldn't we send some emissaries to negotiate with them?  Establish trade?  Help relieve their environmental pressures so they stop attacking us?

Is a goblin just a "short green humanoid with sharp teeth, sharp nose, sharp ears, and sharp eyes?  They favor sharp daggers and love to pretend they're surrendering, before redoubling the attack?"  

"They shout Bree-Yark?"

Goblins

Or is a goblin the manifestation of greed- the greed humans feel for the things other humans own?  Living things, mostly.  First they come for small working animals- cats, dogs.  Vanished in the night, stolen from the edges of civilized land.  Sometimes they show up later, slain- a warning.  The first sign of goblin infestation is often, in fact, rats- an overabundance of rats, where cats and small dogs would once have kept them at bay.  But goblins don't stop there.  An untreated goblin infestation grows- one goblin is a threat, five an atrocity.  

After pets, livestock are stolen away at night- prized cows, sheep, goats disappeared or slain, their meat spoiled.  After livestock... children... and then adults.  You might catch glimpses of them in the woods- their pale white almost translucent skin flashing as they duck into the brush.  At night, the glow of their eyes can make you think that lost pet is just lurking out of sight, maybe a bit feral now.  You might approach, hand held out, a treat extended to coax Whiskers back to you... this is a mistake.

Goblins never attack unless they are sure of the kill, and they are excellent at staying hidden.  Their needle sharp fangs drive straight for the throat, their claws razor sharp to rend skin.  They don't eat or drink from what they kill- nobody knows how they subsist.  The infest the dark crevices of the earth, yes, but where possible, they prefer the abandoned remnants of humanity.  They act out mock plays of life in there, small rituals, cooking eating, spats and feuds, ritual without substance, almost like clockwork.  If they are ever seen engaging in this, they fly into a frenzy- they will accept no evidence of their secret pantomimes.

"Okay" you might say.  "So a cat goes missing, the town gets their torches, and flushes the goblin out of the woods and slay it.  No big threat."

Right?

Only, Goblins have an instinct for choosing their targets.  The farmer who had a bad year, the one everyone looks down on?  The man trying to raise his two boys, who everyone whispers about?  The hedge witch whose services everyone needs, and resents needing?  When these people run through town, tears on their face, pleading and panicked... who listens?

The pain of the Goblin is that they target those who are the most genuinely attached to what they hold dear- and also the least likely to elicit sympathy from their peers.  In this way the Goblins grow, drip fed, until it is too late...

There are rumors of occasional towns who have had Goblin infestations vanish- usually after some wide-spread common outcry, mock trial, and sentencing of someone very well established and connected.  Usually the person who, for some reason or other, is benefiting the most as a byproduct of the attacks and uncertainty.  The Coveter In Chief.

But we all know how likely that is.

Monsters

Monsters, then, aren't just "apex predators" or "bad people-things"- monsters are inextricably tied to our humanity.

The Tentacleel

There is a stream in the woods where once lovers lay.  They would meet there, and whisper sweet songs into each others ears.  A popular spot, spoken of behind hands, in shadow.  Where the sun shines bright on the banks, and a strong tree grows out over the swift and deep currents- perhaps a rope hangs from its bough.

We all know the place.

Swift, cold water hides many dangers, but is it not the folly of youth to believe their invincibility?

"You should have been more careful"

"I warned you that boy was nothing but heartbreak"

"I told you not to go to the stream"

The tentacleel wants nothing so much as warmth and companionship.  It is drawn to the places where such things are on display, and it waits.  It waits, until that joyous moment when a companion deigns to join it, deep in the dark waters, so warm and soft.  The tentacleel holds on tight, as long as it can- days, certainly- sometimes weeks.  Until there's nothing left to hold, until everything has sifted out, washing downstream.  

But that's okay.  Mourners so often pay it visits, that it's just a matter of time, really.

Death Adder

It is a fact of life that life is finite- and this the Death Adder understands above all.

A hunter may occasionally come across the carcass of some wild beast, slain or fallen as a result of its natural circumstances.  At first glance, everything may seem normal- but a sharp eye will spot a pool of shadow under the creature's mouth.  A thick, scaled skin, shed- winding back into the corpse.  The Death Adder's leavings, coated in a contact venom that causes a hot, searing pain, and leaves behind a wicked burn, small at first, which grows with the years.

The Death Adder is no threat, unless accosted.  Its bite is an aging venom- the skin dries, the hair greys, the eyes wrinkle.  But it bites only under duress.  Humanity hates the Death Adder, because humanity hates death.

The Death Adder finds comfort in the presence of those who are near to death.  It will often be found coiled underneath a newborn's crib, an invalid's bed.  Around the bell of a church's tower; in the dark corner of an infirmary basement.  Wallowing in the mud of an impending battlefield.

Those who have seen it insist that the doomed can be saved if the Adder is removed... but this is rarely achieved.  It is a stubborn beast.  Many make the attempt- fire, sword, axe, pitchfork... the sick bed is moved, the invalid encouraged to take air.  The Death Adder desires nothing so much as to remain in its chosen locale... waiting.

After the beloved passes beyond the veil, the only sign that remains of the beast is often a long, gossamer skin, dried and crinkly.

Of course, humanity hates the Death Adder for a second reason as well.

Nobody enjoys watching a newborn serpent shedding, sliding out of the mouth of a recently deceased loved one.

20 Minutes: Tricks

Today's 2d4 Seed:

2: Treasure
3: Npcs
4: Gods
5: Adventure Hooks
6: Monsters
7: Traps
8: Tricks

Roll result: 8: Tricks

Tricks

Tricks are odd encounters in dungeons.  Some rooms contain treasures, and that's good.  Some rooms contain traps or monsters, and that's bad.  But some rooms contain tricks... and who knows what's going on with them?

Tricks are the things that make the players stop and proceed with caution.  The 30 seconds of prep you spend writing a line that starts "A creepy doll sits on a chair..." that turns into two hours of gameplay.  So let's see what we can come up with in 20 minutes?

1. Blood stained letters scrawled on the far wall: "WAS I NOT WORTHY?"  In the center of the room, channels gouged into the rock of the floor, in the circle-and-runes shape of some arcane ritual, connecting four small basins at the cardinal directions- currently dry.  A faint magic aura can be detected.
• If the four basins are filled with blood, the channels also fill.  When the blood flows to the center and fills the channels, a Sleep spell discharges on everyone in the area.  Anyone who sleeps in this room (at any time, spell or no) has dreams of intense disapproval from whichever god they worship.
2. A door with a gaping demon-maw forged in bronze in the center of it, where a doorknob should be.  Deep in the mouth, about a forearm-length back, you can juuuust make out the latch for the door.  A faint magic aura can be detected.  The handle must be grabbed and manipulated in order to open the door.  There's a clasp on the back that a finger has to pull.  Each time the player says "okay, I press the clasp," describe how another clasp pops out- requiring another finger to pull it.  
• Secretly roll 1d4+4: that is how many clasps pop out.  Every time beyond number 5, the player who is manipulating the door grows one additional finger to press the next clasp that has popped out.
• These new additional fingers live for 24 hours.  Having extra fingers gives advantage on sleight of hand, picking locks, disarming traps, or other tasks requiring manual dexterity.  One finger falls off at the end of each subsequent 24 hour period, and then begins inching in the direction of the closest undiscovered treasure.  No two fingers will head for the same treasure stockpile- they split up.
• When a finger reaches its selected treasure stockpile it pupates; if left alone overnight, it morphs into giant mucosoid fingers defending the goods (fight as a Carrion Crawler).
3. An ornamental cigar humidor of mahogany and oak- well polished.  Has- would you believe it??- just enough cigars for the current adventuring party.
• Once a cigar is lit- any one of these cigars, no matter where the players are- a spectral ghost appears, forming out of the smoke!  They are a jovial creature, delighted to see the players, and ravenous for news of the world- after all, it has been so long since they've had any.  They light up their own cigar, invite everyone else to join in (insist, really- they refuse to proceed with niceties until everyone is well situated and participating)- and then beg for details and news- of course, they promise to tell the players all manner of interesting and quest-relevant details once they're satisfied.  Once details and news are exhausted, they beg for performances and showmanship.  Once performances and showmanship are exhausted, they are ready to tell the players anything they might want to know.
• ... It's a shame all the cigars burn out JUST before the jovial spirit is able to say the most important words the players want so desperately to know.

That does it for our 20 minute (okay, 16- I had to seed the random table first) sprint of brainstorming!  I'll see if I can't come back often and make a new roll for a sprint brainstorm.  Cheers!

Seeding the Table

For next time!

2: Tricks

3: Treasure
4: Npcs
5: Gods
6: Adventure Hooks
7: Monsters
8: Traps

6 Dungeon Rooms

1. A rotten library, filled with shelves.  There's a handful of books that remain worthwhile hidden in the stacks- spend 10 minutes and roll a DC20/15 Perception test to search.  If you roll 20 or above, you find the book you need.  If you roll 15-19, the book is there... but it's in the hands of a damn flying monkey, who pokes its head out and chatters at you loudly.  Careful with your attacks, don't want to damage the text...
2. In each corner of the room, an iron statue of a woman with a veiled face, ropes coiled at the feet of each statue.  On the far wall, a door that says "please go away."  If you leave, nothing happens.  If you approach within 5' of the door, the iron maidens spring open, and the ropes come to life, lashing out to drag party members slowly towards the waiting spiked containers.
3. A giant frog sits in the center of a room, on wooden floorboards.  He slaps his hands wetly against the ground when he sees you.  Around him are a scattering of objects- a broken chair, an old shirt, etc- but also a brass lantern; a fine silk rope, coiled expertly; a swirling vial of silvered liquid; a finely honed longsword.  If you talk to him, he says only: "BRAAAP.  BRING ME...." (roll 1d6)
1. HEAVY
2. LONG
3. WET
4. GREEN
5. ALIVE
6. (roll twice and combine, ignoring further 6's)
4. Along the back wall are six valuable urns sitting on a mantlepiece.  In front of them, a heavy stone statue with burning red eyes and a baleful glare!  It's unbelievably slow and heavy- it can only move 5' per round.  However, every time it stomps forwards 5', one of those priceless urns slides forwards right off the shelf, crashing to the ground....  He hits like a truck, too.
5. In the center of the chamber, a chasm, spanned by a long rope bridge.  About 30' before the bridge, a large, green slime- placid, unconcerned.  It doesn't really care about you.  Hanging above the close side of the bridge, an odd packet of cloth about the size of a waste basket, tied around with rope.  The air smells sickly sweet and sulfurous.
• Stepping onto the bridge, the three kobold archers far on the other side pop out and fire on the bundle of cloth, breaking it open- rotten meats and fruits and mushrooms spill out onto the bridge.
• The large green slime- if left intact- slowly oozes over onto the rope bridge to get at the bounty.... its acids working away at the ropes.
6. A crystal cavern, redolent with crystals of all sizes that tinkle with slight chimes as you pass.  12 large crystals stand tall around the room, each reverberating with a different note on the scale.  Whatever song the players play first by striking the crystals, an Angel of Law and Music appears.
• If it was a good song, the angel is pleased, and whispers one of the words of Musical Order into a proffered weapon, which becomes a +1 Weapon of Law (+1 when wielded by a lawful creature, or when attacking a chaotic creature).  Once per day, a Bard can strike this weapon against a hard surface as a part of their use of Bardic Inspiration, in order to increase the size of their Bardic Inspiration die by one step.
• If it was a bad song, turn up Beethoven's 9th symphony (first movement) and play it loud.  The angel attacks the player of the song that summoned it, for as long as the first movement is playing.

On the Nature of The Dungeon

On the subject of the dungeon, there is but one comfort, and it is this: the dungeon is an entity, and, like all entities, it can be described.

The nature of the dungeon is that of subversion.

If you are lucky, the dungeon has been a known place.  It was your place once, a place that belonged to you, or to people like you.  Even if they were a very different people, they were far more like you than not, and their place was far more like the places you know than it has now become.  It was very likely built for a purpose, to be used and to exist in ways that are familiar to you.  It was a home, or a workplace, or a storage space; a defensible location, a place of strength and purpose.  The people and creatures in it were known, they operated by rules and laws that you intuit, that you can feel in your bones.  Rules and laws that wrap around you in a bustling marketplace- you feel them in a lecture hall- you feel them walking down the street, sitting in the theatre, pouring a glass of wine, pulling bread out of the oven.  Even when you pick the lock, when you slice the throat, when you lift the vase- even then, the rules and laws of the known blanket you in a soft comfort.  You are at home.

In the dungeon, you are not at home.  It may look like home- it may even try to convince you that you feel at home.  But you are not, and if you believe its lies, you will die.  The dungeon is anathema to you.  The creatures that live in it are not like you, the people in it follow a life at angles to your own.  But do not make the mistake of believing the dungeon has no rule, for if you believe that, too, you will die.

The dungeon follows a rule and a law that is utterly alien to you.  It is the rule and law of the abandoned school, of the marketplace suddenly empty and silent, of the zoological park at night as the animals stare you down, their eyes saying "we know what you are."  The entities that exist there, they move through the space in ways you can't.  They occupy hallways as if they were rooms, and move through rooms as if they were stairs.  They sleep in the lavatory, and eat in the study.  Their needs are wholly different from yours.  Perhaps they feed off of salt, slowly accruing it in vast pockets of alkali venoms stored in their pallid grey flesh.  Perhaps they desire only to insert themselves into a thought, returning and returning until no other thought remains.  But mostly, mostly, they have nothing to do with you at all.

The dungeon does not care about you, for the dungeon is beyond you.  It has become.  It is new, whole.  It is its own entity now, where once it was only a place to be used by you.  And make no mistake, like all entities, the dungeon lives.  It breathes, it eats, it produces waste.

It grows.

Above all, it grows.  The dungeon seeks ever to expand.  First, the worms move in, slowly opening cracks in walls where there were no cracks, creating doors where no doors should be.  The dungeon opens into the earth, reaching out, seeking to touch its companions.  Seeking to join with its kind.  Then the dungeon seeks sustenance.  The scavengers and hoarders move out, stretching across the land, stealing, devouring, returning, collecting.  Food, yes- but more importantly, power.  The power of gold, of capital- the power to bend the weak minded to its will, the power of greed.  The raw power of arcana- the ancient, the mystic, the reagent, the solvent.  It needs this to fuel its continual becoming.  Finally, the wastes begin to flow.  Inhabitants of the dungeon that straddle the boundaries between the known world and the dungeon begin venturing out.  They seek violence, predation, dominion.  And the psychic effluvia of the dungeon infests everything around it.  Ordinarily satisfied men and women turn their heads, looking at the horizon, unknowing, in its direction.  Surely, they think- surely it will be different for me.

It never is.

Let them come, says the dungeon.  They, too, are a part of me, now.

All this, of course, if the dungeon was, in fact, known.  There is another face of the dungeon, too- that which has never been known, but instead, was merely hidden, locked away.  It is the dungeon's oldest face.  After the known parts have been sacked, the treasures removed, the magics stolen away, the creatures slain, their blood sprayed across the walls, holy rituals intoned, mountains of earth and rock and mortar and blood sealed into place.  After the known has been reclaimed, erased, made clean, the fears soothed, calming words spoken, griefs expressed, and tears shed.

After all this, the dungeon yet lives- behind the wall, in the crack, in the blood and in the stone.  It grows away from its momentary defeat, opening itself inside the earth, reaching, searching.

The dungeon

IS.