7th-Day Stranger (One)

Ross is running a GURPS campaign set in a near future (2015) North America torn apart by civil war and suddenly invaded by Hell. For those who know what I'm talking about: It's the Earth of Obsidian, before it became [or "as it becomes"] the world of Obsidian.

Our characters are all members of a special unit of the U.M.F. (United Military Federation), a sort of corporate mercenary firm whose authority and jurisdiction crosses borders in the newly segregated North America.

I'm playing Mahdi "Captain Hadji" Qahira, a former Republican Guard turned military liaison turned mercenary for hire and now a Squad Commander (though I share rank with Edison). Mahdi is skinny and ugly; a devout (if progressive) Muslim who takes his duty to the U.M.F. only slightly less seriously than he takes his faith. He curses in Arabic, used to try to pass as Mexican by calling everyone gringo, and retains a great deal of the chauvinism (if not the bigotry) of his religion. Maddog is J.T. "the Iceman" Ickowski, a ginger gamer-turned soldier who volunteered eagerly for the burgeoning cybernetic augmentation program being tested by the U.M.F. He's a monster with an automatic rifle and really quite hideous with all the tech sticking out of his skull. Josh is running Professor Wesley Edison, an Egyptologist recruited by the U.M.F. intelligentsia who has since learned to handle a gun and obey orders. Edison's specialty might be in funerary rights, but I'm uncertain because the first session was a little combat-heavy and - though he killed 100% more baddies than Mahdi - he didn't really get his chance to shine.

Prologue
In a massive fire-fight between the New California Republic, the United State of Texas, and the UMF, combat was suddenly halted by an apocalyptic manifestation - the sudden appearance of the Visage of Death, astride a massive horse-like monstrosity. Being the only three whose stories corroborated the appearance of the demonic spectre, we were pulled from regular duty rotation with our combat battalion and put on "Freak Show Watch," with no real mandate other than what someone once called "investigation and containment - or eradication, if necessary - of the supernatural."


Part One
Transported into the Unclaimed Territories lying between the N.C.R., Nova America (? - don't have map with me), and the U.S.T. Captain Hadji, Ickowski and the Professor (along with a possible 4th background-npc if Mark doesn't play the biker, Bill) were flown by helicopter to a drop-site somewhere in the ruin of Las Vegas. Our mission objectives were to 1) meet with our contacts (a biker gang that sent word for help), 2) discover the source of Vegas's power, as it was -up until recently, without electricity, and 3)recon the city and its environs.

We arrived to a smoke signal, marking our drop-point and saw the bikers as soon as the chopper dusted off. Almost immediately, we (and by we, I mean the bikers; I'm sorry to admit there were a few rounds of indecision mostly due to my inability to commit to any one course of action) were beset by a third party in a modified paddy-wagon (Mad-Max style), who opened fire on the bikers. In the ensuing fire-fight, 5 members of the Nomad Police were gunned down, along with a pair of bikers.

Bodies were loaded into the paddy wagon for looting, the surviving cop was treated and put in a rear seat, and we followed the bikers to their hideout, a pool-hall and garage a little ways from the drop-site. Along the drive, we saw a run-down city given over to hedonism and depravity (I'm somewhat disturbed that we didn't stop to do anything about some of the stuff we saw, but I was driving, so I only have myself to blame until that truck tried to run us off the road), as well as a strange obsidian pyramid jutting out of the pond in front of the Belagio, giving off sporadic rays of light and possibly powering the strip.

Mahdi crashed the paddy wagon into the front of the pool-hall, but the building was still intact. We stabilized the cop and entered the building to speak to the bikers, Bill and Ed(?) - the last two surviving members of this chapter of the Hell's Angels. Mahdi went out to get the cop and bring him in, once things seemed on the up-and-up; but as soon as he left...

A voice called down from upstairs, Bill and Ed relaxed immediately upon hearing their names, and adjourned upstairs, presumably to find the owner of the (feminine) voice. Mahdi was called back inside and the typical PC-paranoia found all of us spread out, with easy access to the door when they came back down with the "woman."

She was irrefutably beautiful, wearing what can only be described as an Italian fashion-designer's best interpretation of a biker's old-lady's outfit, cut low and slinky. I think she was a red-head? And much hotter than this second-life image I've posted. Mahdi recognized her immediately for what she was(n't), an American whore of some kind.

She turned out to be quite adept at mind-control, though a few lucky rolls and some massive firepower from J.T. put an end to her sorcerous ways. During the fracas, Mahdi radioed back to H.Q. not to send a chopper for them under any circumstances, he didn't know what was going on, but the situation was out of control; and that he recommended quarantining the entire Unclaimed Territories and to carpet-bomb Vegas.

As he was transmitting, he cleared the area of her influence and almost couldn't remember why he was saying what he was saying, he added absently, "why did this all seem so important just a second ago..." Right after that, J.T. did his fireworks thing and "Oh, right," Mahdi said and then clarified his recommendation that the area be quarantined, but to hold bombers on stand-by until further updates can be transmitted. He and his team would make it out of Vegas on their own if possible, but he reiterated that no pick-up was to be attempted.

This probably still seems like over-kill; but you don't realize how fucked we were against that mind-control shit if we hadn't lucked into some good dice rolls, and J.T. hadn't managed to break control long enough to perforate her with his assault rifle. She had, during conversation, expressed great interest in accompanying us back to UMF and meeting with our superiors.

As soon as she died, the surviving biker, Bill, broke down crying, but stopped fighting. Mahdi brought in the cop while the Professor and J.T. helped Bill and investigated the corpse of the woman - which didn't seem human, so much as "put together according to a third-person accounting of what a human would look like on the inside." J.T. failed the first Fright Check of the campaign and developed a new Mental Quirk.

When questioned, the cop couldn't remember why it was important to attack the Angels, only that "she ordered us to." He couldn't divulge anything further (including whether or not "she" was the same she we'd just liberated Bill from), and the session ended there.

Oh yeah, J.T. and the Professor are a little drunk due to the mind-control shtick, and the Prof probably has a helluva hang-over to look forward to in the morning. XP was doled out and fun was had by all, I believe. I'm looking forward to exploring this world some more, next time.

I have no doubt Captain Hadji (and all the rest) are doomed, though I hope they survive to see things through to the end (the beginning?). I also have no clue who I would play as a back-up character. I'm thinking some kind of military "ghost" character, a stealth specialist / augmented human sent in to investigate the disposition of the Alpha Team.

The Races of Hunter's Moon 1: T'sharg

[Images Pending]

Third Tel gripped the reigns of his mount. The loose scarves that marked him as an emissary of White Bone blew around him in the strong easterly wind.

“What's wrong with the horses,” the boy asked. He yanked hard on the reigns of his Moenian steed, larger than his companion's mount; though not as large as the brown behemoths of the Orucan. The beast whuffed and stomped its hooves on the dirt road beneath them.

His Pajens companion crossed himself with the local ward of evil and spit. “This is the Silva,” the round, little man said, reigning in his round, little horse. “There are elves in these woods.”

Everything that was jovial and pleasant in Third Tel went out of him. He wondered if he would ever feel safe again. Elves! Alchemer Darrow had said nothing about elves. “Futui,” he cursed. “You lie.” Even as he said the words, though, his eyes darted around and through the surrounding trees. The Pajens at least believed what he said was true.

“No,” the elder man, Kentir said, sneering. “They don't come to the road. Not when there's decent folk about; but they leave sign.” He pointed across Tel's still unruly mount at one of the low and twisted trees. Marks were carved into the bark – a chaotic, looping kind of scripted pictograph that Tel had no hope of reading.

“What does it say,” he asked.

Kentir shrugged and spurred his horse onward. “Who knows,” he said. “Probably just 'stay the fuut out.”

Tel laughed, despite himself. He didn't have to spur the Moenian on. It followed the smaller horse on its own.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“What, an elf?” Kentir snorted. “Likely the last thing you'll ever see. 'Les your soul gets stuck and you get to watch him eat you.”

Tel went white. He'd heard rumors that elves ate the flesh of men; but...

Kentir watched him, then burst out laughing. “I am sorry. Sore sorry, indeed. Them elves eat flesh, sure; but mostly rodents and birds and the like.” He reached across and pat the messenger on his shoulder. “I've never heard tell of anyone eaten by elves.”

It was little comfort to Tel, who had heard of whole tribes slaughtered for trespassing into elvish lands. One life, the saying went, for every twig trampled under foot. It was all rumor and conjecture, of course. No human, whether from White Bone or the Pajens or any of the lesser kingdoms had ever seen an elf and lived.

And ahead, the path curved and exited the woods, into the Ractus plains. Tel let himself breath a sigh of relief. Then a terrible thought occurred to him.

“There's another route back, yes?” He looked behind them in time to see the luminescent eyes of the Rashaim bearing silently down upon them. “I wouldn't-”

His sentence was cut off by a terrified sort of howling whimper that escaped unbidden from his throat. He was not a practised rider; he fell from his horse.

Kentir hadn't even noticed. He heard the vibratto cry of the foul beast and shouted, “ride,” whipping his horse to a gallop. Even if he had noticed Tel's horse unburdened beside him, he wouldn't be coming back without a contingent of rangers from Ager. This was the end. Tel's life was over.

The Rashaim towered over him as it approached. Rows of violet eyes traced from its tentacled head, up it's neck and over it's muscular shoulders, bordered on either side in thick, brown fur. Within those bizarre tentacles, Tel could hear the clicking of razor-sharp teeth. Something in that noise cast a spell over the young messenger.

“Alright, you hairy cania,” he growled, drawing his suddenly very small and light dagger. “Come get me!” He dropped low into the fire stance – the last resort of a cornered rat, his master had said. Aanai masters do not teach the fire stance, because the Aanai believe that you accept death with grace and a peaceful heart.

This was not the Moenian way. The White Bone did not rise from the sands of Solitu by rolling over and accepting defeat.

The rashaim paced around Tel, black claws raking the ground. It moved with feline grace, despite it's mammoth size – easily dwarfing the boy's runaway steed. Tel steeled himself for death, locking eyes with the wild monster. Dying with a weapon in your hand was the best way to die in Moenia, even if all he managed was a scratch in the thick hide of -

Casiu's Heart! Slime dripped from its open maw, coating the writhing tentacles. In response, tears stained Tel's cheeks.

“Come at me,” he shouted. Dropping lower into the water stance. Fuut this stupid beast. He gritted his teeth. It's going to try to bite, get those slimy things around his head or neck. Flow like the river. Drop prone, everything breathes. Be like the beasts. Go for the throat. He actually growled.

There was no other sound in the Silva, but the Easterly in the leaves. Tel felt cold, calm. He was young, but he'd led a good life. Now he would die a warrior. No one got to die that way anymore. Not really. Not in the city. This was a good death. He breathed a soft chuckle which triggered the Rashaim's charge.

He knew before he even began to move that it wasn't going to work. Somehow, the monster anticipated his plan; was catching him low as he fell to the ground. His dagger was going right into the rashaim's tooth-filled hole.

And then it rocked hard to the right, stumbled past him and fell to the ground.

Three tiny people-things in green and brown stood on the road, clutching the vines they'd used to throw themselves against the beast. Their strange, curved blades stuck out of a trio of eyes high on the rashaim's back. Violet puss and blood mixed together and ran into it's thick fur.
Wide eyed, Tel snapped back to the -

Oh gods.

They were inhuman. Or perhaps too human. Miniature, no taller than a man's leg (if even that), thin but strong, with chorded muscle and wild energy; but the horrible part was the mouth, that feral smile. Jagged canine teeth under keen hunter's eyes. Their oversized ears twitched and turned on their own, aimed at him and at the beast – which was stirring again behind him.

“Isilwanendasonke,” one of the elves said in a growling tone. Oh gods. They talk. What did it say?

The trio of mythical beasts were circling around him, each clutching a second of those sinister, curved blades – no more than a knife, really; but menacing swords in their tiny predator's hands. For one terrifying moment, Tel was sure the Pajens hadn't been telling the truth about the elven diet; but then he heard the snarling of the rashaim and realized he was standing in between two of the most feared predators in Panton.

He didn't know what to do; but the elf had spoken to him. It wasn't much, but he clutched his knife and turned to join their advance.

---

The elves of Panton (the name men give to the World), called T'sharg in their own tongue, fell to earth in the great falling cities of the Necron. They are short, with tightly packed short-endurance sprinting muscles. Their big, somewhat pointed ears, twist unconsciously in the direction of prey while large eyes (which have lost quite a bit of color vision in exchange for better night vision) quietly observe every nuance of their surroundings. The mouth of an elf is wide and smiling, with predator's teeth meant for ripping and tearing raw meat. Elves and men cannot interbreed, but children of T'Sharg and Dokkoren, though sterile, are known by the Dokkoren to exist. Such abominations are put to death by the fiercely xenocentric elves.

T'sharg are ambush predators, with a somewhat Celtic society that reveres the Treants, and tolerates men because of their ties with the Ancient Guardians.

The elven diet can be disconcerting to some, particularly the more "civilized" tribes of White Bone. In particular, they prefer freshly killed rodents, eaten raw, though they are fond of larger prey (even - it is rumored - humans and, if they can bring one down, the Aanai). In truth, the T'sharg avoid these races for fear of interfering with what they call Umbusophefumula, the natural patterns of this world. More specifically, they fear that they might cause new Treants to die before they can be born; though this explaination makes no sense to all but the oldest of the Aanai.

---

On Language.

Called White Bone by most of its inhabitants and men of surrounding tribes, Moenia is perhaps the first city of men. Though still firmly in the stone age, White Bone rose up out of the sands of the Solitu desert when the desert tribes came together for the first time in peace under the shadow of the Falling Cities. Most of the alien words used here are Moenian, because it is told from Tel's vantage and Tel is a Moenian Emissary.

The intent is to provide players with the names of places and things in the language of their Character. Aanai, for instance, do not call the world Panton, but Ulagam. T'sharg use the word Umbuso. There are also a handful of phrases players can use to represent their character's ancestry or language, colloquialisms, simple "yes" and "no," things like that.

A common T'shargi (of the T'sharg) saying is "Isilwanendasonke." Which means roughly, "we all have to die," or "every beast dies," and is used as a sort of "what do you got to lose?" or "go for it," phrase among the Hidden Tribes.

Of the races presented here in the story: Tel is human, of course, as is Kentir, though they are from different parts of the world. Moenians are desert dwellers who have given up the nomadic life and built White Bone around trade and irrigation, though they have a violent history, and that violence seethes beneath the surface. Pajens are nomadic slavers, who try to match what they see as the oppulence and luxury of Moenia on the backs of their lessers. T'sharg are detailed above, diminutive, forest-dwelling, ambush-predator hippies. Kind of like Pini's Wolfriders but with bigger teeth.

Additionally, there are Aanai, ancient and mammoth wizard-monks from the Mountains to the East; which they share with the Iothun, the fearsome yeti-like Giants. Below the Mountains dwell the Dokkoren, Penton's answer to the dwarf.

Tel is not actually the first human to survive an encounter with the T'sharg, and both humans and elves are PC races, though T'sharg can expect to be shunned and feared or even attacked in the lands of men. Elves dwell deep in the "uncanny valley." They look wrong, to most men; and rightly so. Combined with their appetites and fearsome reputation, T'sharg are less liked than even the Giants or the Orucan.

The Elves of Panton

Third Tel gripped the reigns of his mount. The loose scarves that marked him as an emissary of White Bone blew around him in the strong easterly wind.

“What's wrong with the horses,” the boy asked. He yanked hard on the reigns of his Moenian steed, larger than his companion's mount; though not as large as the brown behemoths of the Orucan. The beast whuffed and stomped its hooves on the dirt road beneath them.

His Pajens companion crossed himself with the local ward of evil and spit. “This is the Silva,” the round, little man said, reigning in his round, little horse. “There are elves in these woods.”

Everything that was jovial and pleasant in Third Tel went out of him. He wondered if he would ever feel safe again. Elves! Alchemer Darrow had said nothing about elves. “Futui,” he cursed. “You lie.” Even as he said the words, though, his eyes darted around and through the surrounding trees. The Pajens at least believed what he said was true.

“No,” the elder man, Kentir said, sneering. “They don't come to the road. Not when there's decent folk about; but they leave sign.” He pointed across Tel's still unruly mount at one of the low and twisted trees. Marks were carved into the bark – a chaotic, looping kind of scripted pictograph that Tel had no hope of reading.

“What does it say,” he asked.

Kentir shrugged and spurred his horse onward. “Who knows,” he said. “Probably just 'stay the fuut out.”

Tel laughed, despite himself. He didn't have to spur the Moenian on. It followed the smaller horse on its own.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“What, an elf?” Kentir snorted. “Likely the last thing you'll see, ser. 'Les your soul gets stuck and you get to watch him eat you.”

Tel went white. He'd heard rumors that elves ate the flesh of men; but...

Kentir watched him, then burst out laughing. “I am sorry. Sore sorry, indeed. Them elves eat flesh, sure; but mostly rodents and birds and the like.” He reached across and pat the messenger on his shoulder. “I've never heard tell of anyone eaten by elves.”

It was little comfort to Tel, who had heard of whole tribes slaughtered for trespassing into elvish lands. One life, the saying went, for every twig trampled under foot. It was all rumor and conjecture, of course. No human, whether from White Bone or the Pajens or any of the lesser kingdoms had ever seen an elf and lived.

And ahead, the path curved and exited the woods, into the Ractus plains. Tel let himself breath a sigh of relief. Then a terrible thought occurred to him.

“There's another route back, yes?” He looked behind them in time to see the luminescent eyes of the Rashaim bearing silently down upon them. “I wouldn't-”

His sentence was cut off by a terrified sort of howling whimper that escaped unbidden from his throat. He was not a practised rider; he fell from his horse.

Kentir hadn't even noticed. He heard the vibratto cry of the foul beast and shouted, “ride,” whipping his horse to a gallop. Even if he had noticed Tel's horse unburdened beside him, he wouldn't be coming back without a contingent of rangers from Ager. This was the end. Tel's life was over.

The Rashaim towered over him as it approached. Rows of violet eyes traced from its tentacled head, up it's neck and over it's muscular shoulders, bordered on either side in thick, brown fur. Within those bizarre tentacles, Tel could hear the clicking of razor-sharp teeth. Something in that noise cast a spell over the young messenger.

“Alright, you hairy cania,” he growled, drawing his suddenly very small and light dagger. “Come get me!” He dropped low into the fire stance – the last resort of a cornered rat, his master had said. Aanai masters do not teach the fire stance, because the Aanai believe that you accept death with grace and a peaceful heart.

This was not the Moenian way. The White Bone did not rise from the sands of Solitu by rolling over and accepting defeat.

The rashaim paced around Tel, black claws raking the ground. It moved with feline grace, despite it's mammoth size – easily dwarfing the boy's runaway steed. Tel steeled himself for death, locking eyes with the wild monster. Dying with a weapon in your hand was the best way to die in Moenia, even if all he managed was a scratch in the thick hide of -

Casiu's Heart! Slime dripped from its open maw, coating the writhing tentacles. In response, tears stained Tel's cheeks.

“Come at me,” he shouted. Dropping lower into the water stance. Fuut this stupid beast. He gritted his teeth. It's going to try to bite, get those slimy things around his head or neck. Flow like the river. Drop prone, everything breathes. Be like the beasts. Go for the throat. He actually growled.

There was no other sound in the Silva, but the Easterly in the leaves. Tel felt cold, calm. He was young, but he'd led a good life. Now he would die a warrior. No one got to die that way anymore. Not really. Not in the city. This was a good death. He breathed a soft chuckle which triggered the Rashaim's charge.

He knew before he even began to move that it wasn't going to work. Somehow, the monster anticipated his plan; was catching him low as he fell to the ground. His dagger was going right into the rashaim's tooth-filled hole.

And then it rocked hard to the right, stumbled past him and fell to the ground.

Three tiny people-things in green and brown stood on the road, clutching the vines they'd used to throw themselves against the beast. Their strange, curved blades stuck out of a trio of eyes high on the rashaim's back. Violet puss and blood mixed together and ran into it's thick fur.
Wide eyed, Tel snapped back to the -

Oh gods.

They were inhuman. Or perhaps too human. Miniature, no taller than a man's leg (if even that), thin but strong, with chorded muscle and wild energy; but the horrible part was the mouth, that feral smile. Jagged canine teeth under keen hunter's eyes. Their oversized ears twitched and turned on their own, aimed at him and at the beast – which was stirring again behind him.

“Isilwanendasonke,” one of the elves said in a growling tone. Oh gods. They talk. What did it say?

The trio of mythical beasts were circling around him, each clutching a second of those sinister, curved blades – no more than a knife, really; but menacing swords in their tiny predator's hands. For one terrifying moment, Tel was sure the Pajens hadn't been telling the truth about the elven diet; but then he heard the snarling of the rashaim and realized he was standing in between two of the most feared predators in Panton.

He didn't know what to do; but the elf had spoken to him. It wasn't much, but he clutched his knife and turned to join their advance.

---

The elves of Panton (the name given to the World by men), called T'sharg in their own tongue, fell to earth with the Necron and in their falling cities.

Grand Designs

So I've got this blog, right? It sits here, out in cyberspace; declaring to the world all sorts of things I'm not entirely comfortable with. And I'm not referring to the content, but to what's not in it.

When I first started this thing, I had such grand designs. I always have such grand designs. That, maybe, is my problem. I get an idea in my head, and it's so big – so wonderful – I have to work on it, I have to make it happen. Almost always to the exclusion of all the big, wonderful ideas that have come before it; but I do work on these things. A lot. It's sort of my hobby; creating shit.

So I have - in my hard drive, written (and drawn) on reams of paper, and floating around my mess of a room on napkins and cardboard and filling who knows how many cds – a veritable copper mine of art, fiction, and gaming material. All of it's “unfinished,” but it's also what you would call, works in progress.

I'd like to start making some of that progress. And because I'm always trying to work an angle, I'd also like to begin putting that work here, where it might generate page impressions and maybe bring my AdSense revenue up over a hundred dollars so I can make a little dough.

So I'm changing the direction of this blog. Or, rather, I'm refining it. I'm turning it into my gaming blog; where I intend to publish every campaign world, every NPC, every game note for – well, not every, but – a great many of my ongoing gaming projects. For the four of you who read my blog, let me know if one of these interests you more than the others, and I'll work more on that game until one of the others (or, Cthulhu eat my soul – something new) captures my imagination.

Here's a not-so-short list of the material I feel belongs here:

167 Subscribers (World of Darkness horror on YouTube).

Balefire (The Zombie Apocalypse in the World of Darkness - from another angle).

Clone (A series of Star Wars d6 Adventures concerning a squad of Troopers declared MIA toward the end of the Clone Wars – not sure if this can be translated into SAGA, but willing to try).

Coruscant Rising (A Closer look at Imperial City for any System and Game Notes for a Star Wars d6 Campaign that explores the Rebellion in the shadow of the Emperor himself [perhaps with SAGA Edition Conversions as well).

Council of Wyrms (Mutants & Masterminds. Dragons in the Modern Age).

Eternal Sun (a D&D4e Campaign Setting & a Campaign in which that setting is overrun with a terrible plague of Undead).

First Year (Mutants & Masterminds in the foremost School of Witchcraft & Wizardry).

Gamma World: Los Augustine (Setting and Adventures on the Last Coast)

Hunter's Moon (Gurps Paleolithic Fantasy).

Man's Reach (Lovecraft in Spaaaaaace! - and Gurps).

Quantum Jack (Originally d20 Modern, but probably better suited for World of Darkness. I may post both. Your name is Jack Logan. You've been ripped out of your reality and brought to this one by an evil mastermind who happens to be named Jack Logan. As it turns out, Jack Logan is kind of a dick in most of the multiverse; and now you're all here and it's up to you to stop them, er, yourself).

Tales of Adventure (a D&D4e Campaign based on conversions of some of the top 30 adventure modules of all time (of all time!).

Urge (Originally written for D&D4e but easily [and logically] converted to Star Wars SAGA, Urge follows a war-torn tribe of Sandpeople as they try to rebuild and survive their pilgrimage across the Dune Sea).

Where Liberty Dwells (Gurps Spies and Soldiers in American Revolution).

World's End (Just what happens to all those missing ships and planes and civilizations? My take on the Bermuda Triangle – Gurps, but I think something similar has been done in one of their splatbooks. I'll have to look).

In addition to all this mess, I'll also be blogging about gaming, discussing (even if only one-sided) the pros and cons of different systems, and writing short pieces about the continuing adventures of the Saint Augustine Flaming Dragons of Death, as well as the odd bit of raw fiction (when I get a wild hair up my ass). Also, some of (a lot of?) this material will be cross-posted to Obsidian Portal; but I'm unsure about advertising there, and I am a greedy bastard, so we'll see.

And if you're one of the illustrious and want me to run one of these that I haven't, let me know and I'll get on that.