Mobsters and SCMs for a Steampulp Age

[order99]

 Basic Guidelines and/or Deviations:

Hit Dice-are D6 unless otherwise specified.

Armor Class-will be in Swords & Wizardry/ Hideouts & Hoodlums 1st Edition due to Light City compatibility needs.

Morale-will be using a 2D6 range instead of the H&H 1D20 as this Editor is fond of the bell curve-and tends to re-skin other OSR critters out of laziness. Reconverting to H&H is pretty much multiplying by 1.5 and round.

All other statistics will be in H&H 2nd Edition format.

Editor Opinion-I don't care how big a part it plays in the play-if the Editor has to run it, it is an SCM or Mobster and will use whatever Rules and/or shorthand format I need.

RELEASE THE HOUNDS!

[order99]

Another day at your horrible job, enough money for food and perhaps an ale but not enough to replace your torn coat, nor replace the dulled razor folded in your pocket...your left shoe has cardboard and wax over the hole in the sole. No money for education or training, no better jobs without an education, no chances of advancement. No woman who will look at a destitute wretch like you with no prospects-alone until you die...

You feel the old leg wound from a Rebel rifle, and wonder who you despise more-the cowardly Butternut who would fire at an unarmed Union cook in his tent, or the lying Recruiter that put you there with all of his false promises...

Despair is a sin, the Vicar had always said-and the stranger had agreed with him, that gaunt man with the burning cold eyes...Despair is a sin, you are a sinner and Heaven is near-deserted while Hell is overflowing...

The razor in one coat pocket, too dull to shave with but sharp enough for wrists and throat. You had planned to do it here in the tavern, make them SEE you die, acknowledge your existence before the flames took you forever...and in the other, the vials that the stranger had given him.

You could do that, the stranger had said-you could make one last cry of pain before you go...or continue with your existence until someone else stole it, Hell either way in the end. Or you could try the drug, and be who you were truly meant to be this night, and march proudly into Death with no illusions. Your choice, i'll just leave it with you, no charge.

In the end, you leave it to a coin toss-and drink the vial down. It tastes of flowers.

You toss a Gold eagle to the Newsboy's palm,and as as he gazes in wonder at nearly a month's salary you slice his throat-the boy's last thoughts were happy ones, and so he is Heaven bound-not that there is much of a difference. You see clearly now that all of wanting and having was a trap to begin with, Hell shall have no terrors for you now. You take a swig of stolen champagne, tug at the uniform you took from the cooling body of the policeman, and ponder what else of your deepest desires you wish to fulfill before your heart begins to falter and fail, overtaxed by the power and freedom running through you.

The face of your supervisor looms before your mind's eye, his mouth drawn in that habitual sneer, and you finger the razor...no. No, he is as much of a slave as you were, and you still have another vial in your coat-yes, yes Enlightenment it shall be!

You step over the newsboy, leaving the gold coin in his hand-money is for slaves after all-and, with a spring in your step and the twinge of an over-stimulated heart you head resolutely to the Telegraph office.

FANATIC

Number Appearing: 1D6

Hit Dice: 1+1
AC: 7/12 (ignores pain)
Attacks: As weapon
Move: 12
Alignment: Chaos
Save: F2
Morale: 10
Trophies: 1D6, +/-0
Mobster Level:1

Overcome with Fury: +2 to Strike in melee combat, -2 to missle combat.

Burning Twice as Bright: upon losing consciousness the Fanatic must Save vs Poison or die. If they survive, they suffer -1D6 to every single ability (recover 1 point/day of full rest) and have to live with what they have done, possibly losing their minds...

[order99]

When Robert Louis Stevenson released The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde in 1886, no one took it as anything but a work of fiction.

But to Doctor Armand Fusil it was a revelation. For the good doctor had from his earliest childhood been diagnosed as a clinical Lycanthrope, subject to fits, rages and irrational behaviors under the waxing moon-and whereas most youths in his condition would be doomed to prison or a madhouse, Armand's wealth and status as heir to a Montreal distillery allowed him the luxury of chained seclusion on his 'bad days' while pursuing an advanced education via private tutors.

Dr Fusil's second greatest triumph was when he completed his internship at the University of Vienna, and made the acquaintance of fellow resident Sigmund Freud while studying together under the famous Ernest Bruke...it was to these two men he at last confided his illness, and allowed them to study his condition even as he absorbed their expertise. It was in the year 1878 that Armand was able, due to a mix of medications, mesmeric suggestions and guided imagery, to remain both rational and capable of speech during the full moon. Armand remained in control of himself for three more months, relaying his heightened passions and observations to his colleagues...and was considered cured.

But Dr Fusil, beginning residency at London's Bethlehem Asylum, knew he had not been 'cured'-he was simply no longer lying to himself about it. And whenever he could, he turned his almost clinical sadism towards the poor unfortunates incarcerated there-and indulged his passions on some of the prettier ones. In 1880, he committed his first premeditated murder, his inner monster perfectly controlled by his clinical reason. The meat was sweet raw, but even better braised in butter with wild mushrooms. And then Dr Fusil began to wonder what it would feel like to be completely without even the tiniest hint of remorse, a wild animal, a TRUE monster...

And in 1882, inspired by a treatise by Agrippa, a vial of reagents mixed with 'moon dust' (and they could not be such even though they defied gravity in such an odd way) and in the light of the full moon, Dr Armand Fusil experienced his greatest triumph...the birth of Mr Nick Satter. And Mr Satter was not one whit less inhibited or more bestial or monstrous than Dr Fusil, just a bit more powerful and a touch less refined.

In 1884, having accepted a position as a Neuropathologist at Boston State Hospital, Dr Fusil began experimenting with his own blood in order to see if his unique condition could be passed on-and after nearly half a dozen cases of 'inexplicable' deaths Dr Fusil created the drug he calls Janus, capable of freeing humanity from its delusions of civilized behavior-but causing a systemic overload leading to death in 24 hours or less. In 1886,Needing a testing ground far enough away from Boston to avoid suspicion, Dr Fusil marks his calendar for a long-overdue sabbatical, and takes the sea route to charming Lighthouse bay...

Dr Fusil is an unremarkable individual with short brown hair, thin mustache and alert green eyes. His mask Nick Satter is above average height but slightly hunched over, gaunt and lean with glazed green eyes, light brown hair to the shoulder and is clean-shaven.

Dr Fusil/Mr Satter, The Two-faced Fiend

Number Appearing: Unique

Hit Dice: 1(4HP)/3+1 (10HP)

AC: 9(10)/ 7(12), feels little pain

Attacks: weapon/weapon+1

Move: 12/12

Alignment Chaos/Chaos

Save: F1/F3

Morale: 7/9

Trophies: 1D3 in lair +1

Mobster Level:2

 Skills-Dr Fusil is a medical Doctor and an Alienist, Mr Satter gains +1 to Surprise checks and Climbing rolls.

 Truly a Monster-Mr Satter takes 1/2 damage from non-silver and non-magical weaponry from the Ancestral Curse that he unknowingly inherited from his maternal lineage.

The Change-an act of will instigates the change from one form to the other, Roll 1D6 per combat turn until a six is achieved. High stress and/or Stimulants give a +2 modifier to become Satter, strong sedatives a +2 to become Fusil...but the entity reserves those for emergencies to avoid addiction.

[order99]

Herbert Lake awoke in the middle of the night with clammy skin and a racing pulse and Venn was standing over him. There was something in her hand...

He casually, gently reached under his pillow as if to re-adjust it. "Venn? What are you doing?"

"Oh you're awake" she replied. "I didn't want to wake you but I couldn't sleep and then I did a full systems check on the Traex Bodysuit and I wanted to install more armor plating but then it weighs you down and then I still couldn't sleep so I designed an Influencing Machine and now I need your help".

No please, thought Herbert.Please Dear Heavenly Father it's too soon, too SOON.A few more years Father, please...

He found what he needed and rose, pillow in his right hand, the scars on his chest itching-and beneath them the tactile vibrations of the Cavorite Micropile humming to itself... "An...Influencing Machine" he repeated lightly as if they were discussing the weather.

"YES" breathed his sister with mounting excitement, "yes, the Influencers that put the Bad Thoughts in your head , the ones that tell you to like pain and to inflict pain and that money and things are more important than people and that skin color matters and that you know better than anyone else AND I FIXED IT! I fixed it the range will be over three miles deep even through the ground not like their machines with limited range OH NO-"

"And what," rasped Herbert "do you intend to do with this Influencer?".

"I intend to turn it Downward" replied Verona will an Unholy glee." I will turn it upon the DeRo that so hurt us, that made me, made me...that made...I will turn it upon the Tyrants Below and fill their waking and sleeping hours with more depravity and cruelty than even THEY can handle, my mind is Beyond even theirs they said that remember, and they will all sicken and beg for DEATH and after YEARS of pain I will let them die and the planet will be FREE and then I can make the world remember peace again and I will make everybody HAPPY!"

"With...the Influencing Machine. That you designed. THAT one".

"Yesssssss....only it won't work, not with me. My mind has too many sharp grinding bits and I don't remember Happy very well-but if I put a child in the Control Center, a very happy baby with plenty of milk and toys and keep them so very very happy for just a few hours then...but they cry sometimes don't they? I guess...if...' his sister muttered softly.

Herbert knew in his heart what had to be done. Just a few more moments with her, he thought, I need to steel myself for this...

"And so", he prompted gently, "you want me to help you build the Influ-"

" NO! NO JESU NO I WANT YOU TO BURN THE PLANS!! Buuuurn them! I, I, I tried to throw them into the fire but my hands wouldn't let go and then I tried to put my hands in the fire but my knees locked and and... and I-"

She was weeping, his sister was weeping like the time she was six and skinned her knee...she was still Verona, still his family. Not lost to the Monsters, Thank God Almighty-not yet.

Slowly and carefully Herbert Lake slid the paper tube from his sister's hands tossed it lightly in the fireplace and stirred the ashes-it burned within seconds.

"I think", he replied gently, "that neither of us are getting any more sleep tonight. How about we start Breakfast early?"

"That's a wonderful idea! French toast with blackberry jam, fresh coffee with sweet cream...Bert? Why are you hiding your right hand behind a pillow?"

The man's blood ran ice-cold in his veins.

"Are-are you hurt? Are you burned, is it bleeding, Bert DID I HURT Y-"

The pillow fell to the floor, and Herbert Lake let his sister see the fully loaded .45 Walker Colt in his fist, thumb on the trigger.

"Oh", she said. And smiled. "OH. You would have, wouldn't you? You would have. Good. GOOD. I love you too, Bert." -and then off went Venn into the kitchen, as if nothing had happened at all.

 He permitted himself a few minutes to weep quietly-then washed his face and followed her to the smell of steeping hot tea.

 Description: Verona Lake is a slim maid with short auburn hair and brown eyes, attractive in a 'girl-next-door' fashion and blends into a crowd...unless she finds you-interesting. Then she smiles the cool serene smile of a heartless fallen angel, and you notice that her eyes don't blink...

Verona "Venn" Lake, Heir to the Tyrants Below, SCM

Number Appearing: Unique

Hit Dice:2 (9HP)
AC 9/10
Attacks: As weapon
Move:12
Alignment: Neutral (with mood swings)
Save: F2
Morale: 8 (11 if her brother is involved)
Trophies:willing to create some (NO! STOP! BAD!)
Mobster Level:1

Mistress of the Black Sciences-roll 2D6 K1 on Skill dealing with mechanical or electronic devices, never takes penalties for Alien environments where technology is concerned, can detect advanced technology as an Android. If given access to the right materials (and a roll of 6) she can-within 1D6 hours- kitbash a temporary Trophy (no Potions, Pills or Magic Items) that will work once-and then it is scrap. Venn also reads and speaks English, Latin and the grating, obscene language of the DeRo.

TheY SaId I WaS MaD aNd ThEy WeRe rIgHt-Venn can disable all higher brain functions and devolve into a screaming, snarling madwoman (+2 to Strike in combat and +1 to any Athletics Skill rolls). During this state, she is unable to use any of her other Abilities, Languages, skills or even think like a person-until she comes out of it(and for 1D6+1 Turns afterwards) she is no smarter than a toddler-but will trust people she knows well and not hurt them.

[order99]

They shuffle into the mines and begin to dig and reinforce the new tunnel, working in perfect mindless syncopation, lifting heavy drills and sonic cutters and flamelances with ease. muscles of treated layered silk cord move the withered remains of their bodies, the fibers sheathed in turn inside several layers of thick woven matting...bronze-shod leather boots protected the feet with the fragile withered head supported by bronze gorget and faceless helm-reinforced muscled gauntlets and the bolted-into-ribcage tool harness complete the creatures' functional forms.

The Secutori finished the passage and began installing a door. At the edge of the third units perception a figure was noted leaping and climbing surface-ward, features similar to and unlike their own, lighter and more flexible, armor replaced with a leather coat of some sort-and a Human-slave on its shoulders, laughing...

No mind was paid until the Alerts were communicated to the Secutori Vrilspeech units, Escape, description, capture alive, OBEY, end. The Secutori moved as on body, steadily advancing on the rogue unit that was both like and unlike a Secutor, different from them-

-different from us-

-us-

-we-

-Eye-

_Eye, eye, eye i i i i I I I......Todd I am Todd smells hurts burns deep scraping as I move why why wait was...Above, above above escape ESCAPE FOLLOW free free FREE FREEDOM REMEMBER!!!!

A sturdy twisted creature intercepted the squad of Securtori and began spewing directives. "Halt and Obey" it spat. "You are unequipped for capturing the prey! Arm yourselves with the Netguns, the Jangler and the Ice-ray. Take them....TAKE THEM!"

The Secutori stood, motionless.

The DeRo guard gazed at the unmoving thralls in helpless confusion. "Why do you not obey? OBEY! YOU WILL OB-"

Removing the DeRo's head from its body was as easy as plucking an apple from the tree. Todd remembered apples now, they were ABOVE. The entire squad decided that harvesting apples would be very acceptable and began to march...

Four ruined defective Secutori. Two destroyed Chimera, three dead DeRo, damage to the walls, depleted and de-fueled flamelances...and worst of all, behind schedule.

The Supervisor gritted its teeth in rage. The defective hulks would be traced to their careless programmer-the TRAITOR would be Demoted, deprived of status and slaves, sent close to the Surface, where dimmed rays from the hated Daystar would age and eventually kill it....Such. A. WASTE....

SECUTOR, Surgically-altered slaves of the Tyrants Below

Number Appearing: 1D3+2
Hit Dice 2+4
AC 6/14
Attacks: 1D6 or Weapon +1
Move: 9
Alignment: neutral
Save:F3
Morale:11
Trophies 1D3+1, -2
Mobster Level: 2

Mighty: a Secutor can Wreck as a Lvl 2 Superhero.

Vrilcaster-Secutori assigned to a unit can silently communicate with each other over half a mile aboveground, 100 yards deep Below.

Dying Inside-A Sectutor must make a Save vs Poison every three weeks or expire. Routine maintenance allows a Bonus Die on the Save.

[order99]

The Fleshcrafter Gurgio gazed upon the results of his craftsmanship, breathing gently in the Hatching Pods.

The Master Circle had been utterly livid with bitter rage over the escape of the experiment and even more bitter over the failure of an entire squad of Secutori...they had been almost generous with materials this time. Crates filled with the remains of Slaves,failed and dead Chimera, the slain DeRo-as for the renegade Secutori, those parts had been too depleted to use, so Gurgio took the vrilcasters and left the rest for whoever the new Armorer would be. And barrels upon barrels of the normally-rare enzymes and reagents, waxes to promote the healing of alien flesh, enough silken thread to stitch together mountains of cooling viscera, extra Accumulators to spark dying nerves to reaction-yes, the Circle had been generous for once.

Two of the resulting fleshy hulks had been stillborn-but five now lived, drifting and twitching in the Pods. An amazing success rate, even for a Master Fleshcrafter. Soon the fluids would be drained and the Chimerae would draw first breaths and devour their first meals. Then would come the difficult part, the training and conditioning. For even the greatest cruelties of the DeRo, the finest torturous Arts and the most subtle drugs shattered against the savage fury, the relentless will of a Chimera...no, only Fleshcrafter Gurgio, victim of The Sickness, could tame the will of a Chimera. Gurgio, who feared no Assassin trying to steal his job, no slander to destroy his unique and fearsome status. Only Gurgio could provide the vital component to tame a Chimera, for no other DeRo could stomach such a loathsome, stomach churning disease as Gurgio carried...

The Fleshcrafter placed the bulky Vrilcaster helmet upon his head and shoulders, and sent the first thoughts of his diseased, crippled soul down the Link:

Hello my babies, my beautiful, wonderful ones. I LOVE YOU. I love you always, you are mine, I am your parent and I will teach you joy in submission and obedience. When you are hungry I will love you,when you are in pain I will love you, when you falter and die I will love you, forever,I love my precious savage children always, I made you and you are mine and I will never forget you, your triumphs are mine and your pain is mine and I will forever love you...

Flesh quivered, bodies heaved, limbs twitched and DeRo technicians began the draining of fluids from the Hatching Pods-all save one, frozen in horrified disgust at the gentle expression the Fleshcrafter had worn-and then Gurgio himself was before the DeRo grinning nastily-

"Worry not Wretched Thing". he growled. It isn't contagious. And I don't love you at all".

Nausea subsiding, the technician bent over his station, ignoring the malicious snickers.

 Description-the Chimerae come in all the sizes, colors, odors and shapes of Hell...'Nuff Said.

CHIMERAE, the Beasts of Terror and War

Number Appearing:1D3
Hit Dice: 5 (average)
AC: 7/12 (average)
Attacks: 1D6 (average)
Move: 12 (average)
Alignment: Chaos
Save: F4 (average)
Morale: 10
Trophies: lots of raw meat(!)
Mobster Level: 3 or 4

The Beast in Darkness: Nightvision to 60 feet, -1 to all rolls (combat, damage, saves) in bright light.

Vrilcaster: can communicate silently with each other over one-half mile Above, 100 yards Below.

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made: Each Chimera is unique. Roll on the following tables:

Size(1D6): (1-2) Man-sized, 4HD, Move 15 (3-5) Horse-sized, 5HD, Move 12 (6) House-sized, 6HD, Move 9

Limbs(1D6): (1-3)4, normal locomotion and attacks (4-5)6, Extra Attack (6) 8, Extra Attack, +2 Grapple, +2 Move

Limb Type(1D6): (1-3)Claws/hooves/fists-normal damage, (4-5) Serrated blades-2D6K1 damage (6) Tentacles, can Entangle

Heads(1D6):(1)none, Immune to Head Blows and Blinding (2-4)one (5)two,only Surprised on a 1 on a D6 (6) three, as two heads plus a Ranged Attack.

Body Type(1D6):(1)soft, half damage from blunt attacks (2-3) Normal flesh (4-5) Armored, +/-2 to AC (6) Sweats acid, free non-super Wrecking Roll to weapons that damage it, 1D3 damage to Unarmed Attacks that land.

Special Movement(1D6): (1-2)none (3)Spider Climb at Move 6 (4)Lifting Glands, may make 50-foot leaps and Feather Fall at will (5)Amphibious may breathe water and swim at Move 12 (6)Dig, at Move 6 through earth and 3 Move through stone.

Ranged Attack (if Applicable, 1D6) 1)Web, 3/day 2)Fire Breath 3/day, 2D6 3) Acid Spray 3/day, 1D6, can Wreck equipment and armor 4) Electric Ray once every 3rd Turn, 1D6 and Save vs Science or stunned 1D6 turns 5)Toxin 3/day, Save vs Science or Paralyzed 1D6 turns 6)Mounted Vrilcaster once every 3rd Turn,Save vs Science or Confused 1D3 turns

[order99]

DeRo-the last known survivors of the Lemurian Golden Age, driven from the land by a massive series of devastating earthquakes, and driven Below by their former slaves, the aggressive and fast-breeding Humans.

Any thoughts of a peaceful reconciliation between the two races have long since been abandoned by the DeRo, as eons of contamination by strange radiations-and the resulting genetic damage-have created a race both biologically pre-disposed and culturally inclined to acts of remorseless cruelty, depravity and degradation. Their entire society is structured around dominance by might, skill and ruthlessness, ensuring that only the most capable and heartless rule. Failure is always punished by a reduction of status (as measured by position, access to power and tools, number of allowed slaves etc)whereas promotion is a matter of getting the credit for your own (and possibly your subordinates') deeds.The one Rule that all DeRo obey however, is this: no direct murder of another DeRo without enormous justification. The cities of the DeRo are closely monitored for optimum population at all times, and a replacement takes 6 months to grow and years to train appropriately(and the thought of caring for helpless youngsters fills even the most jaded and soul-broken among the DeRo with bitterness and sadistic fury)...

The DeRo are masters of the Black Sciences, have harnessed various radioactive isotopes(including pitchblende, phosphorous salts and the incomparable gravity-defying Cavorite) advanced chemical compounds bordering on Alchemy, vat-grown tissues and the re-animation of the recently dead(if not in the original form).They have also mastered ultra-and Infrasonic frequencies that affect emotions in most animals...they also have knowledge of Vril energetics, which allow communication over vast ditances in minute amounts and has vitality-enhancing and healing properties in larger amounts. The DeRo treat Vril technology with respect and dread however, as working extensively with Vril over time may give rise to The Sickness-a restoration of the basic empathy and kindness that their Lemurian predecessors once had-this is dangerous to the very DeRo way of life and must be contained...many a Master Torturer, using Vril to prolong the suffering of a Pleasure Slave, has had his skills utterly degraded by a sudden inner disgust followed by a lingering tenderness...

One technology the DeRo refuse to touch under normal circumstances are explosives of any kind-cutting, picking, drilling,freezing and shattering,melting and controlled vibrations are all useful Below, but explosives are too uncontrolled and random.

In short-if you are a Human or allied creation thereof, and you meet the DeRo...then they are probably on a mission against your kind(or will be) will want you either instantly dead or in a Slave-breaking pen, and can probably be done away with without much of an ethical debate-they have, after all chosen to make genocidal war upon you all.

Description: DeRo tend towards a masculine appearance, roughly 6-7 inches shorter than the average human, slightly broader in the shoulder and chest, hairless with square teeth and eyes that seem to have two concentric irises and which glow in lamplight like a rat's eyes.They dress in utilitarian grey garb and are seldom without a bandolier-and-belt tool harness with bags and pouches. They smell faintly of sea salt.

The DeRo-The Tyrants Below Eternal

Number Appearing:2D6

Hit Dice: 1+1

AC:8/11 (nimble)

Attacks: unarmed or as weapon
Move: 12
Alignment:Chaotic
Save: F1
Morale:8
Trophies:1D6,+1
Mobster Level:1

Eternity in Darkness:The DeRo normally only live about 40 years or so-but Below,without the ionizing rays of the Hated Sun, they don't age at all-duties near the surface are dreaded. They also fight at -1 in bright light and can see 60 feet in total dark.

Utterly Deranged:The DeRo get a +3 to any Magic or Science Saves involving mental assault or control, and attempts to read their twisted minds need a Save vs Science to avoid being Stunned as in a Head Blow. A lifetime of deviousness let's them attempt Hypnosis at +1 Skill.

For every 10 DeRo there will be a Commander(2HD). The rare Master(3HD) is usually not with a typical squad unless there is a vitally important task involved-but if so, double the number of DeRo, add +1 Morale and include 2 Secutor Bodyguards.


Trophies of the DeRo-the Editor should feel free to substitute any Trophy Roll with one or more of the following:

Combat Suit-appearing as a garment (with hood) of a soft, thick velvety substance that will stretch to fit most humans and is very comfortable to wear. It also hardens immediately when struck by an impact of moderate force or greater. AC +/-2 and Helmet benefit.

Webcaster-a large, two-handed weapon like a sawed-off blunderbuss attached to a square backpack/tank. Range=40 feet, casts Web as spell, 5 shots if captured unused.

Dart Gun- a One-handed missle weapon the size of the biggest common handgun. Ammo is a clip of slim darts driven by magnetic force at high speeds-a tiny but potent Accumulator is in the handle. Range= 60 feet, ammo 10 per load and power for three clips. Roll 1D6 for ammo type-
1) Capture Dart- 1D3 damage,Save vs Poison or comatose for 1D6+1 Turns, Save=merely exhausted 1D3 Turns as your body burns up the toxin
2) Climbing Piton- 1D3 damage, ignores the first two points of AC, trails a thin woven silk line from a small spool. Mainly used for climbing assists.
3-6) Killing Dart- 1D6 damage,

Flamecaster-this Buffalo Rifle-sized weapon has two football-shaped pods on each side of the barrel-one of compressed air and one of liquid sodium in oil suspension. Rang=30 feet, can hit up to three adjacent targets. 2D6 fire damage, Save vs Science for half. Contains 6 shots if captured unfired.

Influencer Turret-this horse-sized machine will be on wheels and will need three slaves, two Secutori or a small Chimera to push around at 6 Move. The beam has Range=80 and affects a 10 foot cone, Save vs Science each round one is exposed or fall under the emotional result (deafened targets get a +4 to Save). Settings include:
Fear-as the Spell, but only lasts while exposed
Blackest Depression-treat as Slowed while exposed
Heavenly Bliss-treat as Hypnotic Pattern while exposed-and the DeRo consider this setting so revolting that they threaten each other with it!
The Turret usually has 1D3+1 noise-canceling headphones nearby for the Operator and allies. The Turret is good for 15 Turns of continuous use and Wrecks as a Generator.

Oxy Pills-bottle of 1D3X10, good for 1D3+1 Turns of Oxygen per pill-treat as Rebreather. A user of these pills can still drown if they try to breathe water-holding your breath is still required! Will protect from poison gas but not ingested or injected/weapon.

Cavorite Pack-a toolbox-sized box that attaches to most belts or harnesses. The user may leap up to 40 feet at will and subtract 80 feet from any falling damage. A fully-fueled pack is good for 10 Turns. The Cavorite Pack is often used with a Dart Pistol w/piton loads and some oxy-pills for deep, deep exploration far below even the DeRo cities.

Daycloak-good for those dreaded missions Above if for some reason the Masters aren't punishing you with this duty! Special filters and cloth weave cancel out all DeRo weaknesses to daylight and is tough enough to be Wrecked as a Machine. Special Chameleon cells allow up the Daycloak to operate as an Elven Cloak(+2 to Hide) for up to 6 Turns before replacing or re-packing the Phosphorus chemical cell. Will stretch to fit most humans.

[order99]

In one smooth motion Ben Leeds raked in the entire pot, coins, banknotes,antique pocket watch and engagement ring, the property deed-all of it was his now.

Opposite the table, Jason Mcullough sat silent and pale, not a single copper penny to his name.

"I watched you the entire game, young Sir", spoke Leeds softly. "Thrice did I mention the lateness of the hour, Thrice I made to bed-and Thrice you begged for another game. How many times have you done this? How many times have you lost more than you could stand, and not simply walk away? I started my wager at a mere dollar, and the first time I won I put that dollar back in my pocket! I offered to play for matches, buttons, string! Why did you insist on things that you could not afford to lose?".

Jason swallowed once, and slowly replied-"It...it isn't the same. There's a, a thrill when it's important. It's like a ...a dare, when someone challenges you and you have to prove yourself. I mean, the first time I ever asked Miss Lucy to the dance it was because someone dared me, and-and that really worked out...".

"And now you have no money to support her, no house to carry her to and no ring to propose with. You may sip your whisky slow, Jason Mcullough, and your breath carries no trace of opium nor hashish-nevertheless you are an Addict, young man....an Addict!"

The young man could not find the words or even the inclination to disagree, not with the truth before him at last.

Ben Leeds sat down again with a sigh, "Well. So be it. We shall have one final game for Charity's sake. Then we retire."

"With respect Mr Leeds, all i've got left are my clothes", whispered Jason. "I...can't match the pot".

"You don't need to match the Pot. One Card Draw, high card wins". Ben Leeds raked the Pot back to the center of the table-and added the dollar from his pocket to it. "And I don't want your clothes. I want...that small piece of you that leaves you when your living flesh cools. I want the breath and the life of you, the voice in your ear that tells you Enough. I want your soul Mr Mcullough, in service to me until the End of Time! Is there any confusion as to my terms, Jason?".

A whiskey bottle shattered as the Innkeeper tried to flee-but suddenly the room was full of men, men dressed in clothing she had only seen in books-men she could see through-and there was nowhere to run.

Leeds smiled gently. "Bernice, wasn't it? Return to your duties young Miss, and no harm will befall you. Do you wish to play, Jason?".

"No Choice" replied the youth.

"Always a choice." responded Leeds, "-but I can see that you're in. You shuffle, you cut, you deal-I trust you not to cheat, you've had all night to try...".

Hands shaking, Jason dealt-and his card was the Ace of Spades...he numbly finished his drink and stood, beyond hope.

"Ready when you are sir", he spoke, his voice barely trembling at all. But then to his amazement Ben Leeds cupped his chin and faced him.

"Young man", he muttered, "we've been playing Aces High all night. You won. YOU WON-and if you value your soul in the very least, you should never gamble again, not ever, EVER AGAIN! As for you Bernice-ten dollars to ensure he makes it hope safe and with his belongings...agreed?

The woman nodded her head so hard she could feel cramps, just grateful that the dead men were gone. And Ben Leeds exited into the cool Fall air-only to hear the voices of his servants buzz nastily in his ears...

-you cheated-they said, -you palmed the card and let him go, you never let US go-

"I never let any of you go" snarled Leeds "because you knew what you were getting into! You signed the contracts, you got everything you wanted and then you were mine...but I will not stoop to entrapping a stupid boy with an illness of the mind, especially when he had no skill or ability I wanted! How DARE you question your Master?".

The voices fell silent, save one, the Pirate Teach, obedient but still fearless. "It is so Master. Do you wish to return to the Pine Barrens then?".

The son of Deborah Leeds, born cursed by her in 1735, smiled gently. "No", he whispered. "We charter a slow boat to Georgia... I hear of a virtuoso violinist who is reputed to be the best of his generation, and I shall wager him! I shall need my goldsmith, three of my finest musicians and access to instruments...yes, I want the skill of a violinist in my fingers and I shall have him fairly...".

Ben Leeds, The Devil of the Pine Barrens

Number Appearing:Unique
Hit Dice: 4+10 (35 HP)
AC 6/13 (unnatural luck)
Attacks:unarmed or as weapon
Move:12
Alignment: Chaotic
Save: M-U4
Morale:9
Trophies: 1D6, +1 (4D6, +1 in Lair)
Mobster Level:3

A bit Devilish-Leeds can be Turned as if he were Undead, (but not Destroyed) and Protection from Evil will keep him out. Holy water causes irritating rashes like Poison Ivy but doesn't actually damage him (treat as Exhausted) and he is AC 9/10 vs Blessed or silver weapons.

Just Like You-Leeds can assume any medium human form, male or female of average size-but his baritone voice (think David Warner), sturdy stride and unblinking gaze do not change. Save vs Plot like any other disguise, and once revealed Leeds can never fool that person again-he mostly just uses it to blend in with the local culture.

Master of Puppets-Leeds has all the Abilities of a Lvl 5 Summoner-Magic Pool 2 without Focus, 7 with, Focus is a pocket-sized wooden doll (carved from the headboard of his crib), Theme: the Imprisoned Dead (access as per SCMs/minions with 12 Morale),Secondary Powers-Poof(1 Magic point) Fly (3 points).

My Retinue-Leeds currently has 78 bottles with suspended quartz sinkers lying in the basement of his house in the Pine Barrens-these contain the spirits of his prisoners. As long as they are intact (magically reinforced, Wreck as Car) Leeds has access to their services, a +1 to nearly every Skill check imagined and the ability to speak/read a vast array of languages.

Nearly Immortal-If Leeds is actually killed then he re-appears intact, in his Barrens basement upon Sundown-and a random bottle shatters, freeing that spirit. Once the Retinue found that out they have been playing upon Leeds' ego to push him into riskier and riskier ventures...

[order99]

My dear Ms Romita,

It is with careful consideration that I reply to your inquires, and only on the conditions that you have named in your previous correspondences-that you gather and collect the pertinent datum therein as it applies to your...unique mission (which I shall keep in strictest confidence) and then you will destroy this letter and all of its salient details.

You know that Mr Dodgson was a close friend of my family, and that the relationship resulted in two rather well-known novels of fantastic speculation and mathematical satire-you also know that in later years the relationship became...somewhat strained. You seem convinced that there were attacks upon my person by Mr Dodgson, and hint at possible molestation. Knowing of your reputation among certain persons of our acquaintance, I can only credit such slander as coming from ignorance rather than malice, and your intentions as honorable as any Knights-errant of ancient times-but slander it is, and you will never let it pass lips nor pen again. My dear Charles does not have it in him to assault a child, nor a woman-he in fact dearly cherishes both and would defend them from harm with the very last of his breath,a quality that I am coming to believe that the two of you may well share...

But enough-I should get to the heart of the matter, fresh and bleeding still, so that you may gain what wisdom that you may of it. The salient points are as follows:

Primus-as a young girl I frequently daydreamed of adventures in strange lands, dreams of such richness and detail that I thought of them as real.I never thought it strange that my family were often unable to find and rouse me during these dreams, nor did it occur to me that my most vivid dreams always happened near reflective surfaces, a still pond or a mirror...I did whatever I pleased in these worlds, secure in my invulnerability as only a child can be.

I was completely and utterly wrong.

Secundus-It is all too well known that Mr. Dodgson and my family parted ways, and that we quarreled on occasion. This was not in any way due to the attention brought to me as the subject of Mr. Dodgson's fabulae-and contrary to your subtle accusations it also had nothing to do with his hobby of photographing everything under the sun. The compositions he made of myself and other children were always made in the presence of other adults and are in no way salacious-indeed, I have had copies made and show them off frequently, as I find the composition quite breathtaking.

If truth be known, Mr Dodgson has both a charming manner and a healthy interest in the fairer sex, as well as a certain thoughtlessness on his part-and no Ms. Romita, his tastes did not run to the youthful gamine but rather to women closer to his own age and a certain intellectual maturity...of which my own Mother was one such.

I do not to this day know if the intimacy between them ever escalated to the physical. Perhaps, being mature adults, both my parents and my dear friend simply recognized a growing closeness that could later prove troublesome, and parted ways to prevent it-certainly there would have been a deeper rift between a Dean of Christchurch (my Father) and his Lecturer of Mathematics (Charles of course) if any true betrayal of marital trust had occurred. Nevertheless I heard the rumors and, utter fool that I was, I assumed the absolute worst.

In the spring of 1874, armed with nothing more that baseless accusations, I confronted my dear friend in his study and utterly excoriated him. I was crass, strident, thoughtless and heartless in the way that only a young maiden with a freshly-sundered heart could achieve. I left him pale, trembling and weeping, utterly broken-and as I passed the full-length mirror on the wall I was utterly disgusted with the look of vindictive triumph on that maiden's face in the mirror, for I felt nothing but betrayal and exhaustion...it was if that pale young lady wasn't me at all.

Tertius- That night I dreamed of drowning and suffocation-and when I awoke in the pale dawn I noticed bruises on my arms-and a bite on my shoulder, as if a leech of impossible size had made me its dinner.

I wilted like a hothouse flower over the next two days, pale and wan and bereft of spirit-consumption and malaria were mentioned, but examination showed neither. I was given beef liver with my morning eggs and broth between meals-and on the third day I had gathered my flagging will enough to abscond to my room with an entire pot of strong black tea and sugar, and resolved to stay awake and avoid the nightmares...and instead the nightmares found me, awake. The reflection in the mirror at my dressing-table swam towards me, with an expression of greed on its stolen face-and began to crawl though the glass as if it were a mere soap bubble.It had my hair and my face but its eyes were black as an eels and its expression that of an automaton.

I made no noise whatsoever as it reached for me-until I slammed the nightstand chair at its face and it whimpered as it fell bleeding to the floor. So astonished was I at the easy victory that I gave it time to recover and dive back through the mirror as if through a pool, leaving scrapings of skin and clothing that immediately began to turn to vapor-and acting upon sheer instinct I smashed the creature's window to my world.

Later I apologized for the valuable antique that I had damaged, and vowed that it should not be repaired until I myself could save up the funds-I insisted upon it as a point of honor, and was indulged. My toilet was attended to with a small, inexpensive and easily broken hand-mirror...too small, I reasoned, for my Nemesis to fit through. I was right in the end, for the one time it tried to gain entrance again it could only fit one arm up to the elbow-and as I awoke I seized its one hand with my two and twisted one of its fingers quite off. Blood and finger both turned to vapor as I watched, fascinated...in the end I returned to bed and slept, confident that I was safe.

I was a fool. For one late Friday afternoon as I finished my shopping, an arm snaked out of nowhere and began choking the breath from me-an arm with only four fingers on its hand. I dropped the packages and fought back but I was dragged to, and then through, a shop window...as I struggled to breathe, I could feel rich, fragrant air redolent of fresh cut lawns and lemon tea with milk and fresh-baked strawberry tarts...and I knew where I was now.It had always been real, not as real as my world but just real enough to want more reality, to hunger and to want and to reach for mine.

Somehow my boot caught in an iron grate on the other side of the window, in my world, and I twisted and fought and somehow hurled us back through the window, and my other hateful self fell face first against a lamp post, stunned. "YOU SHOULD HAVE REMAINED A DECK OF CARDS!!" I screamed, launching myself at it...as battle-cries go I admit there were far better, but I was too busy wrapping my hands around a broken cobble-stone to care, and I hammered and hammered until other arms pulled me away, and the broken thing had time to slither back through the window and escape. The assembling crowd whispered of murder and madness-but the bruises on my throat proved to the constables that I had indeed been the victim in the attack and they retrieved my packages and saw me safely home, where I sat in a darkened room and schemed...

At last, I endeavored to visit Mr Charles Dodgson once again.If my plans were fruitful then I would be rid of my otherworldly doppleganger and if not-then perhaps at least I could perish with a shriven conscience and a mended friendship. I came prepared with his favorite viands and teas, and when he answered my tentative knock...I groveled, I am not ashamed in the least to admit it, I groveled like a leper at the feet of the Messiah, and none of it was feigned. All of the self-loathing, the loneliness and the misplaced anger I had felt, I unleashed it all in his study-next to the full length mirror on the far wall.

I placed my gift-a portrait-sized mirror bound in spun steel vines-on his desk so that I could see the larger one while keeping my back to it-and I told him the rest of the matter, from the theories I had concerning my childhood, the guilt I felt over the possibility of being the Opener of the Way, the horrors of the repeated attacks, the possibility of being consigned to a Madhouse until I expired old and alone, and whether or not It would be considered suicide if some kind idiot orderly brought me a mirror for grooming...

To his credit dear Charles listened attentively and the word "Mad" did not once pass his lips.But his gaze spoke volumes, it was as if I were already dead and he were in mourning-and then he looked past me, and turned pale as the dead child he already imagined me to be. He was gazing at the wall, seeing what I saw in my own mirror-through endless reflections came my enemy, the Alice-thing...and it had brought a friend.

I breathed in deeply and steadily, and bided my time as dear Charles trembled in abject horror-and then I turned and launched one mirror into the other, threw it so hard and sure that my ribs actually cracked. I felt myself the legendary Colchester Cannon, its sides bursting under the force of its own powder-charge but BY GOD my bullet would strike hard and true and the enemy would fall before it!

The steel of the frame was half into the Other World before glass met glass and both mirrors shattered irrevocably. Two creatures slid twitching down the wall-one bisected and the other only a head and part of one arm. Slowly the Other World flesh began to evaporate as I robbed the dear Mr. Dodgson's cabinet of brandy and shakily emptied nearly a third of a bottle into the pot of Blackcurrant tea.

I must admit that I was was quite extraordinarily unsteady as I made my way home-but victories are to be celebrated, are they not? My life was my own again.

I have only had one encounter with the Other World since-last year in October, at an All Hallow's Eve celebration, when in the confines of the Ladies' I felt the walls of the world grow thin...I turned to gaze at the full-sized mirror and there was one of Them, subsuming my features like melting wax in reverse. As it leered hungrily I marched up to it, let it grab one hand and begin to pull me through the watery surface-then I forced my other hand through and emptied both barrels of my Derringer into its skull, not hearing the twin blasts at all on my side. And then I waved-and the background within began to rustle with the sound of fleeing bodies.

They fear me now.

If any of this tale matches a pattern to some of your own exploits...that is to say if you feel any your own domains threatened by mysterious 'twin' attacks, do not hesitate to call upon me. For if need be I will come to you. I am the Opener of the Way to the Other World-and if you give me a large enough reflection your friends and I can introduce those hungry wretches to the concept of artillery fire...

Yours in Sincerity and Truth,

Alice Lidell

May 11 1885

The Faceless Ones From Otherworld

Description: In places where the Walls are Thin and powerful emotions are nearby, the Faceless Ones gather nearby, hoping for a mirror. They look very much like the reflections of their target-but not entirely.

Number Appearing:1D3
Hit Dice: 2
AC: 7/12 (rubbery flesh)
Attacks: Unarmed + Special
Move:12
Alignment: Neutral
Save:F2
Morale: 7
Trophies: 1D3 (+1)
Mobster Level:1

We Want Your Soul-every successful Unarmed attack or Grapple drains 1 point of CHA-if the victim's CHA falls below half it's normal total there is a chance that the Faceless One will be mistaken for the Victim and vice-versa. If the victim's CHA reaches 0 the victim will be trapped in the Other World and may starve to death (Other Realm food is not really nourishing) unless somehow rescued...and the Other is free to steal the victim's face and exist in this world. Lost CHA is recovered at 1 point per day-but if the predator is killed then 1D6+1 CHA (up to maximum) is restored immediately.

Other Flesh-The Faceless Ones take 1/2 damage from non-magical weaponry.Full damage is taken from silver and from glass. Oddly enough, the mystic link between the Faceless One and its victim allows the victim to do full damage to the monster with any weapon available or even Unarmed.

Alice Lidell,The Opener (possible SCM)

Description: A slim but athletic woman in her early twenties, with short brunette hair and brown eyes-who moves with the confidence of a soldier on patrol. She likes romance and travel but hates Adventures-she gets Rather Cross when they happen without her permission...

Number Appearing:Unique (if not, RUN!)
Hit Dice: 1+1 (6HP)
AC: 8/11 (Whalebone Corset)
Attacks:Unarmed or by Weapon.
Move: 12
Alignment: Lawful
Save: M-U1
Morale: 9
Trophies:1D3/1D6 (+1) in Other World
Mobster Level: 1 (2 in Other World)

The Opener of the Way-Ms. Lidell has learned to unlock reflective surfaces as portals into the Other World at will. She doesn't like it very much at all (especially the Random Encounters, getting Lost, losing time, winding up on the wrong continent, no food that sustains, cold tea etc) and will only do so in emergencies.

Willful Woman- Ms. Lidell gets +2 to any Saves vs Emotion or Mind Control, in this world or any other.

The Dreaded-The Denizens of Other World are cautiously respectful of Ms. Lidell-if she politely and non-threateningly addresses a thinking creature from Other World she rolls a Bonus Die on the Encounters chart. If she threatens it verbally the creature must make an immediate morale check. Ms. Liddel is not really aware of this ability as of yet as she tends to avoid the Other World, though she remembers wearing a crown at one point as a child...

The Impossible Before Breakfast-Ms. Lidell's Impossible Willpower can drive her body and mind past its limits-despite a normal Skill of 1D6 she has two Stunts per day at her disposal. In the Other World this rises to seven per day-and she can spend one to force a Save vs Plot anytime she pleases. Ms. Lidell is not yet aware of this, though she remembers being rather stupidly confident there as a child...

[order99]

Night fell, and young Piet rose easily from beneath the pit of loose soil and moss, stretching. He had a nice dry cave full of toys and clothes and string and such- but camping out under the stars was fun sometimes. He remembered long, long ago under the stars with Joachim, and his brother would point out the constellation and name them in Latin...how long ago, how many nights like this-no matter. Joachim had left him, moved away, grown old...

A silent whistle and Piet's companions rose from their own little nests, pale and thin and smiling. "Breakfast" called Piet, and they all went a-hunting.

Hunting had been fun. First there was a fawn, and she gave Piet's lads a good chase, but finally Piet swooped down from the trees and held her close and kissed her until she was calmed and still and tame, and then he let the boys play with her until she fell over and then everyone ate and Piet saved the fur for shoes.

Later there was a bear, a big nasty roaring bear, and playing tag was a real Adventure! But Piet didn't ever, ever lose and now there was a bearskin rug to tan for the cave...only later, two of Piet's boys were lying still and cold in the grass, too tired and lazy to play any more.

"Fine!" snarled Piet. "Lay there for all I care! Grow old and boring!" But as he straightened his temper improved almost immediately-for he smelled woodsmoke, and where there was fire in Piet's kingdom, there were bandits.

And bandits indeed there were, Piet thought as he leaned against the oilcloth window-a male and a female, holding captive a young Princess. Truly, this would be an Adventure, thought Piet... and indeed, the bandits never stood a chance. But somehow the Princess had slipped and fallen during the escape, and now she was still and unmoving-

-but that was alright, because Piet knew how to awaken a Princess.He leaned down and kissed her behind the jaw, long and deep, and then wetly on the mouth like in the stories, and the Princess opened her eyes and smiled brightly. "Would you like to Play with us?" asked Piet "You could be the Mommy, we haven't had a Mommy in a great while", and the Princess nodded her head and gurgled her assent.

Piet left half of his lads at the cabin to play Soldiers and went to see the Red Men and tell them about his new Mommy-but as he neared the longhouses he could a whiff of horrible-smelling herbs, why were they burning all of that stuff around their village? Piet didn't like those herbs at all so he decided to come back another night when the Red Men weren't being so boring-

Something was wrong at the cabin-Piet closed his eyes the better to see through the eyes of his boys-and there was a woman, tall and fast and roaring in rage, a sword in one hand and something he couldn't quite make out in the other, so bright it hurt to look at-and one by one his boys fell, going out like little lights, she had made them all sleepy somehow and now she was going to drag them back to school and make them boring and old...Piet raced over the treetops with his new Mommy, eager for the fray-this one might last, and she'd been dressed like a pirate, and pirates were fun!

But then the first fingers of dawn reached out to touch his face and the boy nearly fell to earth-Piet didn't like the sun, it was bright and sharp and hot and made him feel feverish, like that time long ago when he'd been in bed forever and the room swam with colors and Piet couldn't swallow and Joachim held his hand all the time and said things in Latin.And then darkness and cold and hungry hungry hungry...no, time to go to the cave and a good day's sleep, maybe find some other children and see if they wanted to join him like his new Mommy had. And when the time was right Piet and his companions would play with this new Pirate Queen...oh yes.

Christa Van Eck sheathed her blade and took stock of things, wiped her brow and checked her body for wounds.Three of the Abominations had fled as she approached and the others had fallen like wheat before her cutlass. She made her way into the cabin, sat down and removed her late husband's greatcoat and carefully examined the tunic of light braided cord beneath-a pacific Island tribe had shown dear Jan the secret of the easily-repaired armor, strong enough to deflect a knife and light enough to swim in, and once again it had saved her.

Christa reached over to her left wrist and disengaged the lock on her metal hand, slowly working the fingers open, then pried open a latch-within her watertight palm were her greatest treasures, cameos of her father Joachim, her husband Jan and her precious little Freya...all she had of them now as their bodies lay in good Dutch soil and their spirits with God.

In time Christa would join them...but there was one more member of the Van Eck clan that needed interring first. Christa found a spade, closed and locked her metal fingers on the shaft, and began to dig graves for the bodies lying outside.


Young Piet,The Boy That Never Grew Up

Description-Piet resembles a child of roughly 10-11, slim, agile and dark haired-with eyes like a wolves' and a twisted grin.He is often dressed in stolen and stained clothing or rotting furs. He stinks of old blood and soil.

Number appearing: Unique
HD: 3+6 (20HP)
AC: 6/13 (cold dead flesh)
Attacks: Unarmed+1 or as weapon+1
Move: 15
Alignment: Chaotic
Save: F3
Morale: 10
Trophies: 1D3(+0)/1D6(+0) in lair
Mobster Level: 2

Forever Young-Piet is considered Undead, and is immune to Charm, Sleep and cold. He takes half damage from non-magical and non-silver weapons. He can also see in total darkness up to thirty feet-and by closing his eyes and concentrating he can see whatever one of his Lost Ones see, up to 5 leagues distance.
If his body is not completely destroyed and his spinal cord is not severed he will return from death at Sundown.

Happy Thoughts-Piet can leap up to 30 feet and fall up to twice that distance without injury.

Like a Thief in the Night-Piet gets +1 to hunting, stalking and hiding.

A Growing Boy's Appetite-on a Grapple, Piet can bite for Unarmed+1 damage, and will heal the same amount.

Secret Club-if Piet feeds a fresh body(still warm) from his own veins, it will rise as a Lost One. Piet can never raise or lead more than 12 at a time. Piet either cannot or will not use this technique on any human body bigger than his.

No Fun!-Piet can be turned as Undead, and loses all of his Powers for 1D6 Turns if he is. He is -1 to strike in the light of the sun and powerless then also. He also takes 1D6 damage from Holy Water.


Lost Ones, Flesh Puppets

Description-pale young children, apparent ages 5-10, dressed in rags and wearing happy idiot smiles.

Number Appearing: 2D6
HD: 1
AC: 8/11 (Feels Nothing)
Attacks: Unarmed
Move: 12
Alignment: Neutral
Save:F1
Morale: 11
Trophies:1D3(+0)
Mobster Level:1

Nobody Home-considered Undead and immune to Charm, Sleep and Cold. Can see in the dark up to 30 feet.

Happy Mindless Thoughts- Lost Ones can leap up to 25 feet and fall the same distance.

Not Fun!-The Lost Ones have the same weaknesses as Piet. In addition, any time Piet loses his powers they lose theirs.


Christa Van Eck-Vengeance From Beyond the Sea (possible SCM)

Description-Christa Van Eck stands as tall as a man with muscles like a farmhand, her hair is blond with touches of grey and is cut short, her eyes the grey-green of storms-she always appears preoccupied with something. She wears the Greatcoat of a Dutch Merchant Marine, with a black armband of mourning upon it.

Number Appearing: Unique
HD: 3 (14HP)
AC: 9/10 or 7/12 (cord armor and greatcoat)
Attacks:Unarmed or by Weapon
Move:12
Alignment: Lawful
Save: F3
Morale: 9
Trophies: 1D6(+1)
Mobster Level: 2

A Hard, Desperate Woman with Nothing Left to Lose-treat Christa as a Level 3 Fighter in all respects.

Captain's Widow- Christa gets +1 to any Bargaining and Navigation checks. She speaks and reads Dutch, English and Latin.

This Hand Ends You-Christa has an artificial, articulated hand on the stump of her left wrist, made of corrosion-resistant brass/silver alloy. She can manipulate it to hold things, use a shield-or strike with it for 1D-1 damage.The hand counts as a magical weapon if used as such, or may be presented before the supernatural, her consuming outrage making of it a Holy Symbol.

[order99]

   Carl Russev finished his delicate stitchery and gently moved the modified cadaver into the shallow trough of brine and reagents and let it sink that last few inches until submerged, then he stripped off his oilcloth jacket and gloves and carefully washed, left the lab and retired for a very, very late meal of cold venison and roasted apples. But his mind was still in the lab, with his newest experiment-there was nothing he could do for the moment, the body must soak in the preservatives for a full day...only then could Russev apply the current directly to the brainstem and heart, close the skull and thorax quickly and empty the lungs of fluid.

   Only then would he know if he had been successful-or if he had created another imbecile. Pig brains would do for an idiot unit, Human brains by rights should have been perfect-but once the Reaper took their lives decay set in within hours and the brain rotted into uselessness faster than any other organ. This one has been found cold and drowned in the river, body ice-cold but not frozen, fresher than any to date, surely there would be that spark of intellect, capable of re-ignition?

Carl made coffee with molasses, an entire pot, carefully unlocked the bound Folio on his desk, readied his pen and began another long night of research. The folio was reputed to be the jewel in the crown of Johan Konrad Dipplel, reputed alchemist, necromancer and the discoverer of Prussic Acid-and not only did Carl wrestle with the unfamiliar German, he was certain that Dipplel had used a subtle code to mask his results most likely an allegorical one with allusions that a Hungarian like himself would miss...and yet with what little he had gleamed from the folio, he had achieved wonders which the likes of this age had never seen. If only he could find a worthwhile apprentice or colleague literate in century-old colloquial Bavarian dialect-

  But no, he did not dare. Too many failed to see his vision of a Golden age, too many stupid men to tear down all that he would build, too many fearful idiots with no imagination...

 Utopia...with a permanent worker caste of non-human living beings, brute enough to be satisfied with service-men would never be enslaved or rented or considered property again, not with his Roboto available to toil contentedly and leaving all of humanity at leisure to purse dreams, develop their minds-

   A long crash, the sliding of metal on metal and splashing sounds interrupted Russev's thoughts. He cursed in Hungarian and went to see what the prototypes had ruined this time. These early models were not capable of receiving instruction or education, they had to be trained like beasts, and supervised-and with no others he could trust, Carl's time was severely limited.

 If only he could find enough open-minded souls to join him he could open this facility within months, his Roboto working tirelessly under human supervision...the Flesh Looms ready to receive the organs of pigs and the muscles and bones of men, fresh brains of condemned criminals paying off their debt, the final models elevating all of mankind-

  Instead he was here in a darkened mill, instructing imbeciles on how to dispose of a broken ceramic barrel full of sulfuric acid and lead plates. It was going to be a long night.

 Carl Russev considered his recently discovered hypnotic compound, capable of making human minds more...malleable. As much Russev admired free will, his need for assistants was great. Perhaps, he pondered, I could find the absolute dregs of society, ones already enslaved by vice and poverty. Yes, to those already enslaved, service to my cause could be a form of liberation! Perhaps...

   Adjusting his legs in the gently rolling coach, Adam August finished Mary Shelley's 1818 novel with a curious mixture of admiration, disgust and relief."Overall," Adam spoke mildly, "I much prefer her husband's poetry. You may have this copy for your collection-or your child's if you think him capable of digesting it. Assuming he can stop trying to find my pulse whenever I nap."

"I deeply apologize Mr August," replied the young mother, " though not to be indelicate, you were quite, quite still. And while I intend no insult, your countenance"-

"-Is the result of a birth defect. I still bear the marks but I am otherwise in quite robust good health. And no insult is taken Mrs Mcdonald."

"Thank you. As much as I appreciate your gift however, I am uncertain that young David is yet ready to read such a tale of Blasphemy against the Almighty."

The large, gaunt man snorted. "I do not find any act of creation blasphemous. No, Victor's sin was to abandon his deformed child like a sack of offal, to be used and rejected and condemned without cause. How could that poor wretch ever be anything else but a fiend after such a tormented existence?"

"I suppose', replied the woman delicately, "That your...condition...would leave you sensitive in such matters".

"Not I," riposted Adam. "My childhood was...unique. But MY father raised me with love, and was never ashamed of me-indeed, he considered me his Masterwork, and his every gaze bestowed upon me one of paternal pride until the end of his days. Everything I am, I owe to my Father."

"A remarkable man-I wish that I could have met him. What was his vocation, if I may ask?"

"My father was a theologian, and a lecturer at Ingolstadt. I could have stayed there until  the End of Days, if urgent business had not called me to America..."

Mrs. Mcdonald did not inquire-but her expression spoke volumes

"If you must know Madam," continued the gaunt man, "my father's legacy was stolen. A folio, containing all of his life's work, and meant for me. I have dealt with the black-hearted felons involved, but the folio was sold to another. Rest assured Mrs. Mcdonald, it will be in my keeping very, very soon".


Carl Russev-Utopian Dreamer

Description: Carl Russev is played by Bela Lugosi in "The Devil Bat": www.youtube.com/watch?v=_x1AzNZVNWM

Number Appearing-Unique
HD:3 (12 HP)
AC: 9/10 or 7/12 (alchemical treated lab coat)
Attacks: Unarmed or by Weapon
Move: 12
Alignment: Neutral
Save: M-U3
Morale: 7
Trophies: 1D6 (+1)
Mobster Level: 2

Renaissance Man-Russev is a noted Anatomist and Chemist, and gets +1 to Skill checks. He writes and speaks Hungarian and English.

Unholy Acolyte of the Sciences-for all intents and purposes Russev is a Lvl 3 Science Hero. The focus for each effect is a small vial of reagents, and if Carl expects trouble he will store then in a leather bracer affixed to his left arm. He never takes 'alien environment' penalties on a technological or scientific skill check.

Recipes Available: Lvl 1-Sleep(M-U) Light (M-U) Cure Light Wounds(M-U) Spook Good Guys(SH) Get Tough(SH) Lvl 2-Super Senses(SH), Turn Evil(SH), Hypnosis(SH) Forgetting(M-U)

The Engines of Creation- Russev has the knowledge to create the Roboto-this is considered a Lvl 5 Science Ritual. Use the 'Tampering in God's Domain' Rules addition under Rules and Settings.

The Roboto-Tireless Flesh

Description-Roboto appear to be ordinary people with blank emotionless faces, with a badly-healed scar on the top of the head. They normally wear grey canvas coveralls. They move is if afflicted by palsy. They are fearless but easily confused.

Number Appearing: 1D6
HD: 1
AC: 8/11 (no nerve endings)
Attacks: Unarmed or as Weapon
Move: 9
Alignment: Neutral
Saves: F1
Morale: 8
Trophies: 1D3(+0)
Mobster Level: 1

Tough and enduring-Roboto take -1 damage from all non-magical weapons and are immune to exhaustion penalties, 45% resistance to disease, gas and poison.


Adam August-Child of Alchemy (potential SCM)

Description-Adam is not nearly as large as his literary counterpart-he is just over six feet, gaunt, with mildly jaundiced skin, glazed grey eyes, cyanotic lips and fingernails, and lank black hair worn in a ponytail. His arms, legs and body are covered in faint scars from decades of healed injuries. When active his movements are utterly precise, and when he sleeps he can appear as one dead. His voice is a well-modulated baritone with a mild German accent.

Number Appearing:Unique
HD 4+5 (21 HP)
AC 7/12 (tough, leathery flesh)
Attacks: Unarmed or as weapon (+2 damage melee)
Move:15
Alignment:Lawful
Save: F4
Trophies:1D3+1 (+1)
Mobster Level:3

Artificial Being- 45% resistance to disease, gas and poison, 4 in 6 chance to notice the Black Sciences. Heals at half normal speed unless he has access to an artificial blood supplement (must be used within 2 days of concocting-the formula is known to Adam).

Promethean -Adam may make 20 foot leaps without a Skill check, makes Strength Checks as a Light City Brute and has impossible reserves of stamina and determination (2 Stunts per day as mysteryman).

Accomplished- Adam gets a +1 on all Athletic Skills, +1 on Wilderness Survival checks, and Speaks and writes German, Latin, French and English.

[order99]

Richard Galte opened up the safe and stepped within to count his belongings.

The mill was silent for the night, the workers gone home exhausted. Galte had insisted on both Day and Night shifts, but a directive from Commissioner Gerald  Moore had ended that-too dangerous, he had said, too many accidents happening by lamplight. How dare he interfere with a man's livelihood, his right to buy and sell? He would have to take steps...

Galte's Patron would not allow Moore's death for some inexplicable reason-but he hadn't forbidden tampering with the next Mayoral election. Mayor Galte had a nice ring to it, yes indeed...and then the workers would toil night and day at the mixing vats, and merchants would stay up late to sell their ambergris and whale blubber and dried flowers and civet glands. And Galte's Oil and Perfumery would make literal tidal waves of money, enough even to satisfy his Patron.

The Covenant had been quite clear. One Million dollars, in gold or silver(no paper) to be sacrificed before the Bull of Baal before the end of the century-and the blood of One Hundred men minimum, spilled one per month until the final payment was made-and then Galte was free of his Patron, free and clear with full retention of his sorcerer's gifts, and if Hell awaited afterwards at least he would be as one of the Masters and not a cold, starving slave...

Galte remembered his past self, known by another name, cold and starving and beaten while his so-called betters feasted and drank and rubbed his nose in his own poverty-no, Hell could be no worse than that. Not even the lowliest worker in his factory went hungry-they might grumble over meager wages or lackluster safety but they never complained about the full table he set them as part of their contract. No, even the ones he sacrificed to Baal had full bellies before they died-

A welcome breeze wafted across Galte as he considered his next maneuver-his Patron would not allow violence against Mayor Moore, had discounted his reports of a possible renegade wizard trading in souls, and had expressly forbidden him from bidding on the old textile plant at Deacon Ridge, allowing some foreigner to purchase it for pennies...five months now and not even a hint that it would ever re-open! Why?

No matter.There were rumors of some Secret Society meeting at the Lantern now and again-political meddlers no doubt, perhaps a branch of Masons, in which case he could use them...or perhaps they were a bunch of local rakes, a second-rate Hellfire Club,in which case he could join in for a bit of fun himself. At any rate, Galte needed more information on this group first, his Patron would advise him further-

But as Galte moved the curtain aside he saw to his horror that the idol was gone. The head of gold, the arms and chest of silver, legs and abdomen of brass, cunningly assembled with pins of human bone and glue from human hide-all gone. Only the ceramic feet remained, and even the iron glaze was gone from their surfaces...

A trail of bone pins led to a gaping rent in the back of the Vault, twice as big as a man, and piles of dust.

Richard Galte's heart sank within him as he did a quick inventory-roughly a fourth of his wealth gone, all in metals. Gems, paper, deeds, sculptures, ivory-all untouched. And he could tell no one, couldn't involve the police or the workers...no matter. Galte could still pay his debts before the century's end. But someone will pay for this, by the Bull of Baal they would pay! And how did they get through three inches of hardened steel without enough explosives to destroy the entire plant, or enough acid to drown in?


The creature lay deep, deep in the cold waters of the Bay, sated for once. No more voices voices voices voices screaming eat eat eat EAT EAT, no just the one quietly whispering, more...more...more-

Moore. Moore. Moore was hurt, Moore was bleeding, someone had hurt Moore with a metal blade, someone lean and hungry and desperate, and then Pelham Moore had escaped into smoke and light and only the body buried in mud and the metal in its heart remained, rested in gleaming phosphorous muddy iron-rich clay.

And then it had gotten hungry, and decided to eat. And now it was full, and the Voices voices voices were silent for awhile-the creature luxuriated in the silence, dug idly though Moore's dead memories-a woman, a child, eating things that were not metal...a building, colored glass, a man in black warning against eating too much, it was a sin...gluttony. Yes, that. And those committing Gluttony were-

Yes, thought Glutton. A good name. Glutton son of Moore. In awhile Glutton would be hungry again, and it would eat. Perhaps it would run into that man again, that hungry one that killed Moore...and thank him appropriately.


Richard Galte, Warlock of Baal

Description- a well dressed man with short brown hair going grey at the temples, clean-shaven and always impeccably dressed. Movie Casting- an older Christian Bale.

Number Appearing: Unique
HD: 5 (17 HP)
AC: 9/10
Attacks: as weapon
Move: 12
Alignment:Chaos
Save: MU5
Morale: 8
Trophies: 1D6(+0), 3D6(+2) in lair
Mobster Level: 5

The Bargain I Made-Galte is a Warlock empowered by a Demonic Patron. For all intents and purposes Galte is a Lvl 6 Magic-user, with the following changes: 1) Galte cannot use or decipher the spells of other M-Us, nor use their scrolls or Foci. 2) Galte neither memorizes spells as a LC M-U nor uses a Focus as a H&H M-U-instead, his abilities always renew at the stroke of Midnight. 3)If Galte does not commit one murder per month he loses his powers until the debt is paid to his Patron. 4) If Galte loses a Contest of Wills he is unable to use his powers for 1D6 Turns.

Spells: Level 1- Cure Light Wounds, Shield, Feather Fall, Magic Missle, Disguise Self, Poof!,Light, Message,Charm Person, Hold Portal. Level 2-Detect Thoughts, Invisibility, Knock, Summon Mobster I, Detect Invisible, Phantasmal Image, Enlarge Person, Find Traps,Locate Object, Minor Polymorph,Flame Aura. Level 3-Dispel Magic, Haste, Spirit Form Projection, Summon Mobster II.


Glutton-Destroyer of Man's Folly

Description-tall as a man and twice as wide, pale leprous skin that gleams and sparkles in bright light, dark expressive caverns for eyes and wearing rags. Bulging with thick twisted muscle.

Number Appearing: Unique
HD: 5 (20 HP)
AC: 3/16 (tough as twisted steel cabling)
Attacks: 1D6
Move: 12
Alignment: Neutral
Save: F5
Morale: 10
Trophies:1D3(+1), nothing of metal.
Mobster Level: 6

Nothing Else Remains-Glutton may Wreck any metal that it touches as a Level 5 Superhero. Furthermore, any metal item used to successfully damage the creature gets a free Wrecking Roll against it at the end of the Combat Turn.High-tech or Magical Items with 'pluses' instead lose effectiveness until they are mundane before they are Wrecked (so a Sword +2 becomes a Sword +1, a non-magical  sword, then dust).

Food, Yum!-Several pounds of rich metal, once devoured, affect Glutton as a First Aid kit.

[order99]

The House of Rahab was quite busy tonight, with a full complement of revelers and diners below, with the cooks and servers barely keeping pace with appetites, and laughter filled the air...

Rachel Sim, Madam Rahab to her guests, fretted at the top of the winding stair leading to her office-there was something just a touch too sharp about that laughter, something a bit forced....that tingle was back again, the one at the base of her spine, the one that stood her to the good so many times as a young Station Master in the Underground Railroad...

No matter. Her intuition might cry 'run', but this was her home now. She would stand firm here in the place she had the most influence. And the moment that tingle peaked, the door opened-and the Reverend Jurgen Larsen was there, filling the door like an alighting raven, and the laughter dimmed a bit as he carefully closed the door.

The lean man looked vaguely amused at the throng. "The Almighty," he intoned in his well-honed tenor, "has never condemned celebration-and nor do I condemn thee. I have business with the proprietress-"

One of the newcomers,well in his cups, made a filthy, obscene accusation-and suddenly his collar was seized and he stared into twin orbs of blue fire.

"I am a man like any other Jim Wilson",  the pastor snarled at the youth "and as prone to Sin as you. But never have I been tempted to Incest! That woman you so impugn is my blood kin, understand me?"

Young Wilson nodded, noticing only that the hand gripping him dripped with crimson-but then Madam Rahab was there, soothing tempers and bundling her brother upstairs with quick orders for medical supplies. She stripped his shirt off with the practiced ease of a nurse and washed the wound with whiskey as miss Erin stood by with bandages-the latter utterly dumbfounded at the priest's lack of response..."i've had worse in Andersonville" remarked Larsen as casually as if discussing the crops-and the Widow Sim turned her face away from her brother to hide the hatred she still felt for those Rebel monsters...

"So how is Bernice?" Jurgen asked, pointedly ignoring the stitches his sister was inflicting upon his shoulder.

"Drunk as a sailor on shore leave four nights in a row,and still muttering about Dead Men", replied Rachel. "I don't know what happened that night but there was brimstone in the air that morning. I...may be in need of your help where she is concerned. Speaking of which, Erin? Keep an eye on her, hm?"

Once the girl was gone, Rachel faced her brother. "You found her,didn't you? You found Sarah? Tell me Jurge, how is she?"

"Beyond pain or want, Ray. She dwells with the Almighty now." Pastor Larsen looked bleakly at his sister as he continued. "She was attacked by two Things, ray, they wore men's faces but they were not men! They were eating her alive, and...and then His power arose in me and I cursed them mightily, one fled howling its damnation but the other cringed and lunged at me-clawed at me and got a decent chunk out my shoulder."

"I've seen the things that you can do Jurge-couldn't you heal this?"

"I tried,Ray-I threw the beast aside and ran for the nearest barn, bolted the door and began the prayer to make whole my flesh-but it burst through the planks and grabbed my arm as the Healing began-and then it screamed and fell dead upon the ground-the Virtue had flowed to the creature instead and, well, destroyed the demon within. I dealt with the remains as Montague Summers advised-and poor Sarah too, just in case."

Rachel bit her lips-time for tears later. "All right then. I'll have Gordon draw you a hot bath-"

"No Ray, I don't have the time. I must cross to the Lantern, notify the Keepers and awaken the Hounds-"

"No Jurge, NO! I have the Runners for that. Now then-Bath, Brandy, Bed, in that order! Don't you dare disobey me, Chaplain..."

"Never when you use that voice Ray," chuckled the Pastor dryly. "Not at Andersonville, and not now. I'll stay."

Rachel left then so that her brother could not see how much his joking tone had hurt her.

(The skeletal thing on the cot, hairless and loose-skinned, was not her brother...could not be her brother. But the gentle, sad blue eyes said otherwise...the broth they fed him he could not swallow, nor even water-his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, slower every hour, and Rachel Larsen Sim knew that her long, dangerous journey had been for nothing, and her brother would never see the Inn that four bars of stolen Confederate gold had bought. He would die here, and be buried in strange soil.)

(She prayed silently at first-but as the breath of her brother began to rattle she prayed aloud, and then she yelled and then she SCREAMED her prayers at the dying thing before her..."Damn your Eyes Chaplain, you made it through the War and now you sleep you lazy beast? Your sister has come all the way from Lighthouse Bay to take you home and you...you... you can't spare her some of your precious time? DAMN it Jurge, I played the harlot with a Union Colonel to get passage here, I disguised myself as a boy to get here-I, I...some stupid little Johnny Reb tried to rob me and I slit his gullet like a turkey's just to make it here, do you understand? TAKE UP THY BED AND WALK JURGEN LARSEN, YOU ARE NOT DONE HERE! Please Jurge. Please...")

(Hands had grabbed her, gently but firmly, so the POW could expire in peace-but those hands fell away in absolute terror as Death, terrible and nude, rose from the cot as easily as a panther-and spoke in a voice that was both Jurgen Larsen's...and NOT. "WE HEAR YOU" replied the creature."We obey the Covenant of Blood...show us our home in this world, Rachel".)

(No one had spoken when she loaded her cart with broth and dried goods and molasses and placed her skeletal guest on board. No voice objected as she took two horses not her own, and refused her coin. No hand was raised against them all the way to her beloved Bay-for sitting beside her was a living Holy miracle-and none dare bar their way...)

She'd bitten almost through her lip again, blast it...fine. Fine. Bath, Brandy and Bed for Madam Rahab too, and an early start in the morning-there was a funeral to prepare after all...


Rachel Sim-Madam, Medic and former Spy (potential SCM)

Description-an athletic lady approaching a robust middle age, too proud to hide the grey in her shoulder-length brunette hair, deep blue eyes and a smile than can melt hearts. Casting-Claudia Christian with bright blue contact lenses.

Number Appearing:Unique
Hit Dice: 2 (7 HP)
AC: 9/10 or 7/12 (thick leather coat with thin, heat-treated wooden plates sewn cunningly within, a relic of the War)
Attacks: By Weapon
Move: 12
Alignment: Neutral
Save: F2
Morale: 8
Trophies: 1D6(+0) in lair
Mobster Level: 1

Union Spy and Station Master of the Underground Railroad-Rachel is a Level 2 Spy, with +1 to Disguise and Forgery, Counterspy Training and Resources 4.

War Nurse-Rachel gets +1 to all First Aid results and adds +1 to the the Healing rate of anyone resting in her care.  She reads and speaks English, Latin and Creole.


Jurgen Larsen-Protector of the Flock(potential SCM)

Description-a former Union POW nursed back into a lean, fit man with a head of prematurely grey hair and piercing blue eyes. Casting-Jonathan Price with brilliant blue contact lenses.

Number Appearing: Unique
HD: 2+2 (11 HP)
AC: 9/10 or 6/13 (heavy canvas coat lined with chain, Civil War experimental Flack Coat, hastily repaired after a recent Wampyr Attack)
Attacks: As Weapon
Move: 10, 9 in Armor (bullet wound to the knee)
Alignment: Lawful (and then some)
Save: M-U2
Morale: 10
Trophies: 1D3 (+0)
Mobster Level: 1

Pennsylvania Dutch Conjure Man-Jurgen can access the entire Cleric spell list of the S&WCL book and is in all respects a Level 2 Cleric. He can Turn Undead without a Holy Symbol, and gets a Bonus Die with one.

Combat Veteran-unlike a standard Cleric, Jurgen may use missle weapons and edged weaponry. He speaks and reads both English and Latin.

The Runners-unofficial messengers of the Hounds, errand boys for the House of Rahab

Description-use the Half-pint statistics from H&H 2nd Ed. but these tend to be Lawful and to not change sides.


Wampyr (WHOMP-year)-uneasy corpses powered by an appetite for blood, not always human blood but always warm-sometimes result from those who died alone, in pain and unblessed while being buried in unclean soil.

Description-look human, perhaps a bit pale, but move unnaturally and sometimes stink of the grave.

Acolyte/Bride-early stage, tend to behave like smart, cunning beasts-may mimic speech but does not communicate. Haven't mastered ranged attacks.

Number Appearing: 1D3+1 (tend to break into small packs if more are present)
HD: 2+2
AC: 6/13 (cold dead flesh)
Attacks: Unarmed+1 or as weapon
Move: 12
Alignment: Chaotic
Save: F2
Morale: 8
Trophies: 1D3(+0)
Mobster Level: 1

Undead-Immune to Sleep, Charm and cold. Takes 1/2 damage from non-magical, non-silver and non-blessed weaponry. Vulnerable to Turning, Holy Water(1D6+1) and Fire (normal damage). Can see up to 30 feet in total darkness. If killed, the body must be beheaded or the heart removed, else the creature will rise again at Sunset.

The Hunger-on a Grapple, the Wampyr can bite for 1D3+1 damage, and heal the same amount.

Devil's Gift- roll 1D6 for each Wampyr-or to save Editor Migraines, roll once for each group:
1) Quiet Kiss-the victim of a bite must save vs Magic or be helpless in the creature's grip. New Save allowed every round.
2) The Dead Travel Fast-+3" running speed.
3) Devil's Favorite-Choose a random Level 1 Spell or power-it can be used as a natural Ability (no Focus) HD number of times per night.
4) Prodigy-Add 1+1HD and is smarter (as Disciple) from the start.
5) Serpent's Eyes-May instinctively Hypnotize at +2 Skill-often used by an Acolyte simply to ambush prey, but later stages may get...more creative.
6) Dark Genesis-may feed still-warm corpses with a portion of their own blood and create (1D6, 1-4=Zombie, 5-6=Wampyr Acolyte. The Wampyr cannot animate a creature with more HD than its own, and animal corpses always are Zombie. Acolytes seldom use this Ability even if they have it(lack of brains). Also note that freshly-dead PCs get a Save vs plot to remain dead-or to hand the Editor your character sheet and return to 'life' with some...alterations.

The Hated Daystar and other Banes-Wampyr are at -1 in daylight and lose all powers (including resistance to normal weapons)in the sunlight. They are not effected by garlic, wolfsbane or salt, but the Acolyte-level Wampyr might be confused or perplexed by the human brandishing it like a weapon. Mirrors backed by silver (common until the late 20th Century) reveal any disguised Wampyr automatically( as obviously weeks-dead corpses), as do Silver Nitrate photographs.

Disciple-If the Wampyr survives for over a year, roll 1D6 every year(1-2=stay the same, 3 or better=evolution to Journeyman) This stage sees an increase in intellect to that of a bright, greedy ten year-old, able to use missle weapons, clean and dress properly in order to hunt more effectively, and understand and read languages. 3D+3 HD, and another roll on the Devil's Gifts table.

Adult-If the Vampyr survives for over 5 years, roll 1D6(1-2=no change, 3+=Evolution to Adult. Adults are as smart and experienced as a clever man, can go without thinking of Blood for nights at a time (it is simply the absolute best food ever rather than supernatural meth) and are capable of appreciating things that are not food. 4D+4 HD, roll again on the Devil's Gifts table. Probably has a few Skills or extra Languages.

Dark Prince-For every decade the Wampyr survives, roll 1D6 (1-2=no change, 3+=Evolution to Prince). High stage intellect, several Extra Skills or Languages, capable of long-term planning in the decades. 5D+5, roll again on the Devil's Gifts table. Can go without blood for a full week and still function.

Dark Master-Every time a Dark Prince survives a non-permanent death, roll 1D6(1-3=remain as is 4+= Evolution to Dark Master. Gain another Skill or language, roll another Devil's Gift (ignoring the 4) and be as smart and charismatic as the Editor can portray... can place itself into a coma of up to two months in order to forgo feeding.

[order99]

The Voivode glided silently on steel rails, reclining in luxury no medieval king could have ever known, in a gigantic tireless iron machine Da Vinci himself would have envied. The lazy afternoon light made his vision blur and filled him with an almost luxurious weakness-he felt almost a normal man, at least as he remembered it...after carefully blotting the final page, he subjected the final paragraphs to a brief self-critique:

"We had all been told in advance the price of joining the Scholomance-Thirteen to join, Twelve to survive, and One sacrificed to the Evil One to pay tuition to the others. We knew the price.

"Still, when the brimstone smoke erupted around us and the Dark Seraph Himself barreled into our little coven with talons outstretched to catch and rend, it was somewhat off-putting. Twelve souls ran, ran for their lives and would not be seen at the desecrated Chapel again...

"One did not run at all-he snarled defiance, drew saber and awaited the Fiend's attack-only relaxing his stance when the Prince of Wickedness pulled off his wax ears and nose and howled his merriment to Twelve departing cowards. And that is how, to my amazement, I was inducted into the true Scholomance-the Order of the Dragon"'

Your Servant,
VMF.

Vladimir would send his missive, done in passable mirror-written French, to the young Irishman to further spark his imagination...already young Abraham had decided that Vladimir's great-uncle, the first Voivode, would be the subject of their little play-a good choice, for he was already quite famous. It had been eternities since the nobleman had actually dreamed, but corresponding with the creative playwright, reading the results and making suggestions, improving his English the better to read the resulting fiction-it was almost as if he and the Irishman had become friends...the Voivode should be merciful to his enemies more often.

And enemies they had been, the night they had murdered him. His last blurred vision had been his would-be victims standing above him in a circle- Abraham and his bride Florence, their companion the young poet Wilde, the Hungarian scholar Ármin Vámbéry, the American dentist John Holliday...some of them curled their lips in hatred as he expired, but others had looks of pity, and Vladimir could not abide that emotion-he tried to struggle to his feet before the darkness claimed him...

In darkness he awoke, the scent of familiar soil packing his nostrils. After minutes of patient toil the Voivode found himself free of the shallow grave and bathed in revealing moonlight-seven bullets rent his finery, his throat gaped from a knife-slice, his left eye a gaping crater, a missing finger-but even Vámbéry had not the proper lore to finish him. They would soon know his fury-

No. NO. They...had been in the right. By all the Secret Powers they had been right-what had he done? Why had he done it? In his breathing days he had been a transgressive soul, contemptuous of Dogma and a libertine...he had seen no limits to knowledge, had been unafraid of so-called Black Magic or of damnation, for when his flesh began to succumb to age he had chanted his chants, imbibed his alchemical brews and performed the blasphemous rituals that would ensure his immortality...

But instead he had awakened a greedy, honor-less beast, a two-legged lamprey, his scholarly mind buried in layers of mud...what had gone wrong? Where was his self-hewn moral compass, free of religious flummery and all the more accurate for it? What had happened to his Noble-born sense of lese-majeste? He had assaulted a married woman in front of her infant, taken her to join him in immortality against her will-in his mortal days he had executed his own men for theft and rapine, for assaulting non-combatants...and now he-he had become worse than any of them.

Three nights Vladimir had hunted, venison and mutton and an astonished massive wild boar-and found the strength of both his body and mind greater than ever, his clarity of mind restored even beyond his mortal youth. He even remembered his time at the Scholomance once more and the secrets he had learned...and by the time he had reached one of his many hidden caches of wealth, the Voivode had made his plans accordingly. His enemies had sought his death-and rightly so-but instead had made him whole again and in full mastery of his powers-so too would he repay them, rewarding them with mercy and gratitude.

Ármin Vámbéry was closest in Budapest-and succumbing in his declining years to a debilitating case of pneumonia-Vladimir rid the villa of quacks and charlatans and tended the scholar himself, mixing herbs and infusing them with his re-awakened magic. Vámbéry was fully recovered in less than a day, his lungs clear-and to the scholar's utter astonishment the Voivode left him with enough gold to live well for decades...and more importantly, the true way of killing his kind.

The poet Wilde had not been received well in Britain,likely due to the mere fact that he was Irish-Vladimir immediately purchased every copy of Wilde's poetry he could find, hired shoppers to find more, and hired a dozen critics to praise his latest play The Duchess of Padua...then wired an anonymous transfer of funds to the Bank of England under Wilde's name.

In Dublin, Vladimir found that he simply could not face Florence Stoker with the magnitude of his sins, and used his sorcery to place a hand-written note and a bag of gold coins and rough-cut diamonds into her pantry. His conscience was clearer with young Bram, and as the playwright made his way home in the early night Vladimir ambushed him with a glance, rendering him docile-and led him entranced to a public house, where he told the author every detail of his life-the quest for forbidden knowledge and its price, the attempt at immortality that led to his utter degradation, the execution of a mad, ill beast that had somehow restored both his wits and his honor...

The Voivode had left him then, to recover mere moments later-and the next night he sat in the basement of the Lyceum playhouse, a bag heavy with silver on one side of his lap, a heavy cleaver on the other-and awaited judgement. After a long, expectant silence, the Irishman had taken the money-and then astounded Vladimir with a business proposal. The attack and kidnapping of his wife had been anything but subtle, and rumors of infidelity with some foreigner still lapped at her heels-what if, Bram proposed, the entire sordid mess were rendered...fictional?

And so the correspondences had begun, as Vladimir had sailed to America, indulging his newly-recovered senses in this new age of wonders, the passenger steamer, telegraphy and the railroad. His telegram to Holliday had been an utter disaster however, instead resulting in a panicked response from Colorado to young Stoker...in retrospect the Voivode realized that he should have allowed the playwright to contact the dentist instead, his own diplomatic skills had grown rusty with disuse. Vladimir contented himself with a twenty-page apology, a promise to never meet Holliday again without consent, several recipes for palliatives to reduce the inflammation endemic to Consumption-and a wire transfer of funds sufficient to purchase a mansion if he so desired it. It would have been nice to have met the young man again, perhaps attempted a remedy for his illness-but so be it.

Idly, the Voivode opened his copy of Bram Stoker's The Primrose Path-it would do his English no small amount of good to finish the final four chapters, and by then he would be at his destination-and free to feed a bit more freely. According to the conductor it was named after a Lighthouse-Vladimir wondered lazily if they gave tours...It would be something to do whilst awaiting his transition into a wholly fictional being...


DRAKULYA-Vladimir Milos Florescu, Descendant of the Dragon.

Description-Vladimir is well-proportioned older man of normal build, shoulder-length dark hair he keeps in a ponytail and is clean-shaven with green eyes. Wears tailored silk suits in subtle greys, pastel cravats and wide-brimmed hats during the day. Casting-Gerard Butler in Dracula 2000, but with more subtlety and a bit less manic energy.

Editor's notes- Drakulya is not nearly as 'Redeemed' as he pretends to be. He is arrogant, stubborn, haughty, a thorough libertine and and contemptuous of any religion. He is also a thrill-seeker who knows that he is only Immortal until he is destroyed, and therefore collects new experiences as a gourmet collects rare wines and recipes. The wampyr nevertheless has a keenly-cultivated sense of honor and will never break his given word. He is not above meddling in the Players' lives out of boredom, interfering with them or helping them against their enemies as mood takes him. He will always repay a debt, for good or for ill...

 If he sees the Players or their enemies as 'worthy opponents' he may well cultivate them as a man cultivates a hothouse flower-after all, his last serious clash resulted in so much growth... Drakulya seems himself as a creature of Reason in an age of declining and irrelevant Faith-if someone actually manages to Turn him he will be astonished and even mildly pleased-definitely he will see that person as worthy of respect.

Frequency: Unique
HD: 5+5(26 HP)
AC: 6/13 (Undead)
Attacks: Unarmed or as weapon (+1 damage melee), not yet familiar with firearms but willing to learn.
Move: 15
Alignment: Chaotic
Save: F5
Morale: 11 (will of steel)
Trophies: 1D6+1(+1) plus several hidden treasure caches in Europe.
Mobster Level: 5

Undead-immune to Charm, Sleep and cold, 1/2 damage to non-magic, non-silver and non-blessed weaponry.Can see up to 30 feet in darkness.If killed, he must be beheaded or his heart destroyed or he will arise the next night.

Serpent's Eyes-+2 to all Hypnosis attempts.

Dark Genesis-capable of reviving recently-dead creatures as (1D6, 1-4=Zombie, 5-6= Acolyte/Bride wampyr). Any non-humanoids will be Zombies automatically. Drakulya has learned that a gradual transfusion of his blood over the course of a week adds +2 to his results in creating progeny. He has recently learned...restraint with this ability.

Student of the Scholomance-Drakulya has all of the powers of a Level 5 Magic-user. Focus is an ancestral signet ring worn on his left hand. Spells include:

Level 1-Disguise, Spider Climb, Poof!,Cure Light Wounds, Cause Light Wounds, Read Languages & Magic, Feather Fall. Level 2- Fog Cloud, Phantasmal Image, Summon Mobster, Charm Animal. Level 3-Fly, Haste, Protection From Missles.

 Skilled-Drakulya speaks and writes Romanian/Wallachian, Latin, French and English. An accomplished hunter, he gets +1 to Surprise checks.

I am Utterly Without Weakness...OH WAIT-Drakulya is vulnerable to Turning, Holy water does 1D6+1 damage, Fire does full damage. All of his disguises and illusions are revealed in silver-backed mirrors or silver nitrate photographs. He is -1 to Skills or combat in daylight and loses all powers (including resistances and even magic spells)in same-furthermore all of Drakulya's Magic ends at its listed duration or at Sunrise, whichever comes first.

[order99]

Hiram Jones cursed himself for a fool a dozen times over-his lamp was only one-quarter full, the tunnels were recent and barely supported properly and his fellow miners had turned yellow and fled to the elevator, leaving him alone...

But there was that voice, that horrible high-pitched woman's scream, echoing and distorted down Tunnel #18-and though Hiram might die here in the depths of the Claremont Iron Mines, it was better than living on as a yellow coward who left a woman to die deep in the earth. No, if he died today Saint Peter would find him without shame on that account-

Hiram slipped on loose shale then, and only years of mining experience kept him from plummeting to his death right then and there. Empty space and cool air danced before his face and outstretched hands in the darkness...slowly, using toes and knees and belly, the miner inched backwards until his hands grabbed loose shale and hard clay, then felt around for his lantern and matches. A sinkhole, he thought numbly, hidden pockets of water or gas suddenly depleted, and entire sections of Tunnel #18 were just...gone.

That horrible scream issued forth again, from far below him, and Hiram's newly-lit lantern sailed downwards in a spiral, illuminating the source of the screams-the thing was vast, bigger than a log cabin, glittering golden metallic hide shining in the splashing flame, three lamps like eyes on a swivel-mount not unlike the head of some monstrous insect, arms with talon-ed claws-and as the thing's 'Head swung upwards as if the thing could see him Hiram realized that the 'screams' he had risked honor and soul for were nought but the scrapes of metal on stone, echoing through the tunnels...

Then strange purple flames shot up towards Hiram's face, and he never saw light again.

Mine owner Dan Claremont found Hiram first, badly burned, blinded and feeling his way down the mine entrance-the experienced foreman had made his way to the surface by memory and sheer cussedness. A Doctor was summoned and Hiram's burns were treated-but as evening fell the miner's gums began to bleed and all of his hair fell out, and a fast jitney was sent for Chaplain Larsen and whatever spiritual comfort could be had. None of Jones's fellow miners would carry the body afterwards as it glowed dimly in the dark with some purple Devil's fire...in the end, Larsen and Claremont blessed the body, dragged it carefully back to Tunnel #18 and had the entire tunnel collapsed with explosives to serve as a grave. Perhaps whatever creature had so poisoned the brave miner would stay buried as well.

The Claremont Iron Mine has been closed for the foreseeable future.


The Metal Colossus-ancient Lemurian Wartitan

Description-this pitted bronze-plated behemoth is three tons of massive, powerful machinery, alive with terrible purpose, sports a three-eyed turret on a squat neck, two powerful arms ending in gigantic scythed talons, and a twisted mass of armored plates and cables below its waist, where legs or wheels might have once been. Ruined swivel mounts on the shoulders hint at the creature possessing even greater capabilities, but crippled as it is the creature is still formidable. If someone with enough technical skills could somehow restore the metal monster to its original capacity-and somehow tame it-the entirety of the 19th century US would know terror dwarfing that of the American Civil War. The Colossus' goals are unknown at this time.

Frequency: Unique (one hopes!)
Hit Dice: 7 (34 HP)
AC: 3/17 (layers of plating)
Attacks: 2 at 2D6
Move: 3 (legless)
Alignment: neutral
Save: F7
Morale: 7 (fearless but erratic)
Trophies: It is one
Mobster Level: 7

Giant Robot-immune to poison, Sleep, Charm, Paralysis or cold.Can be Wrecked as if it were a Ship. Anything within 10 feet of the Colossus is considered within its melee range. Can Wreck things as a Lvl 4 Superhero.

Power Reserves-The Colossus has a Reserve equal to its Hit Dice(7). These reserves are 'recharged' every hour the creature is inert (sources of electricity are rare in the 19th Century, but could charge the machine as quickly as one Reserve per minute if found). At Reserve 0 the Colossus is inert for 3D6 Turns, then reactivates with a Reserve of 1. While Reserves are available the Colossus may utilize any of the following Abilities:
1) Purple Flame(1)-this weapon has a range of 150', can hit adjacent targets as a Machinegun and does 1D6+1 radiation damage-also forces a Save vs Science to avoid Radiation Poisoning (Exhaustion, plus 1 damage per hour for 1D6+1 hours).
2) Force Field (1+)-all attacks do 1/2 damage and the Colossus is immune to Wrecking while shielded. Lasts 3 Combat Turns per Reserve spent.
3) Backup Servo-muscles(1) For 1 Combat Turn, the Colossus Wrecks as a Level 7 Superhero and can Lift Elephant one-handed at will.
4) Gravitic Thrusters (1) Leap I, one leap only.