Saturday, 20 July 2019

Gonzo mansion

Image by David Mark, downloaded from Pixabay
I like the gonzo element of a lot of OSR material.  Of course there's a logical reason the wizard built a maze out of live eels inside a colossal gem suspended within a dead god's eye socket.  But you're under no obligation to explain it to the players -- or even decide what it is in the first place.

And by the same logic I don't need a reason to roll a random selection of mansion rooms from the list provided at  this post on the Unlawful games blog and think up a trap, monster or quirky feature to go inside it.  I just can.

1. Polishing room
A room for polishing the ludicrous amount of silverware a stately home needs to keep it running.  Cutlery, tea sets, serving ware, carving knives, picture frames, knick-knacks by the score.

There may be something about the polish, because the cleaned silverware in this room is unusually lively.  A clucking teapot is chasing the squeaking pieces of a cruet set around the floor.  A dissatisfied cameo frame is looking for something, anything, to fill its centre.  Forks are flinging themselves with careless abandon.  Stats as Rat swarm.

Each round the characters spend in this room they can grab items worth 3d10 SP.  They also roll on the hazard table:
1 - 3: nothing.  Stash that loot safely away.  It goes dormant when removed from the room.
4: Save vs Paralysis or trip on a tea tray and go prone, dropping everything you picked up this round.
5: Save vs Devices or get bludgeoned by a flying sugar bowl for 1d4 HP.  Drop this round's loot.
6: Save vs Breath or be blasted by hot water from a leaping kettle.  Take 1d6 HP burn damage or drop all of your scalding hot loot.

2. Courtyard
An enclosed outdoor area with gravel paths, low hedges and a set of white-painted wrought iron furniture for taking tea on fine afternoons.

There's also a suicide tree intent on collecting more suicides.  It manifests nooses and helpfully drapes them around the neck of anyone unwary who walks the path below its branches, then yanks upwards.

Stats as Treant.  Cannot animate other trees.  Automatically surprises.  First character successfully attacked must save vs Paralysis to get free, 1d4 HP choking damage on each failure.

3. Crypt
The family mausoleum, where earlier generations have been interred one by one as their members succumbed to age, illness, quarrels or bad oysters.

Here you'll find ancient undead being lectured by even more ancient undead about their manners, music, laziness and lack of respect for their elders.  The ancient undead react with the kind of embarrassment teenagers would display when being scolded like children in front of strangers.  No-one's interested in eating, cursing or draining the vitality from the characters.  The ancient undead would like them to go away before they die a second time of humiliation, the more ancient undead want them to agree that children are selfish and stupid and exist only to break their mother's heart.

Don't be fooled though, they'll attack en masse if the characters threaten any of them.  Stats as Zombie.

4. Tack room
Storage for saddles, bridles, stirrups and other implements for operating a horse.

These saddles have been cooped up too long.  They want to be thrown over something and taken for a ride.  The characters will do nicely.  If they fail to fight off the riding equipment's grapple attack, they'll be saddled, tied up with bridles and forced to gallop about on all fours until it's had enough fun and who knows how long that will take.

Stats as Giant centipede (no poison).  Characters are automatically saddled on a hit.  Save vs Device to get free.

5. Porch
There's a swing seat creaking gently in the wind.  It looks so comfortable... so inviting. If anyone sits, the seat launches them towards the treeline.

Anyone who hears it creaking must save vs Magic or be charmed into sitting.  The first character to sit gets launched and takes 2d6 fall damage.

6. Guest house
A self-contained smaller house, for guests.  Smaller guests.  They're all halflings.  They may not have been halflings before they slept here.

Anyone who sleeps in this building becomes a halfling while asleep.  No save.  Each day following they get a save vs Magic and on success transform back again during their next period of sleep.

Saturday, 13 July 2019

Oracles and fortune tellers

A house-rule I'm considering for that game I'm eternally planning to run is letting characters consult a fortune teller before leaving on an adventure.  The fortunes would be mostly beneficial to characters, letting them cash in a fortune to gain a one-time mechanical advantage.

But of course it wouldn't be any fun if all the results were advantages, would it?  Characters have to accept the risk that they've consulted a fraud, or the signs were unclear or the oracle didn't think the character's gift was impressive enough to really dig into what the spirits are saying today.

This settlement's oracle is (1d6):
  1. A temple sybil, attended by priest-scribes in a high-roofed white room, surrounded by votive fires.
  2. A blind madwoman who put out her own eyes to escape the visions, chained to keep her from hurting herself, managed by nurse-guards.
  3. A scarred old soldier with a head wound that healed badly, sleeping rough under a bridge and mumbling to himself.
  4. A former cleric to a scattered and suppressed cult of a god opposed to one of the characters' gods, living in a slum and selling predictions to earn a living.
  5. A foreigner from a despised race, operating a booth in the marketplace and relying on her powers and wits to protect her from the locals' resentment.
  6. A senile wizard, diminished in power but still prone to flashes of brilliance and uncannily accurate predictions.
The oracle tells fortunes by (1d6):
  1. Drinking ergot mixed with wine and interpreting the visions.
  2. Listening to the petitioner describe their dreams and explaining the meaning.
  3. Observing the reflections of light on metal.
  4. Reading the cards.
  5. Staring into a dark glass and watching for portents.
  6. Consulting the dead through necromantic ritual.
As payment the oracle asks for (1d6):
  1. Gold equal to the price of a sword.
  2. A personal item.  Just a trinket, really.  Nothing you'll miss.  Don't worry.
  3. A prayer or minor sacrifice on the oracle's behalf.
  4. Food, clothing, wine.  The basic necessities.
  5. A handshake, a kiss... some kind of personal contact.  No, there's no hidden significance.  Why do you ask?
  6. Visit a person the oracle describes and deliver a cryptic message.
In return the petitioner gets (1d10):
  1. Character may re-roll one failed save of their choice.
  2. False vision.  Character must re-roll one successful save of the GM's choice.
  3. At a time of the player's choice the character can pull out the perfect piece of equipment for the situation.  Lose one encumbrance slot until then.
  4. Character may retroactively disarm one trap.  Any harm done by it is simply a vision of what would have happened.
  5. Incomplete vision. A single danger the character successfully avoids has a second, hidden, danger behind it.
  6. The first time the encounter die indicates a wandering monster, the GM informs the player in time to avoid the encounter or gain surprise.
  7. The character is made aware of one of the adventure's treasures and the general location it can be found.
  8. Tunnel vision.  The character is made aware of one of the adventure's treasures that has a threat linked to it.  There's no mention of the threat.
  9. During an encounter of the player's choice, the character is aware of the encountered creature's name.
  10. During a hostile encounter of the player's choice, the character knows what tactics the encountered creature will use.
Some of these results would be appropriate to conceal until it's time for them to happen.  Rather than fooling the players, I'd give them something like "all will become clear when the time is right."  These advantages would last until the end of the current adventure.  If not cashed in, well, the fates are ever-changing and man is but a lesser piece on the game table of the gods.

Saturday, 6 July 2019

1d6 magic coins

Abelard the Unreliable was a wizard of significant power, but considerably less wisdom.  People suspected he came by his talent through some unconventional parentage -- he was certainly never spotted reading a book or scroll.  He was lazy, dishonest, self-aggrandising and lacked any kind of foresight.  And he was often drunk.  His magical exploits revolved primarily around the enchanting of coins.
  1. The Widow's Pension
    A low-denomination coin that, when placed in a purse with other coins, will transform them overnight into coins of the same denomination.  A blessing to someone poor, a curse to someone rich.  Abelard was easily moved to pity by the plight of the needy, but he hated bankers.  (Too many refusals to grant him credit.)
  2. Innkeep's bane
    If this coin is used in payment, some time after it's placed in a purse with other coins, it will leap out and roll back to whoever spent it, taking all the other coins with it.  Abelard loved drinking in inns and pubs, but hated innkeepers bothering him for payment.  Why did they have to spoil his evening with their crass demands for sordid specie?  It didn't occur to him until the first time he used it that those rolling coins would function like a big arrow pointing straight at him.  And that there would be a panting innkeeper running after them carrying his barman's friend (a stout club).
  3. Beggar's lament
    If given to a beggar or donated in an act of charity, the giver will shortly have a ridiculous encounter that ends with a significant piece of good luck (1d6):

    1. Two farmers and their cronies arguing over whose geese are fatter.  They will ask the character who donated the coin to be an impartial judge.  When the selection is made, the loser will stomp off in a bad mood and the winner will insist that the character accept his goose as a reward for letting everyone know Farmer Murphy's fowls are the best.  It's an ordinary, potentially delicious, goose.

    2. A richly-dressed man trotting on a fine horse will appear.  When he draws level with the character he will suddenly pause, shout that he is sick and tired of this damned excellent cloak! and throw it at the character's feet before trotting away.  The cloak is of quality cloth, waterproof and warm.

    3. An old man in battered armour hails the character.  His daughter married a wealthy merchant and now she's insisting that he move in with them so she can look after him in his sunset years.  He supposes he ought to go, his sight isn't so reliable these days.  But a good sword should never retire!  He offers the character a high-quality and well-maintained blade.

    4. A fat, cheerful, drunk man is sitting at the roadside next to a cart with a broken axle.  He can't push it to the cartwright's workshop for repair while it's weighed down by its load of good ale, but wouldn't it be a shame to pour it all out?  He gives the character a full tun of quality ale.  It can be easily rolled.

    5. A matronly woman waves the character down.  She's been baking pork pies all morning for her husband's birthday, but now he's sick and can't get out of bed.  It would be an insult to the pig if any of those good pies go to waste.  She gives the character a large, freshly baked pie.  It smells mouth-watering.

    6. An attractive young man or woman is travelling to their home town to enter a contest of skill at the village festival.  They're nervous and want to kiss a stranger for good luck (a common superstition in their area).  The character is the one to catch their eye.

    The beggar who receives the coin will find it sticks itself to their forehead until they perform a charitable act of their own.  Abelard respected generosity, but he was easily annoyed by beggars.
  4. The Price of Silence
    If used in payment for a crime, this coin will sink into the criminal's skin and hide inside their body.  If they ever try to talk about the crime, it will leap into their throat and try to choke them.  Abelard used it to pay a peasant for releasing a greased pig inside a church.  Since that time it's been used in payment for murders, thefts, beatings and frauds.  Abelard would feel bad about that, but probably not for long.
  5. The Sure Thing
    If flipped, the symbol on this coin will change to whatever is spoken aloud while it's in the air.  Abelard liked to settle his debts by suggesting a double-or-nothing bet on the flip of a coin.  People were often reluctant to let him flip, but happy enough to let him supply the coin.
  6. The Sour Joke
    Abelard created this coin to amuse children with the what's-that-coin-doing-behind-your-ear trick.  If placed behind a child's ear while concealed from view it turns into two coins, of a value to buy a child's treat.  If repeated, four coins, then eight.  Unfortunately, this spell wasn't quite ready.  Each time someone attempts to use it, there's a 1-in-6 chance it will actually get stuck in the child's ear, where it was cause considerable discomfort and require very careful extraction.  Tears are unavoidable.

Saturday, 29 June 2019

B/X class reskin: Wombat

Wombat

Requirements: Minimum Con 9
Prime Requisite: STR
Hit Dice: 1d8
Maximum level: 12
Allowed armour: Any, including shields
Allowed weapons: Small or normal-sized (see below)
Languages: Alignment language, common, wombatese, dwarfish, gnome, goblin, kobold
Saves and level as per Dwarf

Wombats are stout, hairy marsupials who average a height of approximately 4 feet and weigh about 150 pounds.  Wombats live underground and value community, sensible planning and well-built earthworks.  They have a reputation for being pragmatic, practical and utterly without romance.  That last part isn't true of course, but other races find "My darling, my only one, I've invested in a blue chip stock that pays an annuity which will support us in our old age" an unconvincing declaration of love.

Abilities
Combat: Wombats may use any kind of suitably-shaped armour, but only small or medium-sized weapons.  A wombat can use digging tools such as picks, chisels and shovels as weapons without penalty.
Infravision: Wombats have the ability to see in the dark with infravision up to 60'.
Fateless: Due to a common ancestor making a deal with the gods, divination spells with wombats as the target automatically fail.
Padded posterior: Backstabs against wombats do normal damage, even on a critical.
Strewth, what a beauty: Immune to fear effects from magical creatures.  Does not apply to undead or spell effects.
Burrowing animal: Suitably-equipped wombats can tunnel through soft earth at 1/4 normal movement rate and through hard-packed earth at 1/10.
Sapping: Provided there is access to the earth beneath, a wombat has a 2-in-6 chance of undermining a fortified barrier in a useful timeframe.

Drawbacks
Vegetarian: Wombats require 2 rations for every one that another race would eat, due to picking out and discarding the meat.  A level-1 wombat in a wilderness area has a 1-in-6 chance per hour of foraging enough edible tubers to make 2 rations.  The chance increases to 2-in-6 at level 4 and 3-in-6 at level 7.

Reaching 9th level
When a wombat reaches level 9, he or she has the option of founding an underground burrow that will attract wombats from far and wide, who will elect them mayor.  Wombats usually live in townships, so businesses and community groups from other nearby settlements will expand into the wombat's burrow.

*     *     *

Digger by Ursula Vernon is my favourite fantasy graphic novel.  It's about old curses, forgotten gods and the value of making friends in strange places.  It knows the value of following tension with a little comedy or even just some time for the characters to sit on a stump and think.  It's a compelling story, which I'm not going into because I'd genuinely hate to spoil it for anyone who has a chance to read it.  It won a Hugo award and you can read it online for free as a webcomic, so there's nothing stopping you.

It's probably not giving too much away to say that the main character is a displaced wombat who's uncomfortable dealing with gods and regards magic with nothing but contempt.  Named Digger, because that's a perfectly respectable name for a wombat.  Ever since noticing the OSR movement, I've wanted to play a Digger-style wombat in a game.  When I read Patrick Farley's article in Fight On! about penguins as a player race, it didn't seem quite so far-fetched.

Wombats are tunnellers and builders, which puts them in the same conceptual space as dwarves.  The class template above is mostly reskinned Dwarf.  I tried assembling it from scratch using Erin Smale's article on building classes, but it quickly began to look so Dwarf-like that I gave in and used Dwarf as a base.  The wombat has more race abilities, but they apply in very specific situations, so I hope the vegetarian drawback justifies levelling like a Dwarf.

A wombat's life tends to be more prosaic than a dwarf's.  They don't write grand sagas, but they do write their elderly aunt Matilda, because she doesn't get out much these days and could use the distraction.  They like comfortable burrows rather than grand underground galleries, because if you dig too deep it's balrogs, isn't it?

Saturday, 22 June 2019

Magic on Earth-at-the-End

I've been thinking a lot about Magic on Earth-at-the-End, specifically in the form of Lighthouse Cults.  The cults and their devotion to the mysterious orbital installation which is so large it can be seen from every part of the world's only continent and in daylight.

I hadn't intended Earth-at-the-End to be a B/X setting, but I've been using Necrotic Gnome's B/X Essentials books for inspiration and templates for monster stats.  The Essentials books are my gold standard for reference because they're laid out so well.  The cleric and magic user spell lists work well for my setting, because they lend themselves to reskinning as technological effects instead of supernatural ones.

My basic premise is that magic is ancient technology in a convenient, portable form.  (Cure Light Wounds?  It's a ray that reverses entropy in a limited area.  Originally intended to keep meat fresh for consumption.)  Handed down from parent to child or from master to apprentice.  It's not something you learn, it's something you inherit.  Magic-users are machine operators who understand their devices well enough to aim and trigger them, but not the underlying principles.  Spells can occasionally be created anew by salvaging a piece of technology and making it portable -- maybe the Last Academy has a few painstakingly-copied manuals that describe those devices well enough to identify them and a few reliable techniques for swapping out power sources and control plates.  Perhaps there's a crazy Godmind out in the desert with a cult of dedicated followers worshipping in a machine workshop.

Following on from that, anyone can use these devices but only magic-users have the training to use them correctly and in a crisis.  And devices aren't restricted by level, but the knowledge to use them properly might be.  I think it would be a useful rule to have the user roll 1d6 and if the result is equal or less than the difference in levels between device/spell and user, the attempt is a mishap on the following table.  Non-magic-users take an additional -2 penalty.
  1. Reduced effect.
    The device functions as intended but the most important factor (potential, range, area of effect, number affected, save difficulty) is reduced by half.
  2. Increased effect.
    The effect goes off as planned, but too much.  A medical device might treat the target's mouth as a wound to be healed over.  A single-target weapon might gain an area of effect.  A charmed person may become obsessively protective of the user.
  3. Reversed effect.
    A healing device harms, a transport device roots the target to the spot, charm becomes grudge, etc.
  4. Random target.
    Roll 1d8 and whoever is nearest in that direction from the intended target (and within range) becomes the device's new target.

Example: Barret the technician(1) attempts to help an ally who has been exposed to an ancient virus by using a Cure Disease device.  It's a 3rd-level device, so the difference between his level and the device's is 2.  He rolls 1d6 for mastery and unfortunately the result is 2, a mishap.  He rolls 1d4 and gets 2 again: Barret's device kills the virus in the ally's body, but also a great deal of his normal intestinal bacteria.  The ally's next meal will make him vomit.

I'm giving some thought to combining the cleric and magic-user spell lists.  Earth-at-the-end is a tired and cynical place, and the only faith you'll find is the lighthouse cults' hysterical need to believe something can save them when the world ends.  Organised religion is a thing of the deep past.

Saturday, 15 June 2019

Six Hells

You know where I've never taken my players?  Hell.

Hell (at least for the purposes of this post) is a place of supernatural punishment.  The condemned aren't necessarily dead, they've just pissed off a god or other powerful supernatural being and been sent away to suffer forever.  They could potentially escape, or be rescued, or even revolt and take over the damn place.  Imagine Hell as a stronghold for a cross-planes game!

Here are six concepts for places of supernatural punishment that are awful, but not necessarily so awful that player characters won't have time to come up with a plan together.

  1. The Bubble
    An air-filled bubble at the floor of a boundless ocean.  A dusty road winds around, over and past itself, forming an endless loop.  Condemned are forced to march without food or rest by harpies with whips.  Periodically, sea leviathans break through the encircling wall of force in search of food.  The harpies beat them back, but any condemned who are injured in the attacks are forced to walk or drag themselves without treatment or any kind of assistance until their wounds heal.  They can't die here.
  2. The Chimney
    The condemned are imprisoned in cramped cages that swing on the end of thick chains together like bunches of grapes.  Things like monkeys swing from the bars and climb around the outside, occasionally swiping at the occupants with razor claws. Below is a landscape of fire and ash, sluggishly flowing lava rivers, and thick acrid smoke.  Vast living shapes move purposefully in the darkness like hills of flesh outlined against the firelight.  Sometimes clouds of cinders billow up from below to singe flesh.  The real punishment here is boredom.  For all the awful nature of the place, the condemned are stuck in their cages, watching it.
  3. The Ice Caves
    A cavern with an icy floor.  Wolves chase the condemned across the ice sheets, which crack and spall under their feet.  Move too slow, and the wolves catch up.  Death is painful, but temporary.  Move too fast and the floor shatters, sending them tumbling down amidst the frozen boulders to sprawl across a lower floor.  They have only a moment before the howling starts again and they have to struggle to their feet, which sends new cracks racing across the ice.
  4. The Labyrinth
    A confused and back-turning maze of rusted iron and ice, sentient but blind and continually hunting for the condemned with other senses.  When it finds them, it creates monsters or twists its walls and corridors into traps that crush and sever.  Hours later, the victims are reborn from metal compartments that dump them back in the maze.  The worst aspect of the labyrinth is the knowledge that there's an exit and if you find it, you can simply walk out and free.  But you probably never will.  No-one else has.
  5. The Leviathan
    The condemned are on an island in the stomach of a colossal beast.  They're under constant attack from parasites native to the leviathan's digestive system.  If injured, they mutate into parasites themselves, compelled to join the next attacking wave.  A fatal injury mutates them back into condemned and they have to wade ashore before the leviathan's digestive juices or parasites injure them again.  In between attacks, the condemned build what fortifications they can out of debris the great beast swallows.  They know the next time it feeds there will be an avalanche of wreckage from its throat, smashing their defences and bringing more condemned.
  6. The Past
    The condemned are forced to endlessly repeat their final battle.  They know the outcome, but their limbs carry out the scripted actions against their will.  The only freedom is the short period at the end of the battle when the field turns back time and resets for the next set-piece.  It may be only minutes or an hour before the magic takes hold of them and they're forced to march back to their positions for the next play-through.

Sunday, 9 June 2019

Scar artists

Creative Commons 0 licensed image sourced from dreamstime.com
If you're a rich weirdo with access to miraculous medical equipment and if you need a distraction from the fact you'll die soon when the sun fizzles out, you might choose to spend those last days in hope and generosity, healing the needy... or you might silence your better nature with drink and drugs and become a scar artist.

Some of the medical machinery available to people living on Earth-at-the-end dates back five hundred centuries, but it works as well today as it did then.  The ancients built to last.  These devices can perform surgery without pain or blemish, cure infection, remove hereditary conditions and repair crushed, cut, burned, poisoned, or frozen tissue in moments. But they can't create flesh from nothing.  The raw material has to come from somewhere, and that's almost universally another person.

Needless to say, scar artists are attractive if that's their thing.  Lean, tanned, muscular, perfectly coiffed, exquisite faces.  It's an eerie beauty, though.  Somehow slightly removed from human.  Shake hands with a scar artist, and you could be shaking hands with three different people.  Those long, strong bones could be from one donor, that even-toned skin from another, and the muscles and veins could be from someone else.  Someone so destitute they sold a piece of themselves or just vanished in the city's back alleys late one night.  Those scar artists are disturbing if you consider the implications of their existence, but they're not the worst.

There's a faction that says becoming the platonic ideal of the human form just makes you first among a very bland group.  They want to push past beauty into artistry.  Transparent skin, veins that bulge and glow, feathers or fur or scales instead of hair.  Muscles that chime as they flex, lungs that exhale psychotropic vapours, glands under the fingernails that stain whatever they touch with swirls of iridescent pigment.  Creating that kind of exotic flesh needs experimentation, and there's an implied level of human wastage.  But creepy as they are, they're not the worst either.

There's a school of thought at the extreme forefront of scar artistry that says keeping the natural human body plan is timid, pedestrian, dull.  Take risks.  Go further.  Dare.  Take what you need, use what you need.  Cut your conscience out if it bothers you.  Become art.  And keep your mistakes alive, because they have a kind of beauty too.

Those are the worst.

Lord Scapho of the mad city Incarnari has a hole all the way through his torso.  He can reach through and shake hands with himself.  At parties, he encourages young ladies to put their heads through it, to the amusement of all present.  To achieve that he needed a second spine, and to replace his two adult kidneys with six child-sized ones.

Lady Vinta has a crown of eyes.  They blink in unison and swivel to face whatever has her attention.  She claims each one of them is a trophy forfeited by a lover, and only laughs if someone points out that not all of them are human.

The Daly Twins, sons of the city's wealthiest merchant prince, play a complex ongoing game of their own devising to see who gets to wear all the arms this week.  Their older brother was the first to experiment: he had the position of his arms and legs swapped.  He was a sensation for several months, but it made debauchery awkward, so he dispensed with limbs altogether and had himself attached to a distended floating gas sac.

Lady Margot, wife of the city's ruler, earned their respect by suffering for her art.  She had her breasts carved into the shape of roses the old-fashioned way -- a knife, a vial of poppy juice and a surgeon who loved money more than his reputation.  Now she heads the Critics, a clique of scar artists who kill the creators of what they consider bad art.

Scar artist Narcissist
Narcissists are the lowest rung of the scar artist ladder.  It's not the art that interests them, it's the health, youth and beauty.  They don't warp their bodies so much as fine-tune them.  They're physically tough as well as gorgeous.  They form the baseline for scar artist stats.

AC 4 [15], HD 1+2 (6hp), Att 1 × weapon (1d6 or by weapon), THAC0 19, MV 120’ (40’), SV D12 W13 P14 B15 S16 (F1), ML 8, AL Chaotic, XP 15

Scar artist Canvas
Canvas scar artists transform their bodies, but not so much as to be unrecognisable.  Roll a D6.  On a 1, 2 or 3, give them one feature from the table.  On a 4 or 5, two features.  On a 6, three.

1. Silver eyes.  Reflective like a cat's, can be any shape or even a symbol. Gives low light vision. *
2. Transparent skin.  Watch blood flow through veins, muscles flex and slide.
3. Hollow fangs.  After successful grappling, the scar artist can automatically do 1d6 damage and regain half that number (rounded down) of HP.  They take blood, bile, spinal fluid or eyeball jelly. *
4. Musical muscles.  Sounds like a violin, or some other instrument where strings are strummed with a bow.
5. Pheromone glands - as per Charm Person.  HD x daily.  One target in an adjacent square, only in an enclosed space. *
6. Bioluminescent markings.
7. Echolocation - dark vision. *
8. Mobile tattoos.  Usually of an offensive and/or erotic nature.
9. Thick skin - as leather, +2 to saving throws vs heat/cold. *
10. Skull ridges.
11. Scales. Equal to 2 points of AC. *
12. Feathers.  Colourful.
13. Quills.  On a successful grapple, target must save vs poison. *
14. Eyestalks.  Disturbing rather than practical.
15. Serpent tongue.  Enhanced sense of smell. *
16. Reversible joints. The life of any party.
17. Talons.  Never unarmed.  Att x 2, 1d4 damage. *
18. Striped or spotted skin.
19. Prehensile tail.  Adds to climb ability. *
20. Extra fingers or toes.

* +4 XP.

Scar artist Atrocity
Atrocity artists have redesigned themselves (and the test subjects they keep with them like pets) to capture attention and offend the senses.  1 - 3 on a d6 - one feature.  4, 5 - two features.  6 - 3 features.

1. Faces. The artist has extra faces on their body (and perhaps limbs as well if they're unusually large).  They uniformly wear an expression of fear and revulsion and some have independently-moving eyes.
2. Crab claws.  Serrated and bony, like giant scissors.  (d8 damage) *
3. Extra limbs. More arms, more legs or a combination of both.  They're often mismatched in length and position of joints, and may sprout from surprising places on the body.
4. Cloud.  The artist carries a visible miasma with them, coloured or simply blurry.
5. Shrieking.  When the artist moves, it's accompanied by screeching from joints and muscles remade to generate noise as they function.  Discordant and loud.
6. Wings.  Non-functional wings made from elongated finger-joints with skin stretched taut between them.
7. Protruding bones.  Sharp bones emerging from the skin, like spear points twisting erratically around them as they walk.
8. Symbiote.  The artist has one or more smaller creatures living inside their body.  Like wasps in the eye sockets or mice in body-holes.  Will emerge on demand to cause disgust or work mischief. *
9. Sticky.  The artist's skin continually secretes a viscous fluid.  It may be caustic, flammable or just unpleasant to touch. *
10. External organs.  Air sacs on the back that inflate with every breath, a pumping heart attached to the breastbone, pulsating tubes emerging from and re-entering the body.
11. Giant.  This scar artist is much larger than the average human being.  This one's more of a billboard for their work than a canvas. (+3 HD, 125 XP)
12. Bloody.  This artist's skin continually seeps blood, staining everything they touch.  Doesn't cause any harm to the artist, just inconvenience to anyone else.
13. Hot.  This body runs at a temperature much higher than normal.  Not hot enough to injure, but anyone in close quarters is going to feel uncomfortable fast.
14. Mutilated.  This artist has reconfigured him/herself to cause maximum distress with their appearance.  They're fully fit, but appear to be terribly wounded.
15. Stinking.  Continual or at will.  The artist produces a smell so reeking anyone within two squares must save vs poison or spend a round vomiting. *
16. Foul.  The artist is covered with small orifices that continually dribble body waste.
17. Pustulant.  Random body parts slowly swell, then shrink back to normal.
18. Sting.  The artist has a venomous stinger they can attack with.  May be obvious, or hidden. (Att x 1, 1d6 + poison) *
19. Armour plate.  Thick, stiff skin like a rhino's hide. (2 [17] AC)*
20. Electric.  The artist has sparks arcing over their skin.  If touched, delivers a shock to both the artist and whoever touched them.