Midnight in Berdusk.
“Milo! I know you are here somewhere!”
The shutters were torn away and smashed through the window. A hand covered in black fur grasped the sill, then another, and another, and another. An ape’s head, mad with hate, filled the window. The abomination squeezed into the room tossing aside the bed. Like a twisted spider, a mass of arms demolished the empty room and broke down the wall.
“Coward! Come out and play Milo!” The arms stopped their constant motion and raised the ape’s head a full 15 feet above the balcony. It had no discernable body.
“Where are…THERE you are, Milo!” The head leered down at a halfling in the tavern below.
“Honestly, how many times do I have to kill you?” The halfling was not impressed.
Four elves rose and shot at the creature, but it just batted their arrows aside. In a flurry of motion the creature leapt to the floor below. Whirling arms swept aside tables, chairs, and patrons. A dwarf stepped in swinging his axe, cutting deep into its arm. The creature snarled like a wolf. A multitude of fists battered the dwarf and a four-foot wide mouth bit down, crunching through armor and bone.
Searing pain wracked the beast. A globe of acid melted away flesh and bone. Screaming, it tossed the dwarf against a wall.
“Milo!” it searched but couldn’t see the halfling. The elven archers continued to fire to no avail.
“You can’t hide from…” A hail of stones fell from above, half burying the creature. Frothing at the mouth, it rose from the rubble, shaking with rage. The elves had drawn their swords. Milo was on the staircase, a glowing translucent shield floated in front of him.
The creature erupted towards the halfling in a mindless charge. Milo dodged, allowing the shield to take the brunt of the force. The halfling reached out and touched a hairy arm. The beast howled in pain and frustration it burst into flame. It staggered back, a writhing ball of fire. Reaching with three arms it wailed, “Milo!” and fell dead.
The elves cautiously surrounded the smoldering corpse. A young, halfling lass ran up and embraced Milo.
“You’re so brave! But…I thought you said your name was Vos”
My Background:
The Cormyan Purple Dragon detachment in the border town of Eveningstar were surprised to see mixed band of refugees march in from the Stonelands. Thirty humans, halflings, and gnomes clad only in rags begged for sanctuary. Slaves of a goblin tribe, they escaped with the aid of a remarkable young halfling, 14 year old Milo.
Milo Fernywood had spent much of his life in a goblin tribe. Milo earned his first two levels as a rogue stealing food for himself, and the other slaves. Eventually he was sold to the tribal sorcerer Oglob. While attending to his new master, he secretly learned the ways of a sorcerer. Milo got to see many low-level spells as Oglob boasted four ill-mannered apprentices. Yearning to be free, Milo watched and waited, learning what he could.
Master Oglob kept his position secure by means of poisoning his enemies. He kept a large store of toxic substances on hand. One night the goblins left for a raid against a rival tribe and the slaves saw their chance. Milo opened the locks, and delivered poison to the slaves working in the kitchen. The stew for the remaining tribe members was being prepared in a single caldron. When the triumphant raiding party returned they found all who remained behind were dead -- the slaves were gone.
A great rage filled the tribal warriors and they made plans for war. Tracking the refugees, they crossed into Cormyr. With Eveningstar in sight, Oglob and the goblins clashed with a platoon of Purple Dragons backed up by War Wizards. Almost to a man, the goblins were slain.
Mortally wounded, Oglob led the handful of survivors back to their cave. The shaman cast divinatory spells to find who was responsible, and one name came up, the slave, Milo. They cursed him, declaring a blood feud. Oglob gave his magic to his three surviving apprentices, and died.
Milo was resettled with relatives in a nearby town, his family having long since died. His mother and father were fading memories, and he knew little of halfling life or culture. For 4 years, he lived in peace. On his 18th birthday, goblins attacked. One died but the others got away calling after him by name. Seeing his past still haunted him, Milo made tearful good-byes and left to become an adventurer. He loved his village too much to bring danger upon them.
Leaving his name behind, Milo decided to hide in plain sight becoming Killian the Red. He moved north and started his career in Shadowdale as a flamboyant sorcerer/rogue. It was here where he hooked up with the fledgling adventurers of the “Company of the Frothy Mug. They already had a wizard, but needed a master rogue. “Killian” signed on.
{The eeeevil DM took my write up and added his own eeeeevil twist. The following was revealed to me only after the campaign ended.}
The returning goblins numbered a mere eight. They had one shaman, a dead sorcerer, 3 apprentices, 3 warriors and a barbarian (the chief’s son). The shaman held a great ritual, calling on the goblin deities to avenge them. The flames leapt up and the ghostly image of Oglob once again stood before them. He derided their weakness and shame that a mere slave had destroyed a great tribe. They must regain their honor by invoking “T’rin Gerash,” the blood feud. They could never rest, never die until they had avenged themselves. The shaman cried out that the boy was in Cormyr, protected by great warriors.
Oglob smiled and offered them the power to succeed, if they would but eat his corpse. The apprentices refused, but the others ate. Once they began they were unable to stop, eating everything in a few hours leaving only bones. The apprentices looked in horror as their bloated brethren burst apart in a maggot-ridden explosion.
From the ruin of the barbarian rose a black-furred Tall Mouther. The warriors became Chokers, and the shaman became a Deepspawn. One by one the deepspawn chased them down and ate them all-even the apprentices. Now they are spawn, and cannot truly be killed. Unlike a normal deepspawn, the goblins retain their memories, can earn experience, and when killed are merely reborn as new spawn. The shaman is limited to only one of each of the seven goblins at a time (no spawning 20 Tall Mouthers for example). He can eat other monsters and they will spawn normally per the rulebook. But the former goblins will always number eight (one deepspawn and seven former goblins). To end the attacks, Milo will need to kill the Deepspawn.
The Chokers advance as rogues, the Mouther as a barbarian, and the apprentices as sorcerers. The Deepspawn is also a 7th level cleric. (Tall Mouthers and Deepspawn are found in the Monsters of Faerun book.)
The monsters lost the boy for years, but used the time by kidnapping caravan guards and forcing them to teach the tribe common and Halfling. Then they fanned out looking for the boy. The apprentices use Alter Self to infiltrate and ask for a halfling with a white streak in his hair. The barbarian has little control over his hate, and tends to attack the moment he sees Milo, spoiling any surprise.
Milo tends to disappear and change his name after Mouther attacks, forcing the band to search for months yet again. He recognizes the Mouther easily, as its fur is black not blue. Milo is clueless about the attacks and has made no connections to his former goblin masters. The shaman now sends the chokers in first, to spy on the halfling, and has discovered certain predictable actions when Milo enters a city or large town, he tends to hook up with halfling girls, and is especially attracted to adventurers. Furthermore, if the party is staying for any length of time, Milo seeks out the halfling quarter, isolating himself from the team’s protection. The shaman now seeks to predict the company’s movements so he can lie in wait, with several (freshly eaten) alluring female halfling spawn to lure Milo into an ambush.
Thus speaketh the Eeeevil DM.
Yes, your background may make a wonderful story, but fill it with fluffy bunnies or the DM will use it against you! Take it from me! Mt DM could even turn fluffy bunnies into creatures of pure terror! We all got maximum hits to 5th level, but only because he dished the damage out with glee!!
Fear your DMs! and buy them lunch!
If he says no, follow up with a dirty, hate-filled glare from me.
As I was saying, we aren't that evil... We just want to use everything against you so you can't succeed! :P
~Ramzca the Evi- err... I mean...
~Ramzca the Good DM~
We are Evil And Cruel
and petty
Dms aren't just Evil
We are Evil And Cruel
and petty
Agreed.
~Ramzca~
I get two dire rats and one wererat to infect the whole partly with filth fever. At the end of the encounter only the fighter save against the disease and everyone else is still infected. Over the next few encounters the paladin and warlock reach the final stage of the disease while rogue is in the disease's secondary effect. Basically half the party is pretty much going to die since they don't have enough gold to cure the diseased members. I laugh maniacally while everybody gives me you f***ing a**hole looks.
Now the party has gone on a suicidal killing spree and are actually giving me a run for my money. I was pulling punches earlier, but now they're gonna burn!:evillaugh
I kid. We're pretty maniacal. I once put two pit fiends, six horned devils, two dozen standard liches, and various other lesser devils on two level 22 PCs (v3.5). Y'know what? They both walked out, more or less alive. More alive than the devils, that's for sure.
No matter what I do, though, I cannot win. If I'm the good DM, people don't fear me. If I'm the bad DM who is very severe and you want to buy him lunch to evade his wrath, well... turns out my friends don't like me much anymore. So I generally am a pretty good DM:
"Can I use my Mage Hand to keep the door shut?"
"Sure. Roll and opposed Intelligence check."
Them is the shinnanigans of a nice DM. But y'know:
"Hey, want free lunch?"
"Sure. You're not dying today."
That kinda has its appeal. Just a bit.
DMs aren't evil. Just misunderstood.
I kid. We're pretty maniacal. I once put two pit fiends, six horned devils, two dozen standard liches, and various other lesser devils on two level 22 PCs (v3.5). Y'know what? They both walked out, more or less alive. More alive than the devils, that's for sure.
No matter what I do, though, I cannot win. If I'm the good DM, people don't fear me. If I'm the bad DM who is very severe and you want to buy him lunch to evade his wrath, well... turns out my friends don't like me much anymore. So I generally am a pretty good DM:
"Can I use my Mage Hand to keep the door shut?"
"Sure. Roll and opposed Intelligence check."
Them is the shinnanigans of a nice DM. But y'know:
"Hey, want free lunch?"
"Sure. You're not dying today."
That kinda has its appeal. Just a bit.
Pssh? You call yourself evil? I sicked two gnomes on my party... Never saw it coming, expecially when they turned out to be half-gods with the ability to spawn more gnomes which can spawn more gnomes which, when destroyed, spawns five more half-god gnomes. Yay! (I don't kid)
~Ramzca~
"When the Suns flank the moon it shall rise to send the land back to the sea."
"Water will bring life to the dead lands when the suns flank the moon."
Ah well.
