Thursday, March 5, 2015

Rogue in the Crypt Session Two

Here are two questions that I may have answered with but one button of the rpgsolo.com:
  1. Murk is hurt, perhaps critically, he will use his alchemy to cure or something of the sort. 
  2. There is a corridor underneath, it is 10' wide and heads north, for now.

I am posting this to illustrate a point. What you are about to read was inspired by just one result of rpgsolo:

NPC Action.

Which turned into:

   The mercenary gripped his wounded handed, fortunately only slashed and bloody. His reflexes saving him, Murkstav cursed himself for being a novice fool. From below a strange luminous glow emerged, almost inviting, that did not seem like firelight at all but something conjured. The rogue did not enjoy conjured things, they never turned out right in the end. 
     Obsessing over his hand, or hypnotized by the glow below, the way it danced on the broken steel of the trap-blade, the sounds behind him did not register in his brain. There the sound of metal and stone moving. It was then that Murk realized he had overlooked the central crypt, the giant sarcophogus centered on it all. Why had he ignored it? Feeling the chills running up his spine, Murkstav turned. Turned to see a giant hand grip the lid of the stone copher (not even sure if that is a word). 
     The witch spoke of her son, her giant son, a thing unknown by men. Remembering the tales of woe, the tales circulated from tavern to tavern, Murkstav realized why Obar sounded so familiar. Years ago there was a creature stalking the swamps around Rivermoon, slain by men from the Black Spear tavern. The men, huddled years ago about mugs of ale and meal, spoke most of the things hands, the giant hands that gripped men and squeezed. The losses had been heavy until the beast was finally put down. 
     Surely those were the hands gripping those men that now gripped the lid, letting out a dull undead moan that Murkstav learned so often was never good news. 
     "Damn me for a fool," Murk hissed, looking at the entrance. "Always keep your exit and back guarded" he repeated to himself echoing C'ang's greatest sentiment, speaking it every time they walked into a tomb. Now there was one that the young mercenary would enjoy, gravely to fight beside. 
     It began to emerge, its head crowning over the lip of the tomb, giant and grey, with strands of slick- slimey hair sticking to a decomposing head and skull. Was that a gag, Murk felt in his throat? 
     Somehow, the strangely lit corridor below the broken trap seemed almost inviting. The smell coming from the tomb hit the man, and it only resolved his decision. Whatever that light was, it was better than the thing coming out of that crypt. With a deep breath, Murkstav dove into the hole made by the blade, hoping there was not another as a back-up. The last thing he saw, at the corner of his eye, was a massive shape moving to his right. 
Followed by: 
Is there another blade?

(Very Unlikely | 6[d10]) Yes, but...
 
     Falling into the corridor Murkstav heard another catch release. He closed eyes, knowing that he would emerge into the land of shadows, the afterlife, without a head.

Which brings us to a point. If one word, one picture, brings a world of inspiration, what do we need dice and buttons for?