Tag Archives: horror

Dungeons and Dragons – Curse of Innistrahd Episode 30

Plotting in secret was a hallmark of Innistrad. Scientists in labs slaving over slabs and vials or nobles and vampires confined to winding towers and darkened rooms lit only by whispering candlelight. Which is why it was so refreshing to the crystal eyes of Inghild to see the tinkerer working in the open, stacking heaps of slag and salvage toward his plans. He wasn’t tireless, but he was dedicated. She exhaled, some emotion between exhaustion and disappointment buried beneath placidity as she tightened her pale grip on the shattered neck of the still straining vampire at her side. Keeping it a secret forever would be impossible. But perhaps with some effort, it could be played down. Perhaps this was the first step to stopping him. She gave a light calculated grin as she vanished back into the embracing shroud of needles and leaves. Things were going… Deliciously.

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Deadlands – Fallen Flags Episode 3

Dear Diary, I have finally recovered from a terrible bout of nausea from a rather unsavory drink. I suspect foul play, but I can’t rule out the possibility that the alcohol has simply absorbed some of the rural charm of this place, and my prim, bourgeois tastes were unaccustomed to its… natural charisma. In the course of my recuperation, it seems that my quarry has evaded me yet again. As hard as that was to tell among the rabble jabbering about the downfall of poisonous natives. Perhaps I was the only one -not- delirious. Either way, I’m certain I’ll regret not being on the train with them. Nothing for it but to wait for the next one. Perhaps it will have a bar car that suites my apparently prissy palate. Either way, as long as its quiet. Loud railcars are no good in this part of the country…

-Recovered from a fluid-stained page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

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Dungeons and Dragons – Curse of Innistrahd Episode 29

Magic is a fickle thing. All practitioners know this whether their origins are holy or otherwise. Their intricacies twist and unravel into infinite threads of possibility, from which those lucky strands that are able to be made manifest coalesce as force. From mana to spell. From spell to action.

Viktor hated magic. Not the power it gave him, no that was useful. That let him be more than his skinny frame could be as he trudged the dark hills toward the sleeping giant of the windmill. What he hated was the esoteric rules. They way it pushed back against him. He drifted up the tired worn wooden steps to move to rap on the door.

He had done so much correct and so much still escaped him. The circle he made failed, sending wait staff in pieces to his yards. His undead creations limited and small cramped up in the attic, mostly the bodies of cats he took from the town. But he had practiced and learned. He waited, heart in throat as the noise of shuffling footsteps approached him. Hopefully those sacrifices were enough to prove himself, as the door creaked open.
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Deadlands – Fallen Flags Episode 2

Dear Diary, or whatever one is supposed to say in the entires to their journals: I believe I’ve tracked down the group of people surrounding my employer’s gun to a small town in the center of what is now known as the Disputed Lands. My employer has warned me to be careful, as this area marks both a hotly contested territory for the great rail companies, as well as one of the far edges of my jurisdiction. It’s unlikely that the local authorities will be much help – doubly so because word is traveling through town like a brushfire in May about some sort of haunted fort along an apparently unusually dangerous river. These things are, of course, no matter. Finding them is objective one, and tradition dictates that one should visit the local tavern for information. What, dear Diary, is the worst that could happen?

-Recovered from a dust-stained page in the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877

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Deadlands – Fallen Flags Episode 1

The year is 1877, and the end of Summer is nearing fast. One of the warmest on record, we’re told in the margins surrounding yet another set of “suspicious disappearances” and “freak accidents.” At least in all the papers that used to be worth the paper they were printed on. Nowadays, it seems like the tabloids are the more reliable source. Eleven years ago, the West Coast fell into the sea, leaving spires of so called Ghost Rock. This material proved far more powerful than coal, attracting rail barons, industrialists and scientists alike to the new maze of waterways. Since that day, ghost stories, legends, monsters, myths, have been exploding across the States. And as near as anyone can tell, the truth is becoming stranger than fiction. Back east, the cemeteries are even reportedly cracking open to leave otherwise decisive battles in this War Between the States stalemates, leaving no end in sight. Both sides, North and South, have laid out a bounty, offering immense wealth and connection for whoever first builds a railroad across the continent to what used to be California. Sometimes, in pursuit of these Rail Wars, the ambitious rail companies hire agents, both to deal with these new supernatural phenomena, and with each other. And worst of all, one of those agents has one of my employer’s guns. August is going to be a long month.

-Recovered from the diary of an unnamed debt collector, written mid-August, 1877.

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