Since this blog is basically a dredge of Gloomtrain and gameswithothers without the good ideas or innovation or grammar skills, here's a stolen thing:
Resolution is 2D6 + relevant attribute + relevant skill:
10-12 is a success.
7-9 is a success with a cost or complication.
4-6 is a failure.
1-3 is a failure with a cost or complication.
Attributes—Charisma, Dexterity, Intellect, Strength, and Vim—are 1D6:
6 is a +1 modifier
2-5 is a 0 modifier
1 is a -1 modifier
You start with three skills at +1. These skills can be anything: Lying, Gambling, Staring, Tantrums, Card Tricks, Stoicism, Insults, Compliments, Research, Forgery, Bushcraft, Languages, Organic Chemistry, Being Rich, and so on.
You have D6 + VIM HP.
You can carry 3 + STR items and sprint; 6 + STR items and run; 9 + STR items and jog.
If you have to hurt or kill things:
Small or subtle weapons do D6 damage.
Martial or large weapons do D6+1 damage.
Huge or horrifying weapons do D6+2 damage.
Also: Serrated edges disrupt distorted fleshy creatures, doing +1 damage.
Also: Silver surfaces disrupt dreamy ghostly creatures, doing +1 damage.
You have equipment from real life. You at least have clothes.
You woke up with long fingers clasping yours that slipped away under your bed just as you opened your eyes. There are livid blue-purple-gold streaky fingerprints all over your forearms and hands that smell like honey and acid and do not wash off.
OR you felt a prickling on the back of your skull like a flowerbud splitting into bloom while your backbrain went liquid and poured out from the skull-flower. Your brain is mostly there but something else has taken residence amongst visual processors and brainstem.
OR your sins and virtues turned solidus or superfluid and flowed up and down your spine and into your ribs then into your lungs. You breathe misty sin or smoky virtue in turn, your teeth are flowing soft and runny and tooth-shaped pearls are growing in their spaces.
OR you found in place of guts a grasping gaping lightless hole right above your navel that can fold your belly-skin closed like curtains. Your breath smells like formaldehyde and your voice sounds so very far away like it's deep within a hole somewhere above your navel.
You're not totally alone, there are people you can contact by stimulating the small bones in your ear by technology or parasites or ghosts. You can somehow also see their faces, perceive their expressions in your minds-eye when talking to them.
Ex-Corporal Rotte is nasty, practical, direct, an accomplished tactician and seeker of ends at the cost of being a people-pleaser or having ethical means. She has an almost encyclopedic memory about weaponry.
Informs you about equipment use; wants weapons and esoteric books.
Mister Pig is crafty, smirking, good-natured and jovial at the worst of times. May or may not be a gestalt, teeming, hundred-bodied demon forced into immortal pigflesh; either way, Mister Pig has acquired a vast repertoire of languages and competence over them.
Translates things; wants a steady diet of ghosts, demons, new language, new words, old words.
The Fuckbird hates you and hates everything and cannot fly, but is at a higher point than everyone else and can observe the movements of nearly everything.
Informs you about the area and inhabitants; wants to fly and wants your face.
Goodnight Moon is mostly silent and listens to your every word. They look like the pallid, pockmarked moon and have a bullet lodged in their right eyesocket. Their teeth are bullets and their spit is blackpowder or ink and their tongue is flint and pyrites.
Makes things die; wants equally weighty down payment for this service.
Keymaker Mass is disgusting and blobby, tender, attentive, and made of thirty people and a cow and a goat and a lamb.
Makes keys of all kinds for all kinds of locks; wants attention and gossip and gospel.
|Keymaker Mass (I drew this)|