d100 magic knucklebones. Surgically implanted, they grant unnatural powers in exchange for the nutrient salts of the wearer's blood. Artifacts, all. Ancient, all. Knucklebones' powers and accompanying prestige are worth any and all suffering and disfigurement entailed in their implantation within the delicate structures of the hand.
On the cobbled gatepost, there sat a skull. A human skull, set in a divot midst the stones. Brown and crusted. A fresh wreath of dried daisy pixies, their heads torn off, crowned it. A lump of clay was tied in its gaping jaw, traced with runes. On the road, two Ward Rangers stared at […]
d100 trinkets and minor magic items for D&D and other adventure games. Not magician's tricks, nor recipes for monsters, nor even the source of sorcerers' perverse transhumanity; not in any great measure. What's found is the small detritus of lives. The belongings of human beings, however twisted.
A slumber is a person. Or was one, at least; depending on your politics on the relative disenfranchisement of its disembodied contents. It is composed of a vessel. An approximate half meter teardrop of dark, chemical glass. Roughly amphora-shaped, though handleless, neckless, and sometimes variably gourdlike. Sealed lidless like an ampoule the width of a large human skull, at its widest.
Better known by all who followed and desired it as a sorcerer's stone: A nervous catalyst, one capable of creating unending life, or even reigniting the vital fires of animation and sentience in the cold axons of perished flesh and bone. A gory crystal