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.
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.
Linkenden: Carriers of lanterns, candelabras, and torches for stronger parties. Always the first down a darkened hall, sent to scrub away the clinging shadows. Light is precious, to cutters, for the realms in which they labor are rarely graced by the weal of the sun. The dark is the deadly advantage of the enemy, of ragwretches and grues and the eyeless thralls of foul sorcery, and it must be lifted for their banishment to be prosecuted. For this reason, the light always goes first.
Vapor curled from the cast iron pot. Thick, yellow-spiced stew rolling slow within. Peppery; laden with rich, scented oils. A ladle plunged through, came up bearing chunks of meat and cheese-laden potatoes. "Came good," sniffed the bristly, thick-necked cook, filling a wooden bowl. He passed it to his right, to a woman clad in Ward […]
Brown husks of leaves drifted on the autumn road. Sticky branches shivered above, loosed what cladding they yet possessed to spiral in the bitter wind. Not far over the squat, umber hills, a raven croaked. Down the lane, a clapping of horseshoes swelled. A rider in grey came along. He rode sedate and boredly, tucked […]
The pen tapped impatiently. Flecks of dried ink fled the nib, speckled the paper: a contract, written in block font, titled "certificate of employ." The tapper, a scruffy, hard-bitten cutter in leathers, sat alone at his pub bench. He hummed as he tapped, accompanied the fiddler sawed by the hearth. A shadow fell on his paper, and the cutter quit […]
The oven door swung wide. Damp, rye heat billowed from within. Knotty hands slid a wooden peel into the depths, produced a gold and crackly loaf. The sweating baker set it on a rack, delved back for another. Twelve more joined it, steaming from slits in their crusty flesh. Nearby, a bell chimed. A stamping of […]
There was a bump in the road. The stagecoach jumped, rocked on ironclad wheels. Inside, Ewan lolled, snapped awake. He straightened from his dozy slump, rubbed his eyes. "Morning," said a wheezy voice. Across from Ewan, a woman with scarred hands lounged on the purple upholstery. A fat backpack sat beside, bounced with every rock in […]
The consortium doors banged open. Noses lifted from oaken counters, distracted from their paper-stamping and coin counting. Three pairs of boots stamped in, trailed mud and snow. They clicked, hobnailed, on the stone tile. The leading pair belonged to a cutter in a leather duster. A considerable amount of something red and drying clung to his […]
A cigarette wobbled under the clerk's scrubby mustache. "Next," he said, bored. A young woman stumbled to the counter, shoved by the queue. Mousy brown bangs curtained her face, brushed in an attempt to conceal the veiny, wine-red blotch around her left eye. The clerk fixed her with a rheumy stare. "Have you worked with […]