The October County: Les Rouge Soeurs

If you spend enough time around the bayas of Snakewater Swamp, sooner or later you’ll hear tales of the loup-garou, a nasty piece of work that haunts the backwaters and lonely roads late at night. Chances are, especially if you’re from Earth, you’re already thinking you know what ol’ loup is. You’d be wrong.

Old loup-garou is a man or woman who went bad...real bad. So bad that when they died, not even Hell wanted a piece of them and so they walk the world of the living, angry, mean, and hungry. You can tell a loup-garou easy: he’s got a wolf’s skull for a head and is wrapped in the burial shroud they put him in the ground in. He’s got long claws and razor-sharp teeth, and he likes nothing more than a dainty bit of woman flesh to chew on. Fact is, old loup will stalk a woman a’fore he’d stalk a man. That’s usually bad news for a woman or girl caught out after dark when he’s on the prowl.

But loup-garou has met his match a few times when he thought he’d spotted a helpless waif alone in the dark. Sometimes it’s due to sheer luck; other times it’s because that helpless maiden was more than she seemed and knew what lurked out in the night. But the worst bit of news for a hungry loup-garou is that the little bit of girl he planned to put the bite on is one of the les Rouge Soeurs.

Nobody can recall who started the les Rouge Soeurs  (otherwise known as the Red Sisters to those who don’t habla the patois of the baya). Nobody outside the Sister that is; those who bear the crimson could tell you, but it ain’t likely unless they’re welcoming you into their krewe—and they’re only doing that if you’re a woman who got one over on old loup-garou.

Les Rouge Soeurs specialized in hunting loup-garou, bringing the fight to those critters with fire, silver, and mirrors. You can recognize one of the Rouge Soeurs by the red cloaks and dyed leather armor they wear. They usually ride chestnuts, sorrels, or palominos when they can find them and seat them with red saddles tooled with silver. Almost all the Sisters carry firearms, but each is a master with a blade as well. They work in teams of five or six, with each krewe responsible for a large region, oftentimes covering many hundreds of miles in area. Each group reports to a superior known as Grand-mère who works to coordinate her team with other krewes of les Rouge Soeurs to hunt down and destroy loup-garou wherever they might lurk.

Les Rouge Soeurs only recruit woman and teenage girls who have survived a loup-garou attack. For many of these victims, the sense of sisterhood offered by membership in les Rouge Soeurs, combined with the skills and tactics they learn upon initiation, helps them cope with psychological trauma they face in the wake of an attack and forges them into self-confident, powerful women. With this empowerment, few have any desire to return to the world and society they knew before they met their monster.

Although they specialize in loup-garou,  les Rouge Soeurs will hunt other dangerous creatures, especially those that victimize the young, old, or defenseless. They have an uneasy relationship with the Rambling Men and occasionally work with one of those travelling troubadours when their interests coincide, but the personalities and the misogynistic attitudes that some Rambling Men have tend to make those partnerships short-lived.

October Country Playtest

With my “to do” list of projects growing shorter, I had time this weekend to return to the October Country, picking up the game where we last left it some months ago. At that session, the PCs headed out to the Crow Tree Asylum in search of agents of The Silence, a cabal dedicated to keeping knowledge in the hands of those privileged enough to afford it. There, in the crumbling brick hallway of the madhouse’s surviving wing, they encountered a pair of humans and several Gell hired thugs engaging in a thaumaturgical rite around Crow Tree’s surviving shock-treatment chair. Too late to stop the rite, the party found themselves in a desperate battle with a writhing madness. One of the PCs fell victim to a laughter enchantment cast by their opponents, while another went near catatonic by the writhing madness’ touch. A third was incapacitated by his wounds, leaving the party’s magician to flee from the asylum before he too could be wounded or driven mad. That’s where Sunday’s game picked up.

The magician fled back to the rickety dock at the base of the hill upon which the gutted asylum stood. He leaped onto the hired skiff the party employed to take them to the archaic madhouse, yelling at their boatman, Te Mouse, to row the hell out of there. As they departed the dock, the shrill howls of madness echoed down the hill, growing louder by the minute.

Despite his best efforts, it was clear that Te Mouse could not row fast enough to escape the creature of Nightmare coming down the hill. In desperation, the boatman edged the craft into the high weeds and witches’ beard moss that lined the shore. There, with the magician’s help, they camouflaged the skiff as best they could and waited for the inevitable. Gazing over the gunwales of the boat, the two watched as the madness reached the dock and then drifted over the river, making a serpentine journey up the river towards the City of Midnight. The spirit took no notice of the hidden boat and soon disappeared around a bend in the river. With that puissant foe gone, an attempt to rescue the rest of the party was considered, and Te Mouse knew just where they could get some reinforcements…

Back inside the asylum, the three remaining PCs awoke to find themselves hog-tied and placed in the mildewed and dilapidated cells that once held the mad. From the hallway outside, they heard a gruff human voice talking with a rumbling, crude one that spoke an unfamiliar tongue. They deduced that the asylum was being abandoned and that they were being entrusted into the not-so-delicate care of the Gell, possible to be sold into slavery or simply drowned in the backwaters of the swamp. Things looked grim.

Meanwhile, Te Mouse rowed the boat to a small hunting camp located along one of the myriad bayas that threaded their way through the Snakewater. There, he introduced the party’s magician to his “dree brudders: Claude, Maurice, and Skeeter.” The trio, always spoiling for a fight, was willing to assist in the rescue for a bottle of liquor each and happily climbed aboard the skiff. Prior to departing, the party wizard performed a divination of future events and saw an image of his three compatriots bound and helpless in the bow of a flat-bottomed swamp boat poled by a pair of Gell. It looked like his friends were soon going to be transported from the asylum and with this as an impellent, the rescue party labored hard at the oars to take them back the way they came.

Inside the asylum, the three captive were roughly forced to their feet and duck-marched outside and down towards a creek winding its way past the asylum’s western edge. There, the Gell uncovered a secreted swamp boat and herded the captives onto it. Loading the boat with provisions and captured gear, the Gell shoved off into the twilight, they conveyance lit by a pair of burning brands in the stern of the boat.

At the juncture of the creek and the river, the rescue party saw the Gell’s torches heading towards them and scrambled out of the boat to lay an ambuscade. As the hulking brutes’ skiff drew closer, the three swamp hunters and the magician struck, firing crossbow bolts at the Gell’s arbalester and leaping up out of the water to strike with knife and club. A pitched battle erupted, but the Gell’s armor fended off the worst of the blows. In desperation, the party’s magician leaped over the creek and landed behind the Gell poling the boat. Before it could react, it was knocked unconscious by blackjack and tumbled into the tea-colored water. With the odds now greatly against it, the remaining Gell was swiftly dispatched and the captives freed.

The swamp brothers departed, loaded down with the Gell’s arms and armor, as well as a sizeable portion of the coinage found in the boat. They left on good terms with the PCs and may someday again cross their paths should the krewe ever venture into the bayas of the Snakewater. Te Mouse was willing to wait awhile longer before returning back to the City of Midnight, allowing the PCs to explore the asylum. Unfortunately, night had fallen and, lacking any means of illumination, they were only able to discern that the asylum was indeed abandoned and that the shock treatment chair was unnaturally cold to the touch. With one of their number acquainted with Nightmarish Lore, they deduced that this coldness was the result of the seat being used as a conduit into the Nightmare, drawing forth the writhing madness to serve the Silence’s malevolent designs. The party climbed back into Te Mouse’s boat and returned to Midnight some hours later.

Arriving back in the city, they discovered the nocturnal metropolis alive with festivities and commerce. The party decided to spend some of their hard-earned coin, visiting a hardware store, a disreputable outdoorsman’s shop, and a tannery, acquiring equipment, armor, and illicit armaments they expect will come in handy on future expeditions. Aside from being shadowed by a trio of Midnight’s criminal element, who decided against engaging in banditry on the party, their shopping trip was uneventful. After a brief supper bought from one of the city’s roving vendors, the band returned to their erstwhile employer’s book shop in the warehouse district.

They arrived to find the shop a burned ruin, its timbers and ashes still smoking in the cool night. From a pair of homeless lushes, the party learned that the shop was set alight not many hours ago, seemingly by its owner, who howled that the books were stealing his thoughts before committing arson and perishing in the fire. A trip to the local fire station confirmed this and they learned the city militia had confiscated the shop owner’s body for the duration of the investigation. Their efforts to view the body came to naught at the militia post, and so they rented accommodations at a neighborhood flophouse before deciding their next course of action.

From the October Country: Boglins

As I mentioned previously, I'm going to be transporting some of the material I generated over on my Secret Antiquities blog to the Society so as to compile all my game designs under a single roof. This is the first of such transfers.

For almost two years I've been working on a new campaign setting that contains all the weirdness I enjoy and which would allow me to run nearly any form of role-playing adventure I might set my mind to. I've been using Goblinoid Games' free GORE system as the rule frame to build upon and have had a few play tests of that material. Tentatively entitled The October Country for the time being, I remain committed to one day compiling this setting, its inhabitants, and various new rules and systems into a single tome to share with other interested folks. The October Country mixes fantasy, "screampunk", conspiracy, Wild West, and other high weirdness in one delightful soup of a setting. I've purposely peopled it with unusual monsters that don't always conform to your usual fantasy expectations. Most of the recent material and play tests all revolve around the city of Midnight located on the edge of the Snakewater Swamp, an October Country analog for the Louisiana bayous and 18th century New Orleans. Let's meet one of the residents of the October Country now:

Out in the Snakewater Swamp are small hamlets inhabited by a race of green-skinned, violent, and stupid creatures known as Boglins. These vicious little brutes make their living by scavenging, banditry, and the brewing of “bug juice”, a potent liquor made from ingredients best not asked about. Although small in stature and dim-witted, Boglins have a knack for simple devices and can jury-rigged rifles and shotguns from the assorted trash they find, small items they steal, and the occasional horn of black powder they swap bug juice for. This talent, combined with their clannish nature and remote villages, make Boglins a persistent menace in the Snakewater. Those traveling into the backwaters of the swamp should be careful, as Boglins often ambush travelers on remote bayas, rising up from the murky waters to attack unexpectedly.

Boglins average 4’ to 5’ in height and weigh between 100 and 125 lbs, although certain “bosses” grow much bigger (and have their own separate entry). Boglins tend to dress in either homespun clothes or the oversized garments taken from their victims. Duster coats, wide-brimmed hats, and clunky shoes are popular Boglin fashion, as is any item of clothing made from gator skin.

It is said that Boglins have distant relatives in the mountains who eke out a similar life in the hollers and dark forests that punctuate the hills. Known as Hoglins, these repulsive cousins keep semi-tamed hogs as attack animals, beasts of burden, and, some whisper, share a common gene pool with the porcine creatures.

Boglins

STR: 3d6 (10-11)
CON: 2d6+6 (13)
SIZ: 2d6 (7)
INT: 2d6 (7)
POW: 3d6 (10-11)
DEX: 4d6 (14)

Average hit points: 10
Move: 7

Other skills: Baya Lore-55%, Boating-80%, Conceal-86%, Craft (scavenge-tech)-65%, Dodge-55%, Language (Patois)-85%, Move Silently-75%, Notice-70%, Survival-85%, Swimming-90%. Some have Mechanick Arts-65% or Elemental Magic-50%

Damage Modifier: -1d2

Attacks
Shotgun or Rifle: 65%--4d6/2d6/1d6 or 1d6+2
Club: 60%--1d6
Bite: 50%--1d4 damage

Bug Juice: This swamp liquor will either get the drinker drunk as a skunk or kill them, so it’s best sampled by those with a death wish. A 4 oz. drink of bug juice affects the drinker depending on his CON score and the potency of the stuff. To determine the lethal threshold of the drink, the referee rolls 2d6+1 prior to consumption. Any creature with a CON score less than or equal to the result of that roll must immediately make a CONx5 roll or suffer 1d6+1 damage for 1d3 rounds.

Creatures with CON scores above the bug juice’s potency roll are affected less severely and need only make a successful Opposition Roll against the liquor’s potency score each time they consume a drink. Failing even a single check renders them extremely intoxicated. Those drunk on bug juice suffer a -10 penalty on their strike rank and all skills are halved for the duration of the drunkenness, which lasts 2d10 hours.