Author: jdiehl

The Displaced Shoppe

XIV

The greeting is warm and inviting, a surprising welcome here in the middle of the crypt. The party had been trudging through worn ancient floors of mud, limestone slabs, and false camena stone. Here, they stood on polished wood slates, arranged in long mosaic hexes. The adornments had been tattered old banners, rusted busts, and the occasional guck covered jewel. Here, vellum printed adverts marked prices, a silken sash was woven between sections of polished display cases, and a platinum chandelier illuminated the room. The wolvenisa standing behind the counter was groomed and powdered from the base of their fur to the tips of their popped collar. The only thing about this sudden shop that seemed as grimy as the crypt around it was that merchant smile on the shoppe keeper’s muzzle.

The Displaced Shoppe is a place and an npc. Located in the middle of a dungeon, a crypt, under the sewers of an ancient city, or any other strange out of the way locale, the shoppe is a travelling space that seeks out wealthy individuals in far reaching cubbies. Since most spaces are rarely visited, it senses the arrival of adventurers in these dangerous spots, and manifests shortly after a conflict or stressful situation of some type, hoping to prey on their need for healing, relaxation, and a hearty meal.

The shoppe specializes in the limited usage market. Potions, scrolls, one time use gadgets, hot and filling meals, drinks, and occasionally even accommodations. The keeper is friendly and warm, so long as it thinks a profit can be had. And profit is the goal. All of the prices are far above reasonable asking value. The store relies on the desperate and needy, and the keeper will ham it up. If the keeper makes a successful sale at all, they will be back at some point in the future of the party’s adventures; again appearing at a time of desperation.

Manipulation of the keeper lies in the art of negotiation. Threats of are of little use, as the keeper has a failsafe. If they take any damage, their entire shoppe will teleport home, as will the keeper and all the goods not purchased. Attempting to halt the departure of the shop will find that most of the things on display are not actually here but are only teleported here after purchase. It’s not impossible to stop the keeper, but it should be hard, and it shouldn’t be rewarding. Even their remains will dissipate away.

In fantasy they arrive by magic. Illusions and teleportation are their means of access, and they will avoid things that might hinder their exodus.

In sci-fi they arrive with faster than light travel typically beyond what the players or their enemies may have access to. A drifter on the far planes of space looking to make credits.

In ages of discovery, their little dinghy seems to show up just off the beach at the right time. No one else seems to notice it, and it moves faster than it should as it departs.

A diversion, a piece of comfort, a smell of fine spices and surprising warmth, the Displaced Shoppe is a wonder to behold amidst the darkness of this mine. How they arrive and how they depart remains a mystery, but the promise to be seen in the future is both comforting, and unnerving. Mostly for the coin purse.

The Depot Thinker

XIII

It was supposed to be a quick layer over. Refuel the ship, grab some snacks, a shower, go meet the client, blast off. Two hours. Three, tops. Yet when the party returned to the depot, mission objective and seemingly reasonable timetable in hand, they found their trusty ride cracked down like an egg, engine picked apart and thrusters detached. And the perpetrator of this act, was still there, running some random part through a cleaning process that should have taken hours to even get to this stage.

Some much for deadlines.

He’s a machine speaker, maybe literally, maybe not, and when he sees a piece of tech that can be improved, he has a hard time resisting. The machines are easier to understand for him. They break, he fixes. They can be better, he obliges. The locals know to keep an eye on him, and his team typically tries to keep him out of other folks engine blocks. But this time, they failed.

The Depot Thinker is a surprise gift horse wrapped inside of a nightmare situation. If the party has the technical skills, they could attempt to put the ship back together themselves, but if they seem game to play along with the events, they’ll find the parts they need to fix the ship aren’t all here. The overthinker saw what could be better and already arranged trades, drop offs, and favors, and will help arrange local transport if the players don’t have access (anymore). After all is retrieved and delivered, the crew will find their vessel working better than new. The ship just sings now. Maybe literally.

The Depot Thinker doesn’t have many interests outside of machines, and the chance to play with a new one is a carrot he’d have a hard time resisting. He doesn’t respond well to threats unless it involves taking away access or damaging things needlessly. He doesn’t really care about money outside of keeping the parts coming in and the lights on.

In Sci-fi, he’s positioned in an off the beaten path way station, probably along a smuggling route where he’d get a lot of chances to tinker.

In ages of exploration, he’s setup in a smugglers’ bay, and the local pirates and privateers find his work charming.

In steampunk, he’s adding strange gadgets to otherwise mundane machines in an air ship depot.

The machines call to him for aid, and his spanner will always answer. With the dash of patience and willingness to explore, he can turn a simple stop over into an unintended upgrade, overhaul, and headache.

The Divided Pet

XII

A shuffle, a ruffle, a pawing at the door. They make their presence known one way or another. And yet again they smell of spices not grown nor traded in these lands, are brushed clean with trimmed and polished talons, and then there’s that odd bow they’re wearing that no one in the party seems to know where it came from. Where has this companion been? And how does it keep slipping into that world?

The Divided Pet is a companion to the party, but not to just this party. They’re a portal jumper, but not one that walks up and down the stream of time; rather they leap cross the blade to other possibilities. And in several of these realities they are companion animals to various loving homes and travelers.

The exact nature of the animal doesn’t matter to the theme, although a cat stepping sideways is fitting, and a charming dog loved by many across spacetime is certainly in vogue. This companion cube is meant to serve as a means of offering relief from managing an animal companion, as well as an engine to deliver interesting parcels or gifts. With an evolved enough relationship, it may even be possible to send messages or gifts to the other parties the pet travels with.

Manipulating this companion is well, like manipulating a pet. So, lots of ear scratches, love, affection, maybe some treats. Dear listener, please give your pets extra love tonight, less they escape to their other dimensional family.

In fantasy, they have the blood of magical beings in their lineage, and with a smooth motion they slip into another realm.

In sci-fi, they’ve managed to find a phasing collar that lets them slip between realities.

In ages of exploration, they fly high above the ship and disappear in a cloud, only to reappear later with a clipping of a strange map.

Not all NPCs need have vast stories, nor the means to speak them. Some come pawed and others scaled, but they are all wonders unto themselves, and share these gifts with those they consider pack.

The Immortal Chancellor

XI

Her words once lead a people through an age of prosperity and unity. While she was elected, they followed her every step, her speeches, and her counsel. Even after she stepped down, she offered her successors words of confidence, support, and grace. Her presence invoked an air of prestige, of calm pride, of seniority that’s hard to resist. The words spoke are deliberate, delicate, diplomatic. It’s been almost a millennium, but the title Chancellor has never left her behind, despite the government she once ran now long gone, for she is immortal, unlike the existence of that once great republic.

Governments, universities, and many varied civic captains still seek her out. Her knowledge of the worlds that once were, the flow of the tide of galactic politics, and both her role and observations within the realms make others want to mimic her wake, to learn from her, and if possible, convince her to lead again. But the oath she took, so many stars ago, lies at the heart of her honor. She would not lead her country again, nor take up the mantel of leadership for another nation, no matter how many years and light years removed. Integrity required such devotion.

The Immortal Chancellor’s longevity grants her the ability to be patient and observant. She typically will not act fast and will often respond to inquires for help at a snail’s pace. But her words will be exacting, honest, and very clear.

She is not one for manipulation, if she observes it in any fashion. Her words are free, as is her counsel, but they will be given at her pace, and no quicker. There’s an aspect of nostalgia she has for her old republic, but she will not permit the graces of the heart to distract her from important matters. Immortality has taught her to accept that all things in life are ephemeral. She will not clutch the sand too tightly.

In sci-fi, she is an immortal alien that ended up with the right conditions to be elected to a planet’s leadership. Now she is the last surviving citizen of that republic. That world lives on, but nations change hands and banners.

In urban fantasy, she’s a vampire lord that ended up leading mortal citizens in their choice for government. Daylight government sessions were quite rare.

In ages of legend, she’s a literal goddess that choose to follow human laws during her earth-bound days. That country is long gone, but her oath prevents her from accepting temples of worship.

The words of the elder are powerful, especially those that once lead the community in halcyon days. This immortal’s eyes have seen much, and she would gladly share to those who would slow down enough to listen. She has no heart to give towards the rapid fights of modern political frays and would rather look closer at the curious group of wanderers exploring the galaxy.

The Key Fob

IX

The token buzzed again, little vibrations as the party made their way down the corridor. The buzzing intensified as the came upon a small lip in the metal wall. There was a sliver of light along the token’s rim, a click from inside the wall, and then secret passage slide open. The lead nodded towards the opening, but the crew hesitated. This felt too direct, too focused of a guidance. The token could feel their concern, and shifted it’s light, relying on color theory and centuries of xeno-behavioral studies to try and sooth.

They could trust it. It was their way keeper. It could unlock all the doors if they but obeyed.

The Key Fob takes many shapes. High tech pieces of metal with adjustable teeth, coins with powerful wireless signals, tokens and fobs to plug into terminals and ports. But its purpose remains the same, to complete itself, gain full access, and control the system is was built to administrate. The party, the guards, the invading space plague, it doesn’t matter to the Key Fob. Someone must carry it place to place, and any hand will do.

It is a thinking machine, a being with purpose and design and task. But it is singularly focused on perfecting what it sees as it’s existence’s goal. Perfect access to all parts of the host it is assigned. It does not want to leave this place, nor does it want others to depart either. This belief in becoming whole drives all others. In these veins it can be negotiated with, manipulated, and guided, so long as it believes the new task will aid it with becoming whole.

In sci-fi, it’s the sole remaining access token to the derelict space station. A digital guide with no words to speak.

In fantasy, it’s the spirit of the dungeon, a wisp that can learn the magic words to step through the necromancer’s wards.

In mythos, it’s a piece of the god that haunts this castle, and the party will not see the sun again ‘less they make it whole.

Singularly minded, it will seek to use others to keep it as the sole omni-token for the facility. Deviation must not be permitted. No one must leave.

The Feline Envoy

VIII

The alley was clogged with stuffed trash bags, discarded furniture, and a heap of cushion stuffing soaking under a boarded window. The odor of a heavy dyes and something sickeningly sweet lingered in the air. But this is where the note said to come. It warned to come with just the party, and to come early enough that the light wouldn’t go out over the streets. There’s no one there to return a greeting, only the sound of rummaging and distant traffic.

And then the cat jumped up from behind a broken box. Its scampering movements cause papers to scatter. Old ripped up newspapers mostly, yet, wait. That’s the same fine printing as the note that led you here. It reads, “hello.”

The party starts calling for someone to come out and talk. The cat jolts off again, before returning with another note. “I’m here.” More questions. More answers. It’s only a few minutes, and a few frustrated stares, but then the party starts to clue in. It’s not someone else hiding giving notes to a furred familiar.

It’s the cat.

The feline envoy is smart. It knows how to read and understand most spoken human languages, and it always seems to be able to pull out a note from somewhere that can at least vaguely answer questions. It’s curious and observant, and a powerful ally to have wandering an urban sprawl.

But it is a cat. It can be manipulated in many of the ways a cat can. By food, by comfort, by positive attention. And in the same token it can be harmed and flee and will do so the moment someone is hostile to it. It’s smart enough to know it deserves better.

In urban fantasy, the cat is bright eyed and curious. It knows these streets and the creatures that lurk in the alleyways. It knows the party is a part of that, but it’s decided they’re more friend than foe.

In the time of legends, they’re a clockwork owl, speaking with scrolls from the gods and provide divine wisdom to epic voyages.

In cyberscape dreams, they’re a feline sprite, a daemon of some forgotten machine curious and eager to learn. Not all creatures need be big and scary, nor must they have great powers. Some are just the right size to cozy onto a lap, purr the worries away, and whisper the secrets they’ve learned on their prowl.

The Hostel Ghost

VII

The road out of town has got a fork near the border wall, with a small, rusted sign guiding travelers towards a dark ashen building. No warm fire greets the road weary, although a pile of logs lay ready for use near the hearth. No feast, no ale, no roadside special is ready to fill the bellies, but in worn wicker baskets and tattered sacks, the materials for soup, rations, and supplies await. The beds are made but dusty. Vermin are scarce and out of sight. It’s cold, and there is always a sense of eyes upon those who enter.

The Hostel was once a booming business. Seasons ago it was the rest stop where merchants, adventurers, and low-profile ne’er-do-wells could grab a bite, slumber a few hours, and be ready for the road ahead. But the world turns, and things end. While sometimes violently, often it’s slow, gentle, with the seasons stretching to years to decades and in time, the candle goes out. Though those with long lives once stayed here, the caretakers did not have such blessing.

Their bodies passed.

But not, their spirit of hospitality.

They learned long ago that visitors were frightened of them. Despite their best interests, their once warm reputation grew cold, and few locals neared the once gentle watering hole. But adventures? Pilgrims? The inbound don’t know. The ghost seeks to accommodate, to tend, to help, to bring a sense of comfort and warmth to the lives they can still touch.

There’s little to manipulate here. The ghosts are set in their ways, and only care about continuing their business. Rewards will be granted to guests that help aid past injuries to the hostel. Terrors await those who are rude or destructive. They are resistant to encouragements of moving on.

In fantasy the old inn is haunted, ghosts with a quiet legacy. Unnerving but comforting.

In spacefaring days, it’s the old relic station with no crew. A ship full of automated voices offering relaxation but no human words.

In urban fantasy, it’s the odd listing on the rental site with strange reviews, an unbeatable and impossible view, and a price that draws one in. But after the visit, the record is gone, forever lost.

For some the fetters to the world are chains, locking their souls to self-inflicted horror and despair. For others, it’s to continue their life’s joys. Death is but a moment and the soul finds a way to continue the dream.

The Effigy Remains

VI

The breeze dances through the meadows: tickling grass, jostling flowers, and tugging the leaves of the branches of the lone ancient oak. The dusk side of the tree is full of bright leaves coating strong limbs up and down the tree’s trunk. The dawn side is dotted with younger limbs, small twigs of branches reaching around the hulking form that sheared off the old wood. The mech and old oak were similar companions, covered in somber greens, broken limbs, and a shattered carapace. The breeze dances along fraying wires, through dried and caked oils, and sings through bullet holes.

Its form was once human, tall as the tree, strong, armor anodized imperial blue and royal crimson. A fierce weapon of the stars. The units were said to be an Effigy of the great soldiers that guided the empire to through the heavens, but here the effigy remains a machine without a master, a guidance system waiting for the reactor to finally die.

The machine can speak through the comm unit in its cockpit. It was up to date to most network languages when it was commissioned, and many will find their devices capable of interacting with an encrypted signal.

It yearns to speak. The motivation of the machine varies, but it seeks to find the truth. To know what’s going on. To find out what happened to it. To know if it did good. Promises of data, proofs of station, these go far to manipulate the machine. It does not fear death, and will answer threats with promises of violence of it’s own.

In sci-fi, the Effigy is a crashed war machina, a combat exo-skeleton, or other vessel bonded to pilot and mission.

In an age of exploration, they’re a walking construct once a part the invading army, now left rotting in some mire. Their feet still yearn to march beyond the swamp and find victory.

In mythos, they’re a bound spirit, locked in a statue, awaiting a mystic that will never come. Some great soldier of the wars in the heavens, a fearful seeking to protect the aspect of the divine in their belly.

Maybe there’s a shadow of a pilot left. Maybe they jettisoned before crashing or were dragged off after the great solider came to rest against a once young oak. But now the leaves of the once adolescent branch fall upon the metal bulk like a child out growing a parent. There’s not much time left, but the machine would have words with those who will listen.