Participating in this event are the following stellar bloggers:
A while ago, I had an idea for a tongue-in-cheek band of pitchfork/ flaming torch wielding, do-gooders, that I labelled P.I.T.C.H.F.O.R.K. I imagined that those who have been wronged, or harmed, by the forces of evil could hire them to right any wrongs. Admittedly, I had been reading more than my fair share of Grant Morrison's work at the time, and envisioned the Pitchfork crew as a motley assortment of heroes, but without the super-powers of course.
When the chance to participate in Vengeance Week came up, I knew immediately what I wanted to do, and that was to tell the other side of the coin as it were. Who does your Arch-Villain turn to when his nefarious plans have just been thwarted for the umpteenth time? Where does evil go when they need help? Who do they hire when they need to get, R.E.V.E.N.G.E?
(You won’t like them when they’re angry)
you've got trouble in your life of love
you got a broken heart
he's double dealing with your best friend
that's where the teardrops start
pick up the phone, I’m here alone
or make a social call
come right in forget about him
we'll have ourselves a ball
dirty deeds done dirt cheap,
dirty deeds done dirt cheap,
dirty deeds done dirt cheap
dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap
dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap
He slumbers, ursine, his dreams filled with the sights and sounds of a homeland now drowned under the weight of the ages.
It is dry and unbearably hot in the full blight of the sun. They cling like leeches to the shade, fanning themselves, idle, lazy, watching the slaves toil and sweat and die, as the temple gongs ripple like a heat wave through the city.
The dream is sharper now, more vivid. His nostrils are engorged with the bouquet of sultry spices, incense, and the scent of desert blooms caught on the breeze.
Goats, slaves, and other chattel fill the market places with their heated discussion and bellicose bargaining; and everywhere he goes, those around him drop to their knees in reverence.
Such is the power of the Lord of Hawks.
He spies a kohl eyed beauty at his sandaled feet. He taps her on her shapely back with his golden scepter and bids her rise. She is canny. She does not look into the depths of his avian mask. He leads her to his abode at the heart of the city.
He is rough at first, then gentle, and finally he sleeps, while his lust cools like the stones of the city beyond his window, outside in the gathering dark.
The day has run its course, the shadows pool and solidify as a cacophony of gongs and trumpets herald the end of day, because Ra, ever fickle, demands constant adoration, lest he cast the world into endless night.
He hears a noise, closer this time, someone is in his chamber. He opens his eyes but he is too late. They surround his bed, tall, robed, masked, daggers flashing in the last rays of the day. His blood sprays, ejaculating toward the ceiling before falling down onto the sandy floor like the first rains of spring. He is undone, deceived, betrayed. He is dead.
But is he?
He cannot move. The walls press tightly around him. Torchlight flickers drunkenly before his resting eyes. His slumber is disturbed. A grunt, a groan, the scraping of stone on stone. He smells unwashed bodies thick with sweat and the unmistakable aroma of fear.
Then, suddenly, hands moving over his body, searching, grabbing, pulling… looting. He’s had enough. He lets out a low moan and sits up, slowly. He is appalled at the noise his joints make as he moves. They creak, like the timber of his boats when he sails them down the mighty Elin River.
He opens his eyes. There is screaming now. He tries to make sense of where he is, what’s going on. He is in a room, a chamber, it echoes, there are piles of his belongings all around him on the floor: Mummified cats and servants, gold, jewels, all his earthly possessions radiate outward from around him like the petals of a sunflower.
He is not alone. There are others here, moving backwards, terror painted on their faces as he climbs steadily from his… bed? What is this thing? A sarcophagus? Is it his? Is he dead?
But if he is dead, then how can he move? He grabs the mewling tomb robber closest to him and breaks his scrawny neck. He flings the corpse at the others and laughs in a dry, grating manner, as they collapse under the weight of their dead companion.
Soon they are naught but bloody heaps on the tomb floor, and the Lord of Hawks is alone once more with his thoughts.
Rictus awakes. He sits up slowly and adjust his cloak. He might be dead, but he abhors the chill and the damp on his desiccated flesh and dried out bones. He looks around the room and feels at peace watching the other members of his group doing whatever it is they do during the long, dark, watches of the night. Here, amongst the most reviled creatures in the realm, he feels at home. They are kith and kin to him now and he would die for them if need be; because if there is one thing that Rictus has learned over the last thousand years or so, it is that death, is not the end.
Rictus is a Mummy. Use the applicable stats for whatever system you are playing, with a few exceptions:
1) He has a bag of dust, which when emptied into the palm of his hand and blown upon his enemies, acts as a sleep spell. (See your relevant PHB for spell information). This can happen twice per day.
2) He can summon a horde of locusts to confuse and obfuscate magic-users and clerics to prevent them from casting spells or turning undead. The swarm will be in effect for 1d10 rounds or until dispelled. Again, this can happen twice per day.
3) He is armed with a captured Persian Peshkabz (curved dagger) that gives him immunity to all fire, either magical or mundane. If the weapon is not in his hands, or on his person, then the protection ends, and he may succumb to flame.
He had been begging for alms outside the Church of the Slumbering Suppuration in a quiet town called Barton’s Weevils, when he saw them for the first time. He could see they were the business, they were just so, menacing. They looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world, like agents of change answering the prayers of others.
Eerie decided then, and there, that he wanted to belong to that, no matter what, and no one was more astounded than he when they asked if he wanted to be a part of their coterie. They applied soothing balms and ointments to his wounded skin, dressed him in clean clothes, fed him, and gave him more coin in a single afternoon than he had seen in a lifetime.
And all they wanted in return was his undying loyalty, and a little information…
Eerie, sick of a life of being of being spat on, shat on, laughed at, and mocked for his disfigured appearance, wanted nothing but the sweet, sweet, taste of revenge. He’d spent years pushing all that hurt and negativity down into the nether parts of his soul, his consciousness, just about any place he wouldn’t have to think of the state he was in, or the role he played in his world. He said yes, yes, and yes, a thousand times over. Finally, he felt like if he belonged.
Eerie, born to the gutter, contracted leprosy sometime after his Nameday. Since then, he’d spent his time invisible to just about everyone who crossed his path. It had been a hard life made even harder by the cruel jibes of the local cleric, Father Swells. He was supposed to be a kindly soul, the Father, but Eerie knew that all donations to the church went toward the upkeep of the slovenly cleric, and not for the impoverished as they were meant to.
Father Swells supped on lavish meals, and guzzled wines by the gallon, while the poor went hungry and died just beyond the walls of his house of lies and illusions.
It wasn’t like Eerie was just bone idle and lazy, far from it. He worked the docks whenever he could, but his ailment often left him in excruciating pain, unable to lift the heavy crates and boxes from ship to shore. His skin would slew from his bones and he would weep bitterly for death, knowing that it was never far away, but for whatever reason, it would fail to claim him for its own. So he lived and he suffered… Until they came and took him as one of their own.
It seems as if Father Swells had angered the wrong person, and that’s why they were here, in the squalid part of the world Eerie called, home. Their mission was simple: exact revenge from the fat fuck.
Eerie waited for the Bells of Evensong to fade before leading them to the church. He knocked on the heavily barred door as he had done countless times before, and waited. But this time, things would be vastly different.
The tipsy cleric appeared in the doorway, flushed, sweating, with crumbs and gravy on his portly cheeks, while he readied his usual retort for those who came begging. They bundled him inside before he knew what was happening.
The rest of the group had him out of his priestly robes and spread-eagled on the altar before he could even splutter for help. Rictus, the Mummy, whispered in the naked priest’s ear and Eerie saw his eyes widen in terror. Someone handed Eerie a long curved dagger without instruction.
Eerie knew what to do, he had dreamed about it for so many years. But as he was about to plunge the burnished bronze weapon deep into the chest of the beast, he felt the lid come off all the hurt and anger he had kept bottled up for years. His eyes darkened over, a strange, bile like substance, ran down his cheeks like rivers of midnight tears. His anger erupted in a dark, tenuous web, the colour of fresh tar, and he let his creation wrap its tumorous strands around the howling priest. Of what happened next, Eerie has no recollection.
They headed south as the flames from the burning church spread to the mill next door. By the time the group had crossed the Geert River, the fire was all the way down the main road engulfing the docks, and when Eerie, and his new family finally lay their heads down at dawn, the village was naught but a black, smoldering gash on the countryside. He has been with them ever since, and has never been happier.
Eerie manifests a Bile Elemental when he is angry. Use the standard rules found in your monster manual (elementals) for running this special creation. It should be around 8HD, and should deal a minimum of 3d8 crushing damage. Its primary form of attack is to manifest itself like a net made of webs, which will then cling to his opponent and squeeze the very life from them. It is immune to cold, fire, charm and can only be hit by magical weapons. While his creation is active, Eerie must concentrate, or it will retreat back to the Never from whence it came.
If the creature is destroyed, it takes a full week for Eerie to be able to summon another one.
It is hot and steaming in the jungle. A young boy watches in terror as tall men with bodies of shining metal, sit astride snorting beasts with muscled flanks and four legs, running riot through his sleepy village. They wield fear, fire and fury, and kill any unlucky enough to cross their path.
The once tranquil paths are choked with corpses. Blood stains the hallowed grounds of the temple. They are here for the gold. They are always here for the gold. Why this stupid metal has such power of man, the boy will never understand.
The attackers run amok, spearing priests, and kicking severed heads to one another for sport. He hears a baby cry, then nothing and that fills him with dread. His heart is pounding in his chest. He slides on his belly like the snake god they worship, trying to flee. But he is spotted, and dragged, from the hut in which he was hiding.
The savage men laugh and scream like mad animals as they prepare to kill him like all the rest. But he is anointed, he has communed, supped with the gods and this will be their doom.
Something stirs. Something writhes, inside of him, deep in his bowels. He becomes…
The marauders screams are panicked, wild, like the birds of paradise when they take to the air. They turn to flee, but the boy is faster now, faster than he could have ever dreamed of. He rises up from the dirt floor, towering over them, swaying with restrained malice from side to side. And suddenly, he is loose among them. His hood, fully distended now, is blood red and jungle green, and the poison of his ancestors, trickles down his dagger-like fangs. He lunges with the speed of the Hooded Cobra at his enemies, biting them, impregnating them with his poisonous gifts. They clutch at their throats, dropping to their knees, hands, noose-like around their choking throats. Their faces swell and blacken as they collapse, and the boy, now a perfectly shaped image of his god, hisses ever so, sssslightly.
Venom is able to mutate into a large Snake Man when he has the need. It takes 1d4 rounds to do so, and he is able to control the change as long as necessary. He can do this three times per day if need be.
Hit Dice: 4+1
Armour Class: 4 
Attacks: 2 claws (1d6), 1 bite (1d8) + Special
Saving Throw: 16
Special: If bitten by Venom, Save vs. Poison or die. He is immune to any types of poison himself. Because he has hands while transformed, he can also utilise weapons, and as such, specialise in Poisoned swords (1d8) Save vs. Poison or collapse for 2d4 rounds. Move: 6/12
Soft, sensual, voluptuous, she is everyone’s dream, everyone’s fantasy. She sways, hypnotically, while the drums beat their frenzied tattoo. The crowd lie in puddles of narcotic slumber around the stage, watching her from under hooded eyes. She advances slowly toward the King. His lust for her evident on his corpulent face. She disrobes before him, suggestively, reducing the King of Kashmir to a sweating, trembling mass of fat and desire. She runs her dainty finger around the rim of his golden chalice before sliding it into the red wine he covets so much. She draws her hand back, like a snake that’s about to strike, then slowly moves her outstretched finger towards slavering lips the colour of raw liver. His tongue, slug-like and obscene, flops out from behind lotus stained teeth to seek the pearl of red liquid that hangs daintily from the underside of her finger. He licks it off of her fragranced skin, and she does everything in her power not to show her revulsion for this, this… creature.
The drums beat faster, each volley overlapping one another until they become a heightened symphony of discordia and drug fueled chaos. The King prepares to stand, he must have her he thinks, and he must have her now! But his legs are unsteady and he falls to the carpeted floor as she sways slowly above him, teasing him, egging him on. But he is too far gone to even comprehend what is happening to him. The poison is fast acting and he is dead by the time his regal head hits the silk rugs beneath him. She continues the dance of death as if nothing is wrong. She backs away, slowly, sliding toward the door as the guards now begin to break their trance and rush to their fallen King. She is out the door and loose in the shadows before they even know he’s dead.
She rides south with them that night, Noreen far ahead of them, scouting the lay of the land, while Rictus and Gibber take the front and Eerie and Venom guard the rear. Once again, someone, somewhere, has got their, R.E.V.E.G.E.
Elixir is a demon that specialises in assassination by whatever means necessary. She is able to disguise her demonic appearance (eyes, wings and tail) when she needs to. She rides with the others because she loves to collect the souls of the guilty and the damned. See your Monster Manual for statistics on a minor demon and alter to your tastes.
Her father was a woodsman. Broad of back and taciturn in appearance. His axe shone and sparkled, and was wicked sharp because he worked its blade every night while the girl cooked for them. They lived in the heart of a forest that was dark, dim, cool in the summers, and freezing in the winters. It was their home. Then, one day, the girl’s father went hunting. Autumn was a few weeks away still but he wanted to stock the larder as much as he could before the snows came. He packed his belongings and when he was done, he kissed her on the forehead and left the warmth of the hut. The girl watched her father be swallowed up by the trees and their slanting shadows. That night, she could not sleep. The owls hooted, the wolves howled, and the girl fretted incessantly waiting for the dawn. When the sun split the sky, she stoked the fire, made tea, ate some bread with jam and went out to cut the wood. She missed her father terribly. She worked hard that day, harder than she had ever worked before. She worked the wood and the axe as powerfully as any man could have, well, except for her father of course. The sun dimmed and the sky bruised and she finished for the day with a heavy heart knowing that it would be some days before she saw her father again. That night, as she sharpened the axe, she heard a tread on the wooden porch and her heart fluttered with joy. She was about to fling open the door and welcome him home when something made her stop. The noise was stealthy, sneaky, not the bold tread of someone returning home bearing meat. She waited and she listened, and sure enough, she heard someone on the other side of the door, breathing heavily, like an animal before it pounces. And then a voice spoke asking to be let in. The girl knew that voice, she had heard it every day since she had been born. But it was different somehow, colder, grating, and no longer human. She picked the axe up from where it stood next to the fire and opened the door. She saw a figure before her, hulking, reeking of life after death. It stumbled toward her. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the nocturnal visitor and she saw who it had once been. She recognised that face, how could she not? It was the same as hers. She cried silently as she did what she had to do. The girl brought the axe down into the creature that had once loved her more than anything else in the world. When she was done, she drove a stake of fresh-cut wood into the beast’s heart and disposed of the body by flame. Later, she sat inside the hut, rocking back and forth murmuring to herself, and waiting, waiting for the sun so that she may seek out the one who had done this to her father, and destroy it.
Noreen lost more than her father that fateful day, she lost her mind too. She spends her days in complete silence, sharpening her fearsome axe, waiting to put it good use in felling far more than mere wood. Treat the axe as +1 to hit and +3 to wound versus undead.
His visions of the world are not like yours. Where you may see love and light and balance, Gibber sees the sky on fire and the skull beneath the skin. He suffers from hellish illusions and cowers at the feet of slavering behemoths, he surmises are freshly risen from the abyss. He is their servant, humble, confused, a puppet in their nefarious hands. Gods, demons, and powers beyond his ken or control whisper to him incessantly. They tell him what to do and how to do it. Gibber’s days are filled with imaginary companions and terrifying conversations.
They found him moaning and muttering to himself in a dark corner of the city. Gibber was a wreck, and quite obviously insane. But was he? Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean his invisible compatriots are not there.
In his mind he dances and cavorts with extravagant creations of extraordinary colours. Rich purples and royal blues surround him, extolling the virtue of submitting to his fantasies. Rivers of blood and bile flirt shamelessly with him in his dreams. Audible instructions, sibilant whispers, are given to him by dark angels that balance precariously on his shoulders. Their messages soothes his fevered brain and offer serenity when he murders for them. His first victim’s demise brought great peace to Gibber. But slowly the tide of misunderstanding and angst rose again, scaring him, confusing him, forcing him to kill again, and again, and again. But the ones with whom he travels understand him, they temper the unrest that burns and riots behind his eyes, and sometimes, they even manage to silence the voices…
Gibber, although he appears to be demon possessed, is not. He suffers from bouts of extraordinary rage that can only be assuaged when he kills. The members of the group are able to keep him calm (most of the time) but they are also able to goad him into giving in to the voices. When he slips his mental fetters, Gibber becomes a crazed Berserker. Use the applicable rules for his statistics, with some exceptions: he can rage for 1d6 round longer than most berserkers, go as low as -10 HP before death, and when frenzied, treat his strength as 18(100%).
No one knows where she came from but she reeks of the desert. Her hair is black and her skin is burnished and hot to the touch. Her eyes burn like Valuvian fire and she speaks of places the others do not know. Sparks of pure manna, the colour of verdigris, dance and sparkle on her hands like minute gemstones. She delights in raw, elemental energy, soaking up wild-storms and dancing frenziedly in the rain. She has scars all over her body. Jagged, deep, viscous, curved and meandering from one part of her skin to another. They look like a map of her life at the hands of an unseen tormentor. But she relishes her wounds, they are like titles and medals to her and she embraces them all lovingly. Each one has a tale to tale, and if you listen carefully, you can hear them whispering to one another. She drinks kawa by the jug and snorts crushed lino leaves and gecko spines to get her going. But at night she whimpers and grows dim, almost to the point of invisibility. She uses a whip made from the flesh of her tormentors, and sharpened daggers of bone that she broke from their bodies. A circle of dried penises around her delicate throat complete her garb.
Eldritch is a mystery. At all times is she a warrior, but there is a 20 to 30% chance (more if there is a storm about) that she awakes as an 8th level mage as well. She uses a whip, and when it hits, treat as a Staff of Snakes. In combat she whirls, dizzyingly, like a dervish. Treat her as AC 5(14).