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Crazy Clandestine Wierdos, for Non-Weirdos


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Deep within the bowels of Malifaux city, there lie a great many secrets to be kept and claimed. Incomprehensible edicts spread oily tendrils of control by the grasping hands of faceless men… pray good citizen, that the hand grasps not the knife that seeks your back


What’s up, it’s that weird guy that posts homebrew because apparently writing rules text is fun to him. Tonight on “oh god sunspotter’s made another thread, what’s this one about?” I wanted to address a concept that’s always struck me as interesting, the idea of the Secret Societies of malifaux, more specifically, the weird goings on just out of sight in places that people really shouldn’t be. Their purpose? Who knows most of the time, but in this thread, I'll be defining a few


The Inaugural goings on in the shadows today will be; The Church of Moons


A cold wasteland of hostile architecture, far beyond the gaze of the ram lies the realm where peace dies screaming in agony. No God gazes upon this place where Daemons roost as crows, madness creeping in like the halting chill of winter’s breath. No man lives here. There is life, but no man lives here.


Somewhere though, off in the distance, across a plaza bereft of any movement… ochre light spills onto the damp cobblestones from an open door, the faint smell of Sage-grass and Cardamom carried on the dying breeze. Could it be a mirage? It only becomes clearer as one draws close, the smell becoming heavier and heavier, before the building’s frontage is even reached all but clergymen would be holding their breaths, a thin haze of pallid blue smoke contrasting the irreverent glow of torchlight


All but a yard from the threshold, and the doors are flung open, a blast of cloying haze blowing out into the night air. Greeting the world, two crimson robed figures glide with barely a single sound to accompany them, only cloth scraping along rock and mortar. The inside is laid bare, spread for all to see. It is the church of madmen, past the Narthex of dreary sandstone fonts lay benches curved inward like the ribs of some fell beast. Within them lay the kin of the doormen, fraternizing in the clouds flowing forth from countless censers, Sharpening blades of great size to a mirror finish.


Further down the aisle the realization comes crashing in, beneath the earthy tones of Cinnamon Bark and Juniper branch lay the unmistakable twinge of copper and viscera. The altar holds behind it a great pool, as carnage-red as the resident’s robes. The windows catch the moon and cast their glow feverishly upon the altar where neatly folded cloth lays. It is white, pristine as fallen snow. The chatter ceases, seats shift from rapt attention.


From where it was impossible to tell, but a chant began.


It was alien, in a tongue unknown to mortal ears, but so clear was the compulsion, the moon gazed down as eyes, witnessing the ritual.


First made bare as a newborn, then swaddled in cloth, the braziers roared thanks in eldritch voices as the initiate waded impossibly deep into the pool, joined by a thing that simply rose from its depths, vision blurring as the smoke grew so thick it seemed like the whole city was ablaze in holy fire!


A soaking hand drew the hood and veil, pressing down like the weight of a boulder with such sudden ferocity, there was no chance to take a good breath before plunging in face first, there was no breath to hold, a sharp inhalation of terror bringing in only the fluid

Yet death never came.


Within the pool, a mirror lay before a shining gem, their presence only known as eyes snapped open in panic.


Without error, the moons show bright as in the night sky  itself


Rising up, robes dripping, the pool was as clear as water. The cloth however, had been dyed as red as the blood of fresh-killed game.


Without the mute of the pool, the chant could be heard, clearer than ever


Come unto them, oh blessed moons, with holy light, reveal their path, with sacred haze, and pious blood


O come, O come, Be born again, O come


Come and be baptized


The Church of Moons


Centered In what seems to be a cathedral in the quarantine zone, the church of moons preaches nightly to a congregation the holiness of the blood of man. It is rare to see someone go to more than one service before undergoing the church’s ritual of baptism emerging changed, knowing of unwritten scripture and unspoken gospel, and having reverence for the moons, which makes the blood boil


The church protects a wide area around the church known as Mondblick to its residents, many of the monsters of the night seeming to avoid its borders. These borders are defined only by chains of iron hanging cencers, making a false wall of smoke. Some say the scent deters the beasts, but for those that have entered, it’s the blades of the parish that assure they pose no threat.


Come dawn, anything foolish enough to even approach the borders of Mondblick is hauled dead or dying into the plaza, and tossed unceremoniously unto a raging pyre that smells of the church’s signature incense, rather than the burning charnel one would expect. It is said that just before the sun rises, a drop of sanctified blood is placed at the center of the plaza to start each bonfire. Until noon comes and the sun begins to show its descent, feverish prayers are chanted that the moons may come again and bring deliverance


Life in mondblick is actually quite preferential for many residents versus living in the slums, the only difference being on a monthly rotation, each adult member of one of the 30 small “wards” of the area tithe a chalice full of blood to the church, which is used to fill the pools and fonts of the cathedral. Children are instead allowed to give a ceremonial three drops of blood as tithe, their blood considered second only to that of the high clergy in its holiness, and is kept secreted away in the vaults for when it is truly needed.


The Wards


While there are 30 wards, there are 4 that are of vital importance to the chuch


The First ward is that of the chuch itself, this is where most all clergy members that live in mondblick reside, and where all outside clergy members are counted as living when it comes their turn to tithe.


The Ninth ward was founded around a set of furnaces, these are where the sacred weapons wielded by church members are made by an insular group of clergy and non, headed by the Vicar-In-Arms


The Fifteenth ward is where the ashes of slain beasts are taken, and mixed with the ward’s fountain, which is fed into the gardens where the incense plants are grown. This concoction causes the plants to grow at truly impossible speeds, replenishing fully within the hour of a proper watering, even after nearly being stripped bare


The Twenty-second is one of the most crucial wards to mondblick’s existence and further expansion, a wide entrance to the malifaux sewers heavily guarded. This relatively well patrolled path is considered part of the district itself, only a few points of divergence making the path under the river relatively secure. The majority is a straight shot, thanks to a corrugated metal bridge between the sluice gates below either bank.


The path’s other mouth lets out into the little kingdom, the merchants there infinitely more willing to trade in such large quantity without question than most would be, the haul then brought back by cart to the second district where it’s sold in the markets of the plaza. As for what is traded of value, the church’s incense is said to have a narcotic quality when wetted with blood and smoked, for what reason the church cares not, only that their purifying influence may spread, and one day lead a convert to them, even if inadvertently.


Joining the Church


The ritual only occurs at night, and commonly only one convert is allowed to join per night. Rare exceptions may be made however, as the number of robes on the altar occasionally increase, the compatriots of willing converts offered entry apropos their appearance. It is often thought unwise to willingly allow a robe to go unworn


Once a member, The church has Five commandments for it’s clergy, each with it’s own important caveat


1: the clergy must tithe one pint of holy blood when the bell tolls over the first district

This may not always be possible due to travel, but if it is planned, the clergy member will be given special gold-plated bottles to keep their tithes stored until they can be properly given along with their first fresh donation


2: the clergy must attend mass once every cycle of each moon

Once again, this may be impossible due to travel, at which point pucks of specially blessed ritual incense will be supplied to the member. Once they return, it is often suggested they attend mass nightly until the next end of cycle. Clergy ranking high enough to hold mass themselves are technically exempt from this rule as long as they perform all the proper rituals.


3: the clergy is forbidden from meeting monstrous flesh with unsanctified steel, unless under great duress

This commandment doesn’t explicitly forbid the use of firearms, but highly discourages them implicitly, as holy bullets are difficult, time consuming, and overall painful to make, not to mention needing to be made in addition to the holy weapon they’re fired from. The Vicar-at-Arms will ask a Tablespoon of blood be given for each bullet requested, suggested to be that of the Clergy making the request, though the blood of someone truly close to the requester may work just as well.


The exemption to the rule is also not as broad as it would seem, as assuming the clergy’s other holy weapons are disarmed or broken, a holy dagger is supplied to each church member, which must be used until breaking.


4: the clergy shall uphold the holiness of the blood of man

This one is somewhat self-explanatory, clergy members must do all that they can to prevent living humans from succumbing to things like poison or plague, kill those spreading it intentionally, and make an example of the slaying of Nephilim and any other creature that feeds on humans or their blood.


5: The clergy shall bleed forevermore

This one isn’t optional. A small wound can always be found somewhere on the body of a clergy member. It’s easily kept bandaged to prevent the blood from rubbing onto clothing, but it won’t leave, a sign of the completion of baptism into the church


Advanced Pursuit: Church of Moons Clergy



-The Clergyman must have a Heavy Melee skill of 2 or higher
-The Clergyman cannot have a negative might
-The Clergyman must always carry a soulstone of lade rating 2 or higher
-The Clergyman must be baptized into the church


1              The Sanguine Followers
2              Blades of the Parish

3              Dedicated Evangel
4              The Hammer of Faith
5              The Lunar Choir


The Sanguine Followers:

Upon the successful completion of baptism, the fated may choose to speak in tongues. When speaking like this, they can only be understood by other clergy. The fated is now bound by the five commandments of the Church of Moons, and must follow them to the best of their ability. Upon the completion of the baptism, the fated is cured of all diseases and addictions, and they cannot form again. In addition, the fated may petition the Vicar at arms to reforge any custom weapons or ammunition in reference to church doctrine, with prices listed below.


Blades of the Parish:

The fated has grown enough In faith that they are trusted to wield a Censer Blade (profile below). These are complex blades with an internal cavity and special flutes that when active, leave a trail of the purifying smoke used heavily by the church of moons. Past the original one gifted, the fated must petition the vicar at arms for subsequent replacements, which will lead to questions unless some fragment of the broken blade is presented


Dedicated Evangel:

Upon proving themselves to the church through some act, the fated has gained the trust of the clergy, to the point where they have been elevated to the high clergy themselves. The fated may hold mass in accordance with the second commandment, and due to the veneration of their blood, pricing of petitions to the vicar at arms are halved if it is their blood supplied.

Upon elevation, the fated also learns the true strength of the blood of man. if allowed to take a direct transfusion from another human, the fated and transfusee rapidly heal, at the rate one wound per minute. During this period, the tranfusee can understand tongues.

In addition, if the fated is killed in action, the soulstone may be returned to the cathedral, and if the moons are willing, the fated may be born anew, though they may have to live with… certain changes.


The Hammer of Faith

So proven has the fated become to the church that they are trusted with one of the most holy weapons of church, A Hammer of Litanies (profile below) Hammers of Litanies are specially attuned to sacred blood, and will burn those of insufficiently holy blood. The blood of allies may be purified through transfusion, though they will not be able to wield the hammer properly without getting burned, simply retrieve and carry the weapon. Hammers of litanies may also act as shrines for any Church of Moons Ritual.


The Lunar Choir

The fated’s life and has become Inexorably Intertwined with the life of the church, and both sides are better for it. The fated gains immunity to the poison condition, and if that immunity is removed, the fated may take a wound at any time to purge the condition.

The fated may also join one of the three Choirs of the church:


The Choir of Arms: The cost of the fated’s petitions is again reduced by half, and if the Vicar-at-arms retires, the fated may be given the full secrets of forging holy weapons


The Choir of Blades: Bladed blessed weapons wielded by the fated gain :+fate to attacks against non-humans, and the fated heals 1 wound every time a moderate or severe critical is dealt to an opponent


The Choir of Hammers Blunt blessed weapons wield by the fated gain :+fate to attacks against non-humans, in addition, the whenever the fated is wounded during the dramatic time, they may push all enemies 3 yards away.



Holy Reforging (Small weapon) - ½ pint of blood
Holy Reforging (Large weapon)- 1 pint of blood
Holy Reforging (Ranged weapon) 1 ½ pints of blood
Holy Arrows- 1 pint for 1 billet (50 arrowheads)
Holy Bullets- 1 tablespoon for 1 bullet
Censer Blade- 3 pints of blood
Hammer of Litanies- 1 gallon of blood




Cencer Blade


A gently curved blade with fluted openings dotted along the back, leading back to an ornate brass box just in front of the handle. Even deactivated, this blade still stinks of incense


Weapon Type: Heavy Melee (Slashing)


Rg: 3 :melee / Res: Df / the target suffers 3/4/7 damage, this weapon gains :+ fate to the damage flip. If filled (1 cone lasts one hour), all undead, spirits, gremlins, and Nephilim within :aura 2 yards must take a TN 11 resilience test whenever they take an action or the action fails. The fated and everything within :aura 2 has soft cover


Hammer of Litanies


A heavy hammer head wrapped in vellum scrawled with bright red script, indiscernible to most, but when struck, they are screamed out by the hammer itself


Weapon type: Heavy Melee (Smashing)


Special: The fated must have might 3 or greater to wield this weapon


Rg: 3 :melee / Res: Df/ the target suffers 4/5/6 damage, and is slowed.

:ram Litany of Awe:  The target is paralyzed instead of slowed
:crow Litany of Pain: The target suffers a moderate critical effect instead of becoming slowed
:tome Litany of Fates: The target discards a card instead of being slowed, and you may draw a card
:mask Litany of Force: The target is pushed back 5 yards instead of being slowed. If they are stopped before the full distance, they are still slowed

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  • 3 months later...

So Into the steam is out in full now, and while I await its arrival at my LGS like a corgi bouncing in front of its food dish, I had a few ideas I wanted to write up. What ended up deciding my new post’s arrival in this thread was in fact the realization that I haven’t actually read ItS yet, and I don’t want to post anything  redundant, along with the realization that I might actually be making some big overhaul post in Giant Robot Fists for the sake of bringing it more into balance.

In a development that will probably surprise absolutely nobody, I’m half considering making a thread about crafting zombie limbs (and the possibility of attaching them to things that aren’t zombies if such a scandalous development could even be believed!) but said thing won’t end up happening if I’m making a carbon copy of my previous thread with the Undead trait replacing Constructs. Strange things are being toyed with. Crafting systems may be involved.

But before any of that happens, I actually do have some love for this thread! I came up with a few concepts and a friend helped me decide on which to drop on this thread. Without any further Ado, I present;

The Malifaux Hunter’s Society

At some point in the night, Everybody has felt that foreboding sensation, a chill up your spine, an urge to check your surroundings. You’ve felt eyes on your back. A foreboding sensation of being watched by something unknown lurking within the shadows cast betwixt the oil laps, if you’re lucky enough to be near a single one

There are parts of Malifaux where the dawn brings no comfort, in these places, one can find minor respite away from the prying eyes of the guild, but far gone is any modicum of safety that even the chance of a guard patrol might bring, without precautions taken, entry into the dark of the quarantine zone or wilderness is tantamount to suicide

In these forsaken places, you’re never watched by the guild, but there is always something to take its place. It could be something close to harmless, a small bug skittering noisily about, or a rat poking it’s head out from between the ribs of the sewer grate.

That’s if you’re lucky.

More often than not it’s something infinitely worse.

One can still feel lucky if it’s another human watching them, no matter what their intentions are. Of course there are true monsters amongst the races of man, Rapists and murderers who prey upon those happen to find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, but even to encounter one of them is getting off easy

There’s always the chance that you could meet something that finds its home in the shadows, an amalgamation of once living flesh, or unliving steel, or simply something that shouldn’t be allowed to live in the first place. In that case, if you aren’t prepared, only lightning wits or grace of circumstance will give you the mere chance of survival

Sometimes, however, when a man finds himself facing down some damned necromancy, so close that the disgusting scent of rot is apparent on it’s useless breath, a loud crack rings out and the beast reels back, snarling and looking for whatever dared to attack it.

And just as it’s found the offending foe, a hole the size of a lumberjack’s arm is blown straight through its skull, or whatever comes closest as a favorable target. It doesn’t always fall straight against the cobblestone streets, but it never takes long afterwards, leaving a pool of viscera beneath it, or a trail if it’s got enough luck left to limp away in terror

In it’s wake, a figure clad in black appears, it’s face obscured, and a single, forceful gesture in the right direction is often more than enough to get the formerly trapped party to run away in absolute terror. But for a rare few, they approach the figure, either to thank their savior or perhaps, ask why the decision was made to keep them alive

After that, the quick pull of a weapon is often more than enough to dissuade most stragglers, but for the truly unique, they were far outside of safety for a more definite reason. They are those that do not ask why they killed the monster, with no fear of the apparent act of hostility.

They know why the beast was slain. They merely ask how.

They are promptly escorted deeper into the quarantine zone than they ever planned to be, wondering where they might find themselves, until they see something truly out of the ordinary in a land of confusing sights

It seems to be a perfectly maintained structure, a mansion transformed into a hunting lodge with an Aethervox tower mounted onto the roof, its parapets manned by more figures in the same dress as the one bringing them up to the front gates of the building. Instead of the disturbing silence of the outside, it is filled with raucous laughter, and the sounds of feasting and carousing

The main halls are filled with grotesque trophies of hunts past hung up across the walls, plaques proudly proclaiming the name of the mighty hunter who felled the beast. An automata passes by, engravings in its chest giving the history of its core, extracted from a rampaging peacekeeper, and tamed to serve. Nobody is more than a yard from their weapons, but they are kept strictly at rest.

A man robed in the skin of a mauler stands and grins at the new arrival, his metallic arm producing an intimidating clatter as he lifts himself up. His visage is intimidating, gray, wiry hair flowing from his head and chin like a portrait of an old pagan God. His introduction is jovial, but is gaze is piercing and intense.

He is short and to the point. if those brought to the halls wish to leave, they will be escorted back to a safe haven in the slums after they recover. But, if their desire to slay the monsters that lurk in the shadows is as strong as the one who brought them, they will be welcomed with open arms, and trained in the art of bringing death to beasts that by no means should be alive

They are all madmen, that much is clear, hunting bigger game than they ever could on earth, but then again, it could be argued anyone who would come to malifaux is just the slightest bit mad.


The Malifaux Hunter’s Society

Many big game hunters thirst for danger, and over time it has become infinitely clear that there is no more dangerous a place than Malifaux, especially the wilds. For many, this is more than enough reason to eke out an existence wherever they have some modicum of safety, lest they be thrust out where even the most gossamer illusion of safety is completely gone.

But with those contented with staring down a charging bull elephant with only lightning reflexes and their trusty rifle drawing the line between them and demise, never could a more beautiful place exist. Malifaux is especially unique for its unparalleled range of strange and alien quarry, with the natural denizens of the walls outside only being the tip of the proverbial iceberg

Hunting large game is more often than not a pursuit of those both affluent and slightly disturbed, the exact distribution of traits needed to get a man onto a train to malifaux with no strings attatched, and a well-hidden sporting gun stashed somewhere deep inside a false bottomed suitcase.

Many of the first in these pursuits wound up as either frontiersmen or bounty hunters, career paths that took them to places more often than not gave them ample opportunity to find quarry, and often distinguished by the peculiarity of their full stocks

However, after some time, this arrangement changed. Nobody can pinpoint exactly when, but sometime between the re-opening of the breach and the present day, a man whose name has been lost to obscurity, only self-identifying as “the Huntsmaster” came to Malifaux with enough affluence to have a high-caliber elephant rifle shipped alongside him, and insufficient sanity to keep him from wandering into the quarantine zone when he’d heard reports of a monster stalking into the slums during times when the moons were just right to obscure its passage.

When the cooling corpse of a necromantic abomination appeared in the main square at dawn, the desperate bounty placed on it’s head by a large number of terrified inhabitants was collected by a man who reportedly still had all of his limbs intact.

None could tell where the elusive figure lived; only really knowing that when a high enough bounty was placed on the head of any one thing (with the sole exception of live humans, criminal or non), it would be neatly disposed of and presented to the one offering the bounty, palm open in utter glee for the reward.

After some time, other figures would come to collect the bounties, wearing long coats heavily resembling those worn by the guild, but made of easily washed leather. After a while however, bounty targets were delivered with a single coffin nail stuck in them, attaching a note with details as to where the bounty would be dropped for collection

The turning-point was thought to come from one of two major incidents, both related to the guild, both of which managed to make headlines. The first was a cart of dead gremlins piled so high, it repeatedly exhausted the till of a guild commissary. After a few visits to collect the remaining sum, the clerks became belligerent, one of which responded by pulling a collier.

The collecting hunter took unkindly to this and responded by turning a large portion of the clerk into, according to the official report, “A fine, red mist”

The second would be the loss of a peacekeeper which went berserk and wandered off during a mission after being recharged at the execution of a violently insane spree-killer. The high bounty on the constructs head was thought to be nearly uncollectable, used as a tool to alert the guild of its location. However when the mangled form of the peacekeeper was left at the foot of a patrol station with an avaricious hunter and a large hole marking where it’s logic engine was thought to be extirpated.

 The attempted arrest and small skirmishes are thought to be what drove the society more underground, the belligerence between the two groups eventually extinguished when a favorable sum of money was delivered by a patrol by the begrudging orders of clerical staff.

As much as nobody in the guild’s administration will admit, the hunters provide an important service to many, acting as exterminators where sending in a guard patrol could cause or aggravate a problem. Outside of a few bizarre eccentricities in their actions (such as the capture and subsequent release of several species into the sewers of malifaux, along with their operation of a pirate Aethervox channel) they have had a net benefit for the safety of many.

Considering the proximity to irony the preceding has shown only how much worse it was before their operations began.

Joining the Society

The society is always on the metaphorical hunt for new recruits, because while casualties are few and far between, each is felt heavily within the society, even the injury of a single member can cut down on the efficiency of Sorties while they recover. To overcome this problem, the society seeks those who would do something just as insane as them, going into the quarantine zone.

Often, a patrolling hunter will intercept an individual (or perhaps group) that’s been cornered by one of the zone’s more dangerous denizens. Efforts will be made to save them, and if successful, the hunter is to appear before the individual. Attempts will be made to drive them out, but if they resist (or were seen actively attempting to slay the creature beforehand) they are brought to the fortified home of the society, where they are given the offer to join and prove their own glory for the world to see.

Only two caveats are given when an applicant joins.

The Society keeps a modest cut of all bounties earned using it’s training and gear

And if a recruit tries to sell the society out, they’ll be on the society’s own bounty board.


Advanced Pursuit: Society Hunter


-The fated must encounter the society and join willingly
-The fated must be proficient with a ranged weapon
-The fated must spend one night in the sewers under the society hall

1              Fast Takedown
2              Songbook
3              Dedicated hunter
4              Trophy
5              Back to the Den


Fast Takedown

Unknown to the fated, that first night is supervised by more senior members of the society, who know to drive certain nasty creatures towards where they are in order to instill a healthy sense of paranoia into them. Further training afterwards only heightens the innate desire to raise a weapon quickly when danger is sighted. The first attack taken after being ambushed by anything larger than the fated towards that target gain :+fate to the attack and damage flip


The fated is given a specialized small Aethervox receiver and a small book of “popular songs to look out for” that is actually a cipher decoder for messages sent via the Society’s pirate channel. Agents out in the field can be given short updates pertaining to their mission, either by nonsensical “advertisements” placed between songs, or by the song choice itself. In addition, the fated is provided fitted gear by the society, in the form of a standardized coat, goggles, muffler, along with a hat of the fated’s choice. This equipment is replaced free of charge if needed after a sufficient bounty is earned. In addition, the fated is granted access to the society’s gunsmith, limbfitter, surgeon, and apothecary, all society members who will sell to the fated at a very low markup.

Dedicated hunter
The fated has developed a taste in the game they hunt, and know how to hunt it far better than anyone should. Choose a characteristic (such as Construct) or Subtype (such as Beast). When the fated find a target matching that matches what was chosen, they may push 2 yards after every movement made to get closer to the target, and get +1 to all duel totals made in direct attempts to kill their target.


The fated has decided to add to the vast trophy collection at the society. Before a notable trophy is claimed, or if the previous trophy has been abandoned, the fated may choose to designate a target as his Trophy Kill. This target must match the characteristic or subtype chosen with Dedicated Hunter. When a fated wounds a Trophy Kill target during the dramatic time, they may choose a defensive ability that target has (such as a defense trigger, armor, or hard to wound) and that ability does not apply until the end of the round.

After the fated has mounted the trophy at the society, attacks made by the fated against creatures of their Dedicated Hunter choice can ignore up to one defensive ability

Back to the den

The fated’s obsession with the hunt has perhaps become offputting to some, but that is quickly rectified when the hunt begins.

The fated has become familiar with their Dedicated Hunter choice that they begin to notice very specific patterns in their physiology or make that can be easily exploited. When the fated spends the Focused condition on an attack against their chosen characteristic or subtype, that attack deals extra damage equal to the number of focus spent.

The fated can also study the corpse of a kill, if they do, they can discern things such as it’s age, state of health/repair, and even where it may have come from, or it’s maker if  artificial, and gains :+fate on any attempts to track down the creature’s origin

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  • 3 weeks later...

Soooo… my laptop bag (probably) got stolen, which sucks, because it had my Player’s almanac in it (plus all my art stuff). Thankfully it didn’t have my laptop in it, so I don’t have to worry about that for right now, and the positive side is I think some of the core content is burned into my memory at this point.


In the meantime, I wanted to make one more post right here before kicking off yet another thread. The good news is that if people in this thread do like my writing (I legitimately have no clue to be honest) the story for Cumulonimbus is going up at or by the end of the month, plus this post will have its own story, like all the previous ones in this particular thread. On the other hand, I kinda miss my old catalogue format, and may be returning to it until my next couple posts in my threads, so no longform for just a little bit


Personally, I like to give a bit of time between my homebrew posts so I don’t end up annoying anyone, or feel like I’m trying to dominate the forum, I love this game to death, and I want to give it whatever kind of help I can.


Usually, that help is in the form of homebrew, plus a little writing if it can be helped


There are no words, facing down a starving mauler. They are useless, contrite; to speak is to waste breath that could very well be keeping you alive. There is no space to remember who you once were, or why you fight. To remember the past is to forget the urgency of the present. Either you keep yourself there, or you’ll be pulled back by gushing viscera, and missing flesh evicted by hellish talons


She used to remember her life. She was homesteader. Traveling with her husband and son down the trails of Malifaux, going to a new settlement where they could start a life of peace together. They took a bizarre path, trying to avoid the bayou and the mountain. Trapped between two bad routes, no right way to go but forward.


The journey was fraught with peril. Wagon wheels were stuck themselves in the mud every chance they got. The strong men fell ill from sickness at what felt like the drop of a hat. The low passes were little better, even the smallest drops could take the life of an unlucky traveler. Young Edwin wasn’t allowed to leave the wagon


Nightfall came when it pleased. When it did, the darkness threw shadows like death on the walls of the wagon. Everyone was afraid, the watch came back with stories of devils dancing in the trees, and cackling gremlins, hiding in the underbrush.


Every morning, something was gone, always when they seemed to need it most. Food was the most common, but that could be accounted for, even if by error. Full, unopened boxes of candles do not simply wander off. some days, even a member of the caravan, happy and healthy the day before, was gone without signs of a struggle, even a single trace they had been there before


A week in, it happened. A great raid launched from the bayou, aiming to take the caravan by force. The sentries did their best to help the wagons get away, but still many were lost. She felt so helpless as she ran, but knew the wagon was okay. That Edwin would be safe


She wasn’t safe as she ran, but knew what to do. As long as the gremlin had no gun, a kitchen knife served well enough to cut them down, or her wandering stick to bash their skull in. after little time, it was reflex. She pried the knife from its handle and lashed together a spear. She crept low. All she had to make it to was the open pass, and they would be waiting.


By high noon, she saw the train on the horizon, and ran towards it with tears in her eyes. She checked the wagon to find her husband, but no son. He was on the patrol. The gremlins stole so many. She wept horrid tears, and wanted to run back and search. With a heavy heart, he forbid her.


The sun dipped below the granite mountain, and as it did, the sounds of the wild surrounded the wagons, shapes lurked in the long shadows of the high peaks. Many reached for their guns. She reached for her spear, and none could stop her from holding it. Disaster came lurking. The Tyrant appeared on the high cliffs, and the beasts showed themselves.


He snarled in a voice like thunder, his skull-headed staff poised high and commanding. He ordered the animals like an army, he would have them eat their fill of the bounty they had brought into what he thought to be his territory.


But we control the granite mountain. We control the high pass. It is our territory, not suited for frail men pretending to be great alphas. As the beasts slithered from the shade, we lay behind them. Our eyes glimmering like stars of malice in the tall brush.


The men fought valiantly, their guns and steel striking their hardest against the rattlers and scorpions, some curs even turning against their masters in their cowardice.


She however, knew the fire of the wilds. Her spear moved with passion driving it deep, and fury twisting out the blade, seeking yet another target. She roared in defiance, charging the tyrant. He tried to weave wicked magic, but her soul burned too bright, and her gaze burned him


In that moment, we struck at once. We slew the second wave of quarry that thought themselves so cleverly hidden. We charged alongside one who we would soon call a sister, and later a mother. The tyrant was driven away with fear in his eyes, fear of the true kings and queens of beasts.


She asked us our name and she heard it well. We saved many, but in the skirmish, her husband lost his life. In one last act, she asked if we had seen her dear son, if we knew of the bayou. Our eyes viewed the gremlins take him. Wordlessly, she headed to the swamp, and we followed with her. In witness to the unconquered earth, she joined the clan.


She kept pace as well as she could, as though her blood flowed as ours, she had not yet conquered her beast. The trees began to gnarl and twist, and as we walked, a trumpeting screech blared from the underbrush. A great boar reared, ready to charge.


In that moment, the blood of the clan churned through her veins. They fought as equals, she and the beast, exchanging scars and fury. Over time though, the victor became obvious. We ringed the makeshift pit, torches alight as it’s charges became reckless and hateful. She grew tired of the fight.


Their eyes met, and she opened her mouth, the scream of a true alpha coming up from her belly. The beast froze, only to break past its fear and do its best to charge her down. She would not allow it. even the mere threat of a charge, and the beast halted in its tracks, cowed by fury vastly eclipsing it’s own.


She looked around to us, watching as we rode our beasts. With one hand, she showed both mercy and dominance. She grabbed it’s fur and leapt onto it’s back. They cried out in unison. In bloody catharsis. Their fury was no longer separate, dueling forces. Their fury was now one.


She was truly one of us. We pursued the tracks of the gremlins, only hunting when necessary to feed the war pack. We found where they went, down to the city. Down into the sewers. We thought them lost, but she knew what to do. It was mother’s intuition. She took a single momento from her pocket, a favorite toy she’d clutched in sorrow, tossing it foreward for the boar to take the scent, fishing it back with her spear.


Soon it was clear we weren’t simply following a hungry boar, but a predator following a trail of scent. The sewers were easy enough for all of us to transverse, lines of riders, with her at the very front.


Their hideout was discovered. The gremlins hid in a ramshackle den in a dry cistern. She heard children crying for help. She heard her child cry in need. From that moment, she was unstoppable.


She was destruction, hated, malice, vengeance, all given form into one body. Their fear was too great to even let them shoot their guns. They were pounded to pulp, and in the joy of the moment, she found her young. With no words, only emotion, they embraced, and in that moment, shared the bond of the clan.


She took the young in like her own, and raised them in the way of the clan. Not all of them have passed the trails yet, but almost every one of them has their own beast. She showed them the power of the blood, she helped us find a home not even the tyrant can reach. And she built up the clan like no other has before.


That is where you are, neophyte. In the pits pounded to dust under the hooves of a clan mother. You spoke of dreams, of facing down a mauler. If you have an ounce of fear within you, death shall come, and you will feed nature. But I see it in your eyes. That fierce gleam that shows the blood. Now go, show us that you have the Blood of Clan Glint Eye flowing through your veins.


Clan Glint-Eye


A large group of what many would consider barbarians that are fiercely loyal to one another, Clan Glint Eye is a familial group of cavaliers that share little to no family relation, but all of whom are brought together by the practice of beast magic, and a singular concept that they simply refer to as ‘the blood of the clan’ often foreshortened to ‘the blood’.


 The exact identities of the people who founded clan Glint-Eye are unknown, but much of their legacy survived in the clan’s rich oral history. While the birth names, familial relations, and reasoning behind coming to Malifaux (or even if they had to come in the first place) have been lost to time, the story of Gideon Glint-Eye, Rida Soul-Knife, and Calvin Bone-Jaw, The ritual that “awoke the blood”, and the taming of their beasts could probably be repeated by start to finish by any member of the clan.


In more recent times however, as the clan actually began to take territory of it’s own, the history of the clan was recorded in carven pictographs near the most revered sites of the clans, namely the natural “altar” under the stone cliffs of the badlands, their sanctuary at slate-ridge, and most recently, in the Burning Pit, a bone-dry cistern in Malifaux’s labyrinthine sewers found and cleared by Clan Mother Kalista Gore-Tusk.


During the capture of the burning pit, a large number of children were liberated, many of whom are now adults, and were the first large group of children raised in the Clan’s way of life. While not all of them showed immediate signs of The Blood’s presence, those that stayed manifested signs one at a time, taking to the back of their own beast and joining in the clan’s rides.


The Clan Beliefs and the Tyrant


It is said that the blood of the clan is the blood of the first, mightiest beasts to walk the world, finding a new home in foreign veins. As such, members of the clan are thought to be greater than mere beasts, possessing a birthright to rule over the beast or pack they choose to be an alpha to. More often than not, this contributes to the Clan name of the rider, derived from some aspect of their mount.


This is because, in part, the clan believes that they take on aspects of the beast they pair with, becoming stronger from not only their training, but from becoming closer to their beasts. In riding the beast, they become one in fury, able to exercise their separate emotions and wants as one, joining together in a common bond of battle. It is rare that a rider and beast spend the sum total of a day apart, longer periods of distance have been known to be traumatic to both.


Often, the beasts ridden by the Glint-Eye are either carnivorous or omnivorous, so that the beasts and riders may take their meals at the same time. Having an herbivorous beast isn’t unheard of,  but it has been noted that either the rider’s eating habits rub off on the animal, or vice-versa, though both are still noted as having the unbridled fury of a starving apex predator when riding.


On the hunt, beasts and humans act in tandem, beasts using whatever natural defense mechanisms they’ve been endowed with, and their humans using whatever weapons they were trained most efficiently in. mostly, riders will use melee weapons, but it’s also entirely possible for them to use ranged weapons from javelins to guns


The clan is led by the Forerunners, those who have served the clan well or long enough to earn the title of Clan mother or Clan father. Their duties to the clan include settling minor disputes, planning the direction and purpose of clan sojourns, and completing the rituals of the clan when called for. This isn’t to say the leaders of the clan don’t fight, on the contrary they’re often the fiercest, but rather they are only called upon to fight when needed most.


The harmonic order of the clan is uniformly broken by a single individual known as the Tyrant. His description would make him extremely easy to pin down for any familiar with the individual in question; tall, dark-skinned, wielding a shillelagh, and adorned with various objects of beastly prominence. His claim to be the true alpha of all beasts is seen as a ridiculous claim, and any attempt to control the mind of a rider’s mount, even if vastly unsuccessful, Is seen as a grave offense


If the clan were to have it’s way, the tyrant would be rode down, his body trampled to dust by the strength of the forerunners, and what little remains consumed by the beasts, giving him a final chance to atone to his crimes to nature.


Joining the Clan


There is a formal, ritualized process to joining the clan, though the selection process is far less vigorous. Usually, if the blood is strong in the fated, they will often have dreams of wild combat, usually with the beast they are destined to ride. Those seeking answers for such fevered dreams have a tendency to run into the Clan in one way or another, being brought before the Forerunners and told how to attain their beast.


Once the fated has returned with that mount, they are brought for a period of study and bonding with their beast. Afterwards, they may pursue the goals of the clan alongside them, or ride with their other compatriots and carve a new path for themselves and the clan


Advanced Pursuit: Glint-Eye Cavalier




-The fated must have a tenacity of 3 or higher
-The fated must have a physical aspect higher than 2
-The fated must prove themselves an alpha to a beast, and mount it


(Challenge: True Alpha)
The fated has found their destiny, and it’s rip roarin’ pissed!


The fated’s future mount lies before them, and they must prove that they are to be respected in single combat.


In order to complete the challenge, the fated must complete the following steps:
-The fated must reduce the beast down to less than half wounds in single combat
-once sufficiently wounded, the fated may make the following (0) Tactical action:


Snarled Command: Make an opposed willpower duel against a wounded target, the target’s final duel total reduced by their wounds below half. If successful, the target gains the following condition: Pecking Order +1: this model suffers :-fate on attack actions against targets with the snarled command action
(Fated’s Defining Suit): Just lay down: Increase the Fated’s final duel total by 1


Once the beast has Pecking Order +3, the fated may attempt to mount the target with a Might flip opposed by the target’s grace flip. If the fated succeeds and takes the Snarled command action again, the pair becomes bonded (and automatically friendly towards one another), and the challenge is over, and the fated may advance on the pursuit


1              Beast Bonded
2              Mounted Warfare
3              Beast Blooded
4              Legacy of the Clan
5              Beast Souled


Beast Bonded


The fated gains a mount in the form of a beast that remains loyal to them, and whose lifespan is elongated to match their master.  The mounted beast shares a characteristic with the fated (EG Living), and is large enough to mount as a steed with minimal encumbrance. The fated gains a self-assigned clan-name, probably based on that mount.


When mounted, the fated and beast share the same turn, and share a pool of 2 AP (plus additional, if generated by either), using the beast’s movement and charge speed. 2 attacks may be made on the charge between the fated and mount, both from one or one from each.


If dismounted, the beast mostly acts on instinct, but in a way that the fated would find favorable. The fated may choose to remount at the end of any movement that would bring them within one yard of their mount.


(Special note: Yes, this does mean that a construct fated would probably mount some sort of construct beast, the same rules applying to undead, but with FM fiat and sufficient reason, it woudn’t be terribly hard to imagine a fated riding a mount especially connected to them In one way or another, with maybe a few strange looks. As for what qualifies for a mount, in terms of the minis game, think 50mm base (40 minimum) 4+ legs, and unable to form truly cognizant thoughts. It should also be noted that a somewhat smaller beast such as a wolf could be scaled up to riding size with additional wounds added)


Mounted Warfare


The mounted beast and it’s rider have begun to move in sync, and are all the swifter for it. add 1 yard to the mount’s walk, and 2 to its charge. When mounted, all walks actions and charges made by the beast ignore the effect of difficult and dangerous terrain if it they did not already


Beast Blooded


The Fated gains a greater bond with the beast, each feeling the smallest movement of the other, and able to channel one another’s fury. When mounted, the fated and beast gain the following ability


Regeneration +1: this character heals 1 wound at the start of each turn during the dramatic time


In addition, the fated and mount gain an additional AP to their shared pool during the dramatic time (outside of additional AP, if generated by either), and if the fated ever gets dismounted, they may issue one command to the beast which it will follow on each of its turns.


Legacy of the clan


The fated has heard the history of the clan, and the stories of old only drive their spiritual bond with their mount deeper, to the point where they feel they can channel their mount. The fated gains a special ability their mount has (such as bearskin armor) and may make melee attacks their mount could make, only with an AV derived from their own stats


Beast Souled


There is no difference between the fated and their mount any longer, they have become a singular entity.


The fated and mount may choose to either act separately or on the same turn. If the fated and beast act on the same turn while mounted, they may choose to pool the AP they would both generate. If they would act separately, the fated completely controls the beast’s actions on its turn. If the fated is mounted during a charge but is not sharing the beast’s turn, they may elect not to participate in the charge and may choose separate targets on their turn.


The fated and the beast sense through one another, and if in line of sight for one, a target counts as being in line of sight for both. The fated may mount or dismount as a part of any normal move action incurring no penalties on either their own or the beast’s turn.


The fated also gains the following talent


Rules of Nature: The fated may take two (0) actions (either the mount’s or their own) during their turn as long as they are mounted


Edited by Sunspotter
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  • 7 months later...

So, good news and bad news... Yet again...

Bad news is that my computer probably just suffered a head crash. I usually don't want to give theses threads unnecessary bumps, but my primary source for editing all my stuff turning from a working machine to a beeping hunk of plastic is something I feel is noteworthy. If this really is it's death knell, all I can say is Rip in pepperoni you garbage tier toaster. Sooooo now I'm now relegated to an IPad.

Good news being that this thing has a physical keyboard, and as small as it may be, I have a platform to edit my stuff. I didn't lose everything, as I thankfully had the foresight to migrate my most edited docs from my hard drive to my Google account since I was tired of losing my progress in editing to occasional ram overflow. So the second I can get into my drive, I can make a post, and it's going to be here.

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“Wow, I really should get to finishing this, GRF is getting close to 2k views, and I kinda want to mark the occasion”


I’m actually back! And in the interim, I’ve absolutely devoured Into the Steam. It’s an amazing supplement, and you should totally pick it up. Like seriously, If you like any of my threads and don’t already have it, get it. it’s amazing (and to help, the upcoming pursuit brings up something from the book too, so you might want to pick it up if you’d want to take the upcoming pursuit to it’s full conclusion)

It also brings to bear a bit of a fundamental difference between how augmentation is handled in the base game, and how I’ve been handling it with my little homebrew escapades. I may very well go through my thread soon and edit in number of slots each augment takes up. I could imagine very interesting interaction when they’re brought together (Hello Crushers+Enlarged limbs with Combat integration) but I personally don’t foresee anything so fundamentally broken about it that I would need to slap a big warning over anything, I just see them as more options for people on the forums that would want to expand their augmentative repertoire.

So, in the intervening before I add in the next update to Giant Robot Fists, I’ll see if anything might need some extra augment space taken up, or perhaps some extra pre-requisites for some alters. This is going to be a bit of a ghost process to be honest, so I’ll probably do most of the editing without making any sort of obnoxious announcements. I’ll probably put up an edit flag at the end of the thread just In case anyone doesn’t like what’ll basically amount to some rather basic errata.

Otherwise, after having a little bit (Note: a good majority of this intro was written months ago) of time to think on how I’d do this particular story, and one that’s coming up very soon… looking back on this I hit more than a little bit of a mental roadblock. I mentioned this is the first platform I’ve ever felt comfortable posting my stuff on. Even still I can feel rather insecure about my writing (and after re-reading, seeing the kind of errors that come from doing said writing at 4am) and I made quite a legitimate effort of practicing, especially leading up to the next story I’ll do.

Quite seriously, I worried myself into submission over how it’s going to be written because the story’s going to be dealing with something that would go south quickly if I walked in unprepared. I have an editor now (acquired because of the aforementioned practice), and granted, while he’s with me on a totally unrelated project and this is just a 1-man labor of love, I’m still going to run it past him to make sure I don’t somehow screw the pooch by accident, because it could end up as a problem from either direction

Also, I don’t want to make this feel to bloggy. If you guys want me to start putting update stuff under a spoiler, I can. Same goes for anything else if it would be needed.

All that said, I know people still do read these threads, so I still want to continue to posting homebrew for people to enjoy!


I could not sleep, for I had dreamt of horrible things.

They were all different places, but the same circumstance. No matter where I was, or what I tried, some horrible thing was after me. I knew not what it was, It’s terrible form never witnessed, Impossible to catch in even the briefest reflections, but the fear… it was so real, so visceral, that I dare not do anything but run.

I had always awoken before it caught me, jumping up in my bed, Drenched head to toe in a sheen of icy, fear-laden sweat. It was always at some unholy hour of the night as well, the moons perfectly visible from my bedside window. I had no restful sleep, and in time I failed to bother trying. I slowly became a shut-in, letting what tired, dreamless sleep I could beckon take me when it could. Close to slumber’s end though, the dream repeated. But now, it seemed to inch closer every time I collapsed.

I sought the council of the best doctors in malifaux, and not one could aid me. Some gave signs of dreaming to look out for, but vastly more suggested I seek an Asylum. A choice few tried radical methods like hypnotherapy, but no matter the theory applied, I found the dream returning in full force come nightfall.  

I contemplated a vastly less medical solution at many points, but prayed that in time the nightmare would pass. It never did. Nightly, I could feel the creature’s fetid breath ooze down my neck. I consigned myself to my fate.

Then came that fateful night, my limp form splayed across my reading chair as the same nightmare playing itself over once again in my head. I ran as fast as I possibly could, but still could hear the discordant screech of claw against concrete. This time, without warning, I was pinned down against the cobblestones.

The fall brought no pain, but still the gut-wrenching roar the beast produced rattled my skull as I tried to catch a desperate glimpse of my pursuant. Its fell claw ground violently into my mangled arm, which burned with agony as my own lifeblood traced a desperate escape path. The almost alien limb was silver grey like a stormcloud reflecting the sun, matted with strands of straw-like fur. It terminated into wicked daggers, curved and chitinous like the bill of a hawk.

The last thing I could remember from the dream was the searing pain of fangs, sinking into the flesh of my neck. I awoke with a start, a fresh drop of blood trickling down from my lips. My parlor mirror informed me I’d somehow bit my own tongue in my slumber, a rare dot of red falling from my lips to stain my shirt. I simply tried to return to rest, trying to focus on anything more than what my mind was fixated on. Even still, my final thought before slumber was the disturbing realization of how much I enjoyed the coppery flavor in my mouth

For once after that hellish ordeal, I awoke relaxed and rejuvenated, narry a dream in my memory. It was easy to figure that my torment was over, so I spent the day canceling my various scheduled evaluations. Clearly my psyche had worked out whatever knot it had been working on, and I could expect my overall state to improve forthwith

In fact, the next night I almost felt rewarded, I had an absolutely wonderous dream! This time, I was something beyond the scope of my deepest fantasies. I coursed through the streets with a raucous fury, taking to the rooftops whenever it pleased me. I absolutely soared betwixt the buildings, crashing down with the impact of a meteor only to launch back to my full gait. Why, I was positively superhuman, how piteous that this was only a dream.

I figured that it may require attention, but the beautiful sense of catharsis I awoke with kept me from paying much attention to the wonderfully tangy taste lingering on my palate as I went throughout the day. I couldn’t even care less about whatever the newsboys were blathering on about, this was sure to be my time to seize back any ground I had lost during my less brilliant moments.

It almost felt like the world was rewarding me too, I’d gone from the nervous little doe I’d been acting like for months to a rapacious wolf, absolutely bursting with charisma. It seemed like not a single soul could resist my charm; I’d even picked up the subtle acknowledgments of more than a few high-society lasses. For once, in months, I walked home anticipating my slumber as opposed to dreading the attempt.

Yet more glorious dreams awaited me over the next few nights, Malifaux city was my playground, and I was it’s undisputed ruler. I raced wantonly through the slums, a veritable typhoon of furious motion, leaving a mighty wake behind me. Any that dared to spoil my nocturnal rapture were dealt with forthwith. Many times, i even had the convenience of quietly returning to my home, bookending the last moments of my dream with the inverse of the first exciting seconds of my next day in waking life

As time continued, I became more brash in both my newfound lives, waking and non. By day I found myself winning the hearts and minds of near everyone I met! I’d become a living saint, my patron virtue being sheer animal magnetism, I’d become an uncontested alpha in every societal circle I bothered to dip my toe into.

By night, I had free reign of a city that couldn’t put the slightest effort into stopping me. Those guardsmen who didn’t have the good sense to run off to some unrealized corner of my mind simply found themselves painted to the walls. brutal red parabolae had begun to act as both my calling card, and a sanguine illustration of my trail. I even took some rare time to admire my newfound form in a glassy pool, Lupine as I’d suspected, but a slightly twisted aire to it.

I’d found myself so satisfied by the top of the week, I used a spare note of scrip to purchace a full paper rather than listen to the chirping announcement of the newsboys. What caught my eye was the headline, some terrible thing had been loose in the city for quite some time! The photo was something to behold as well, for a moment, I had to reconcile that the photographer had not merely reached into my mind and plucked out my memories of nights before. This was quite the development, one I had to test… No, one that I was eager to.

The thought that all my actions had somehow been real was beyond exhilarating. Days earlier, I’d have expected myself to react in utter horror at my potential deeds. But now, the new world these dreams had thrust me into, my monstrous power almost seemed fitting.

As I slept, I made sure that I would leave myself some sign of confirmation. A simple X. Somewhere, anywhere, it would be all I needed to see with my own eyes, the closer to my daily route the better. Given the time to do so, I left them all over the city like a beast possessed. The annoying stings of bullets informed me of a new dispatch of guild guards more than a few times throughout the evening. Outside of their rude methods of getting my attention, they served as pleasant distractions, breaking up the monotony of my fact finding mission.

In all the chaos of the evening, I’d wandered surprisingly close to my own neighborhood. The patrols had become entirely misinformed of my position, the shouts of search parties now echoing from the slums, so I figured there would be no harm in sneaking back in through my balcony like I had nights before. I stopped before my parlor mirror to carve one last X, waiting and watching as the sun crested the horizon.

Surely enough, my vision became hazy as if I had begun to fall back asleep. This time however, I was determined to see the whole truth with my own two eyes. My form began to dissolve like a winter cloud, the same powdery snow coming in at the edges of my vision. Soon enough, It was my true form that stood before the mirror, my same lupine grin persisting through the whole transformation.

I couldn’t remember how long I’d spent in my parlor, idly celebrating the force of nature that I was gifted enough to gain control over. If only I’d simply turned to face my attacker sooner, who knows what wonders would have awaited? As I pondered the possibilities, I recalled the very first steps I was given in an effort to fight off those supposed nightmares, and couldn’t help but laugh at my own ignorance.

The answer had been staring me in the face on several occasions. In fact, my own had been the face staring. A Good Doctor had insisted I look for it as much as possible on my very first visit.

You see, Mirrors never work in dreams.


The Cult of Yore

More of a slapshod pack of monsters than an officially organized group, the Cult of Yore is a group of Werebeasts that catch the scent of their prey through dreams. In their human form, their abilities can manifest as an almost bestial intensity in their personal affairs. By night the more animalistic side takes over, and the various members of the cult take to the streets to sniff out more prey.

When a member fully embraces their status as a Cultist, they frequently gain the ability to transform of their own free will, rather than relying on the time of day to decide their form for them. Members of the cult are vastly more likely to find the extent of their skills by feeling them out, as the member who inducted them could be hundreds of miles away. As the member gains power, the ultimate challenge of being a cultist emerges; The delicate dance to make their forms seem as two distinct entities, so that the sins of the beast may never be tied to the man.

There is no formal structure to the cult, no rites of membership or dues, and certainly no process to quit. It’s only true existence boils down to two major factors.  Members of the cult can identify each other by smell, and those members that do almost always find themselves driven to fight for dominance. Survival for the loser in these fights is a question, not a guarantee. If survival is given, it will almost always be on the condition of servitude.

It should come as no surprise that the cult is always recruiting.


Advanced Pursuit: Cultist of Yore

-The fated cannot have more than 1 negative physical aspect
-The fated must fall asleep at 1 wound, or fallen unaware at night and start the dreams
-The fated must have killed a creature that shares a characteristic with them, of their own HT or greater
-The fated must have an Intimidate Skill of 3+


1 Form of the Hunt
2 Conquered Self
3 Primal Cultist
4 Hunger for Flesh
5 True Monster

Form of the Hunt

At night (the exact point is up to fatemaster discretion) the fated takes on a lycanthropic form, often linked to one of the native beasts of malifaux. This new form will always have two fully functional arms (they may not be entirely hominid accounting for natural attacks), though the form of propulsion is based on the beast (A wereboar might have back hooves, whereas a wererattler may have a long, slithering torso)

In this form, The fated’s physical aspects rise to meet the aspects of the beast their lycanthropy is linked to, while any stats above the value of the beast remain higher. In this form, the fated also gains a number of bonus wounds equal to their steps along the cultist of yore pursuit. If the damage taken in lycan form is lower than or equal to the number of bonus wounds, they do not transfer to the fated’s native form. The fated also gains the Beast characteristic, and any natural attacks their beast would have.

It should also be noted that the fated is not initially themselves while they take a lycan form. While they may tangentially recognize allies, enemies, and common markers of society, their inhibitions shift to that of a beast. While a shifted fated may not instinctively attack the closest thing to them, they must take a TN 13 willpower duel to stop themselves from doing an action against their instincts. (EG: Not attacking a guard patrol menacing them)

Conquered Self

The fated finally gains control over their Lycan form, becoming entirely lucid while shifted. The fated also gains the following action.

(1) Bark at the moon: You may discard a Twist card to change forms for a number of hours, up to the number of steps you’ve taken along the Cultist of yore pursuit. This causes a horror duel against all enemies within Line of Sight with a TN of 10+ your ranks in intimidate

Primal Cultist

The fated’s forms slowly start to bleed together in subtle ways. In human form, they gain one skill their patron beast has that they would not otherwise have. They may also reflip up to one social duel per person per day, taking the new results.

In Lycan form, the fated gains the traits of their patron beast, and may use any manifested powers that they could use in their human form without the use of any focus objects, such as a grimoire.

Hunger for Flesh

The fated’s bestial fury drives them to commit acts that for many, would otherwise be unconscionable. The fated gains the following action, which may be used in any form:

(1) A feast of Carrion: The fated may choose to consume any number of corpses within 3 yards. Those corpses are destroyed, and the fated makes a healing flip for each corpse destroyed this way. If this action is taken in Lycan form, and more than two corpses are destroyed this way, Draw a card.

True Monster

The fated has so thoroughly become intertwined with their lycan form that changing between forms has become no different than changing clothes. The fated may take bark at the moon as a (0) action. They may still take it as a (1) action, and if they do, the fated may immediately take a free charge action against any enemy that failed the horror duel.

The fated may choose to gain 1 trait from their lycan form in their human form, and their lycan form gains any unique limbs it would otherwise lack (Extra arms, Claws, stingers, Humanoid arms, Ect)

From this point forward, the fated may also take ranks in the Twisted pursuit (Into the Steam, Pages 246, 247). All changes caused by the twisted pursuit only affect the fated’s Lycan form.

[As an Aside, Fatemasters may allow Invested to use the Cultist of Yore Pursuit. If they do, the invested might choose a Construct instead of a beast, might consume Scrap instead of corpses, and Might gain access to the mechanical pursuit (Into the Steam, Pages 248, 249) from true monster. instead of Twisted.]

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  • 3 weeks later...

Hey everyone, I've been trying my best to do a more consistent updating schedule, and updating a thread at least once a week. I'm using this as a limiting factor as well, because when i get into a writing groove, I can dump out a good 12+ pages of rules text, which is why I'm also doing it rotating. I think someone would kill me if I just dumped off all my content for my augment thread in sequence with 4+ unique limbs and 12+ loose enhancements floating around finalized in my head.

this being said, I may or may not add yet end up another thread after my next batch of rotations. To anyone who thought they saw a pattern in my thread creation (which is a group I know has at least one member, myself) gremlins are not involved. It would be about unique equipment such as weapons or Grimoires, and even particular stuff like clothing and mounts that would require a talent investment to unlock it's full potential. whether or not this thread will come into fruition depends on a few things (not the least of which is my eternal fear that the mods will one day go old testament on me) but this does let me segue into teasing my first big project that will definitely find it's home here on the player creations forum.

It's not anything to do with standard pursuits. I'm not going to lie and say I haven't made some, but if I'm worried about stepping on toes with Advanced pursuits posting those would basically be doubling down and grinding my heel without being sure where it lay. It actually has a planned date a decent bit under a year out. It will be long. it will have plenty of stuff in it. it will change the way you think about TTB if you use it. Above all these other things, I can confirm one fact. It will be dumb. So, so dumb.


The fear of death has always driven humanity. Malevolent actions, no matter they may seem to an outsider, can almost always be leveled against that basic fear to become justifiable in the mind of the actor. Should we all choose to become slaves to our most deeply rooted fear, then it is nothing more than the most basic of instincts that drives us forward. Terror does no great favor to our intellectual propensity after all.

It should also be noted that even the most irreverent dreams of immortality can in turn drive people to unspeakable acts. Debasement of the self, the subjugation of others, all means become necessary to that end. A freedom from the most inevitable of fears. The mere construct of morality is but a house of cards, ready to be toppled with wanton disregard when the promise of life eternal dangles tantalizingly in front of us.

The piercing chill of a cold iron slab across our backs became nothing more than a passing unpleasantry. nor did the deep sting of a needle within us carry any more significance than a one of a bee. Eternity was at stake. We dare not find our way blocked by childish things like fear. It was a test. To see if we could conquer ourselves. To see if we stood worthy of joining what we came to pray in moonlit reveries were our peers.

For should you awaken, bound helplessly to one madman’s table, be thankful. Through terror and hysteria, you are being inducted unto an irreverent brotherhood. Great scholars of all time, ensured to be there for all time. When you join us, in your heart of hearts, you shall understand what it is to have transcended you fears. To be bound by nothing, and for the first time in your legacy, be granted true agency.

The Transcendentalists

Deep within the quarantine zone, as many of those who wish to stay hidden remain, there lays an unassuming parlor house. It seems inconsequential from the outermost view, but those who are given the privilege of entrance may believe themselves to have traveled through time. It seems nothing less than a parisian salon. It would be unsurprising to see Voltaire or Locke lounging about the gilded rooms, doling out the secrets of enlightenment to any ear willing to give consideration.

Those that do inhabit the airy space of chaise lounges and absinthe fountains seem perfectly suited to the high-minded environments. They have the parlor and beauty of the court darlings of bygone eras. The conversation is lively, debating near every concept that has dare to pass through the lips of man, and even some that would be infinitely taboo anywhere else.

In every court however, there is a king. That man is a greying old codger, his sunken eyes hiding behind copper rimmed spectacles. His is a withered is frame, covered by an ancient threadbare suit and propped up against a mahogany walking stick. The only truly remarkable about him is the resounding tone of his voice, seemingly untouched by time since his tender years of thirty. His name is Leeroy Mathews, an introduction he gives to every new visitor. He is a scientist. A philosopher. A scholar. A prophet.

A god.

The gentle french accent in his voice betrays his origins, but he simply neglects to mention it until he is certain the newcomer would be accepting. After all, Adrian Jean-Claude Willamette should not be a living man. It has been two hundred years since the enlightenment. His time has passed, yet he has not.

The secret, he claims, to his agelessness, came to him in a fevered dream. He carried his aged body over across the french alps, gathering up rare mountain herbs to concoct an impossible remedy to a universal ailment. However very one of his compatriots refused the tincture once they found the most essential ingredient to the concoction was the utter destruction of a human soul.

One by one his compatriots passed in their advanced age, and Adrian quite honestly expected the same. The reaper never came to knock on his door though. He used his time at first to educate the younger generations on the theories of their forebearers. Year after year, they became more scarce in attendance. They seemed to prefer more worldly pursuits over the understanding of being. He couldn’t much blame them either. The continent at large was becoming a place of worldly endeavors.

However, every once in a great while, a younger student came to his doorstep, seeking the words left unwritten between the pages of history. Adrian knew this was a curiosity now so rare, it merited preservation by absolutely any cost. Yet again he made a trip to make more of his formula, and yet again, he was met with refusal. Louis, his latest student, was yet another great mind set to be lost to the ages. With that thought, Adrian snapped.

It wasn’t difficult to put the boy to sleep with a dose of sedatives. From there, the procedure to inoculate him against death was as simple as a shot to the arm. When he awoke, he was absolutely furious, fleeing from Adrian’s study. The aged immortal was still content though, as he knew another great mind would be preserved for the ages. However ethically questionable, he knew he’d done a good deed.

Upon the half decade however, a curious thing happened. There was a knock on the door. Louis had returned, not looking a day older than when he’d left. His skin was even a bit more on the fair side compared to the codger’s memory. What truly surprised Adrian however was that he’d brought another along with him, one curious to learn about the finer points of enlightenment. Oh how he would learn.

The breach, the powder wars, so many things came and past, claiming so many lives and so much potential. However, it was always seen fit that Adrian’s little club should find and lay claim to those intellectuals whose loss would be a great sorrow to humanity.

Upon the second re-opening of the breach, A move to malifaux was a nearly unanimous decision. With the near unilateral efforts of the guild to funnel the world’s best and brightest between worlds, it was decided that they should do their best to find minds worthy of preservation on this newest frontier.

Besides, how would it be fair for an individual to be excluded from possible membership by what plane of existence they happened to be on?


Goals of the Society

The Transcendentalists wish to gain ultimate knowledge of philosophy through the unrestricted debate, and occasional practice of those paradigms. This is all done in the hopes that one day, a perfect world will be created. The society assures that it’s debate never grows stagnant by somewhat regularly adding members.

One of the many lines of debate are of the benefits and detriments of various magical theories. While being a caster is not necessarily a requirement to join, non-magical members are a definite minority. One universal constant however, is a discussion on the alteration of the self, and the possible achievement of perfect form.

The further one advances the society’s eternal debate, the more the member advances in the unspoken rankings of the society. If one debates well enough, one may even be blessed with a counterpoint (or even more thrillingly, support!) from Adrian himself. It is somewhat common for members to test their theorems through trips outside the quarantine zone, both to test their line of thought in a practical environment, and to keep a watchful eye out for the next recruit.


Joining the Society

Let’s just say that rather than the fated finding the transcendentalists, the society will most probably end up finding them. Induction is usually announced by the realization that the fated cannot move, followed by a rather surprisingly traumatic ordeal in which the fated is kidnapped, given an injection of the immortality serum, then brought in for tea, debate, and introductions by the nutjo… err, philosopher princes that kidnapped them.

The reasons for becoming a target for induction include novel or strongly held philosophies, high intelligence, or the realization that the fated would most probably liven things up around the place. It’s  impossible to get out once you’re in given the while immortality deal. That being said, only through the debate and discussion within the society’s good graces will the full implications of the fated’s condition manifest.


Advanced Pursuit: Transcendentalist


-The fated must have one mental attribute of 4+
-The fated must have either a non-negative charm, or a mental attribute of 5
-The fated must have 3+ ranks in two either magical or academic skills, but both cannot be magical.
-The fated must have made contact, Unknowingly or not, with another Transcendentalist
(an enjoyment of tea and fine liquor is not required, but the fated is in for a rough eternity without one.)


1 La Vie Eternelle
2 Debat Anime or La Magie de la Theorie
3 La Vie Eternelle est Drole
4 Comprendre l' Auto
5 Equilibre sur le fil du Rasoir


La Vie Eternelle

The fated has become, willingly or not, a member of the Transcendentalists. From this point forwards, the fated ceases to age, their complexion simply becoming more palid as time goes on. The fated may still die by means other than age.

Debat Anime

The fated has joined in with the society’s debates on philosophy, and found them excellent practice for arguments with outgroup individuals. The once each day when speaking to an individual, the fated may choose to take the same academic skill flip twice, keeping all modifiers to the original flip. The second flip may not be cheated. The fated then adds the margins of success generated by the second flip to the original flip.

La Magie de la Theorie

The fated has joined in on the society’s magical debates, and has swapped more than a few notes on the art of Aracana in it’s various forms. The fated may request a grimoire from an individual, which may have a number of Magia and Immuto up to the Fatemaster’s discretion. If the fated accepts, their magical theory is changed to match the original owner’s as long as the fated is using that grimoire.

La Vie Eternelle est Drole

The fated’s experience with eternity has allowed them to dip further into death than before, and still come back. If the fated has died, they may be resurrected by magical healing for up to ten minutes after the fact. During this period, the fated’s body cannot be used by any ability that would destroy or render a corpse useless. If the fated has ever died and returned, the fated gains :+fate on all necromancy duels, and duels to resist the effects of necromancy

Comprendre l’ Auto

As the fated’s body ceases to age, they come to understand the quirks of their more static form, and how it plays out in their lives. The fated will automatically be able to tell when an outside force is affecting their perceptions. In addition, the recovery period for any sort of alterative surgery will be halved, as the fated realize the exact differences between their changed form, and how to adjust

Equilibre sur le fil du rasior

The fated has straddled the line between life and death so efficiently, they no longer care which side they stand on. The fated is living or a construct, they may become undead as well. If the fated is undead, they may choose to become living as well. If the fated has been augmented, they may choose to become a construct as well. Whenever the fated is targeted by an attack or ability, they may choose what they are counted as for that ability, excluding or including any number of types.

The fated may also take talents as if they were stitched, living, or invested if they have the corresponding attribute.

And that's this week's little peek onto the theoretical crazy of the quarantine zone. Up next week, more zombie madness with Dr. West.

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  • 2 years later...
On 8/23/2016 at 8:18 PM, Sunspotter said:

Hey everyone, I've been trying my best to do a more consistent updating schedule, and updating a thread at least once a week. I'm using this as a limiting factor as well, because when i get into a writing groove, I can dump out a good 12+ pages of rules text, which is why I'm also doing it rotating. I think someone would kill me if I just dumped off all my content for my augment thread in sequence with 4+ unique limbs and 12+ loose enhancements floating around finalized in my head. 


On 8/23/2016 at 8:18 PM, Sunspotter said:

updating a thread at least once a week


It's been a bit since i posted anything of substance, so Intro time.

First, while I'm probably going to be jokey-joke sad about Mason's departure from Wyrd soon, and how my power is now unchecked like i'm some form of god-tier shaggy meme, i am honestly sad to see him go. the most recent TTB books have been absolute gems, and though i haven't had a chance to read through and gush about Above the Law yet, I have no reason to doubt it's just as amazing. that's not to say i don't have any faith in the rest of the team however, and if someone could point me to who to joke about banning me from the forum for trying to steal their job, it would be more than appreciated 😛

and on the off chance mason ever actually reads this, dude, you're awesome. I can't wait to see what you do next. if it's an RPG expect me

Second, while excuses aren't exactly content, i've been learning to deal with the stuff that's been keeping me off of here (i'm not deluded enough to think people are hanging on my every word and that this needs to be a blog about depression and the shit feeding into it) and want to say that with any hope i should be back to posting fairly regularly. in a rare break from convention, if i actually get the Zombies post done tonight, it's going up tomorrow. if not, it should theoretically be up by the end of the week, though i'm 100% sure you guys know i'm worse at making correct time tables than Blizzard.

And finally, my little fan PD is coming along nicely. I'm going to probably be picking up a few for reference on how they're formatted since i don't usually use them.

Enough whinging, onto the content!



There’s always something just a bit off that hangs in the air from the moment the decision is made. It’s electric, perhaps putting a pit in some stomachs, or making other’s legs fluttering. Eyes begin to dart around, trying to find the source of the disturbance. Unlike having eyes on you, it simply lingers in the air itself, as if heralding some malignant force. Destruction coming. The need to flee.

And by the time you hear the crackle of the fuse, it may be too late.

While the deafening explosion may happen somewhere in the distance, or so close that it shatters bones and the pressure rips apart flesh, as easily as paper, there is almost always reason behind the destruction. Some ethereal point to be proven by sudden, explosive annihilation surely, someone will claim responsibility, pontificate about the evil of the target, and maybe illustrate some new path to righteousness.

People try to find a point. Trace things back to the point where the destruction originated from. Physically, it might prove some fact in the investigation. Where the explosives were hidden can be a clue in it’s own. Perhaps if it was a high-traffic area, it would have had to be planted recently. Perhaps in a storeroom with a limited number of people to access it, the bomber had to have scoped out the building, or perhaps they knew it to begin with

Motivation is it’s own labyrinth, but more often the point lies. Destruction of public monuments is an obvious act of protest, Throw a rock in malifaux and you’re likely to hit someone displeased with the rule of the guild.  A private establishment however, you can usually assign motivation by whoever the angriest person not in the blast radius.

But there almost always is a point. Some driving force. A reason for the loss of life, the gore coating the walls and the streets. The damaged supports. The craters. Parents, Children, Siblings, Friends, People taken away. There had to be some higher point to serve. Some greater goal that could warrant such wanton destruction.


Perhaps the most terrifying scenario in the end, is that there wasn’t one.

To some, the explosion is itself, the point.



The Truth of Powder

Anarchists are quite difficult to get together into large groups, as is the central tenet of their philosophy. They hate hierarchies, control, and anything that forces them to do things they don’t like. So when they do end up banding together, it’s usually over some nebulous “cause” or shared interest, usually one that helps them further their beliefs. So when an anarchist learned how to make bombs, and started giving the better ones away to people who helped him make the smaller ones, he naturally attracted a larger and larger following, willing to listen to philosophy for explosives.

In the case of Darrius McCain, there’s a certain actuality to explosives. That when you light that fuse, even if you don’t express all the potential energy yourself, the single small act crystallizes intent into force. It makes your want for destruction into extant destruction. In doing what they do, creating stockades of high explosives, and teaching others the arts behind them, they are in essence, manufacturing the means of truth.

To many within the organization, it has almost become akin to a religion. they see themselves acting as the agents of explosive destruction, perhaps even heralds to some unknown tyrant of blowing things up. While McCain has never encouraged it, he's also been quite skeptical of putting others off of this interpritation of the collective, as it has attracted a good number of curious members who were later radicalized.


Goals of the society

In essence a commune, the society’s primary goal past immediately supporting itself is to explore the possibilities of explosive research, in a variety of specialization. McCain is the master of “the shop” the old manor house converted into a minor fortress typical of most of the gangs that call the Quarantine Zone their home. The inside of “the workshop” is filled with stolen tools and laboratories, access being free of charge to any who would be willing to work with them, or wish to be taught with them.

The main laboratory in the master state room is Darius’ personal project room, often frequented by other group members looking to share insights with the visionary guildmaster for their own projects. Whenever something comes out cut from whole cloth, the first goal is a field testing, often somewhere that failure won’t mean the immediate death of everyone involved. Once things start exploding consistently, the first true test it to see just what sort of reaction it elicits from the unlucky target of whoever gets their hands on the first.

Elsewhere in the house are several things like chilled separation rigs for the creation of larger quantities of nitroglycerin, or milling and tooling rigs for those amongst the guild most interested in the power of applied explosives in combat, whether it be the many people trying to miniaturize the explosive shell, or find the perfect way to apply a high-energy mixture in close quarters combat. Sometimes it isn’t even about cutting edge resources, and people just enjoy pouring flammable liquids into bottles and stuffing a rag made form the uniform of a dead guild guard into the neck.

About the only non-experimental part of the house is the basement, which contains the library. Thousands of hours of research notes ranging from stoichiometric calculations to tattered, half-burned ramblings about the enraptured joy of a new mix finally coming up to stuff from the rigor of testing. If the notes end up rowdy enough that they end up becoming a grimoire, they’re moved to a special lead-lined filing system in case they decide to start tossing out magic all on their own. Sometimes, those grimoies are worth reading if for no other reason than the insights held by someone with a doctorate in chemistry trying to write a proto-marxist dialectic involving two sticks of dynamite, which is itself a research paper on applied penetrative explosives.


Joining the Society.

Many societies have stringent standards, but the Truth of Powder most often tend to go looking for someone when a particularly public bombing they didn’t cause happens. If the individual is of compatible philosophy (when you throw out the german philosophers, it’s basically just “blowing things up is fun”) then they are brought back to the lab, informed that any form of ratting members out is punishable by this group’s usual method of expressing anger, and then left out on their merry way with more toys of the explosive variety.


Advanced Pursiit: Truth of Powder


-the fated must have committed a public act of havoc with explosives resulting in at least 2000 scrip of property damage, or at least five deaths.
-the fated must not have any direct connection with the guild, or any form of local law enforcement

1 Explosive Secrets
2 Do you like to play with fire?
3 Questionable stability

1: Explosive Secrets
The Fated gain a brand new weapon customization, based on their weapon of choice.
Melee: Firelock System (+30sc, first one is free)
(Fated’s Defining suit): Krak: Discard a twist card. If that card was a ram, perform a second damage flip of 2/4/6 damage, which is added to the original damage. If that card was a tome, the target gains burning +3
Shooting: Flowmetal Rounds (+20% price for rounds)
(Fated’s Defining suit): Burninate: Discard a twist card, then perform another damage flip for the weapon: the target gains that much burning
In addition, the fated gains a source to procure explosives, as well as being able to easily find places where they can be crafted.

2: Do you like to play with fire?
When you inflict the burning condition with an attack, enemies within :new-Pulse: 3 yards take a tn12 walk duel or be inflicted with burning +1. In addition, you may have burning condition go down by one at the end of a turn you dealt damage to a target you damaged instead of ending.

3: Questionable Stability
The fated has concussed themselves so thoroughly that they become immune to damage caused by blast markers they place. In recognition of this, they also receive a satchel full of “spicy” explosives from other society members, which seems to rub off on whatever they keep in it. Whenever the fated removes an item from the satchel, the top card of the fate deck determines what benefit it gains.
:ram:Cluster Bomb
The damage profile gains +:blast and blast markers may be up to one yard apart
:crow:Nail Bomb
Damage dealt by this bomb ignores hard to wound and hard to kill
:tome :Fire Bomb
Thus bomb adds an additional Burning+2 when it hits, or when an opponent fails a movement flip caused by this explosive
:mask: Gas Bomb
The explosive leaves a cloud 3 yards in radius that acts as soft cover. Living creatures in the cloud must succeed on a TN 10 Willpower duel or gain slow.

4: Boom!
The fated has become so used to watching fire lead to explosions that reality stars confirming to their expectations.
Manifested: Spontaneous Combustion: If the target has a higher burning count than it’s total wounds, it dies instantly, and all enemies within :new-Pulse: 5 yards take damage equal to half the burning total

And now that I’ve gotten over myself and actually posted something, i sign off with the catchphrase;


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