ASTROLOGER
The stars have always held their mysteries, for those keen enough to try and seek them out. You have tapped into the cosmic power of the archetypal zodiac, staring down from thor stellar fetters upon the world. Perhaps through their eyes you can see something no mortal has ever seen, through their voice you can speak a deeper truth than your mind can comprehend. Start with a ley deck (Ace-10 in Feathers, Orbs, Moons, and Flames with zodiac High Arcana), silk shawls and coin veils akimbo, a tacky faux-divination prop, and an irregularly perforated half-orb of iron that shows a multichromatic map of the stars when light is shone through the bottom.
A Fortune Teller. Predictions and divinations you make with panache are taken as ineffably true. In addition, roll a d12/draw a card each dawn to see which Constellation is Ascendant, granting you a special benefit, as noted on the Almanac.
B Stellar Manipulation. You can navigate peerlessly when stars are visible, and you have memorized the dates of every astrological event to happen for the next half century. In addition, instead of deciding randomly, you can choose to take a Constellation that is Sympathetic (adjacent) or Discordant (opposite) of your current Ascendant Constellation.
C I Claim My Own Fate. Once a tenday, you can foretell whether a course of action will reap weal or woe. It will be so. In addition, you have two Ascendant Constellations each day, one of your choosing and the other determined randomly/through Sympathy or Discord.
D Cloak My Flesh In Starstuff. You can take on an awe-inspiring Zodiac Form for an hour each day. The shape your Zodiac Form takes is determined by your Ascendant Constellations, as indicated on the Almanac.
The Almanac, by the way, is the extent to which I’m explaining MARROW’s alchemy system. Good luck.
RUNE KNIGHT
Long ago, before the Cataclysm, the giants lost the ability to create. Ever since, they have been forced to live in the shadow of their once-great empire of Ostrehaargen, poring through the refuse of the Smallfolk for scraps they can extrapolate and reconstitute into their star-crossed return to greatness. You have stolen something very peculiar from one such giant. Not coin, not gemstone, nor trinket or bauble. From their dead body, you have stolen their rune, the one thing that connects them back to the collective. Start with a glowing tattoo of the rune you stole, the severed head of a giant, a weapon made of scrimshawed bone, a kilt, and a sling.
A Glyph-Marked Life. To offset the glowing rune on your body, you have learned how to make people’s eyes skate over you, and unless they have a reason to, people will ignore your presence by default. In addition, you gain a special ability depending on which type of giant’s rune you bear (roll a d6 if you want to generate randomly).
Dirt. You don’t need to breathe, and can digest anything.
Ice. You are immune to cold, and are considered SKILLED in every weapon.
Wood. Animals are automatically friendly to you, and can tell the value, origins, and history of a piece of art with a glance.
Sand. You are immune to heat, and can automatically spot architectural discrepancies like secret doors and pit traps.
Stone. You are immune to poison, and you know the ending to any story you hear a fragment of.
Storm. You cannot drown, and can smell magic.
B Mastery Through Osmosis. You begin to look like the type of giant whose rune you bear in small ways. In addition, you get a free SKILL that doesn’t occupy INT slots depending on which type of giant’s rune you bear.
Dirt: Farming OR Construction OR Vehicles
Ice: Tactics OR Cause Of Death OR Survivalism
Wood: Art History OR [Insert artisan tool of choice]
Sand: Engineering OR Architecture OR Survivalism
Stone: Riddles OR Poetry OR Mythology
Storm: Arcane Lore OR Religious Lore OR Magizoology
C Become Goliath. Your height doubles. In addition, nonmagical creatures smaller than you are intimidated by you by default.
D Runic Apotheosis. You can take the form of the giant whose rune you stole at will. All forms are about the size of a small house. However, you have all but lost your gift of creativity.
Dirt. You have the form of a mass of roots containing a crumbling morass of dirt, splitting open pac-man style to reveal a festering mass of insects in its maw.
Ice. You have the form of a skeleton armored in ice, snow, and stone, a glow between your ribs swirling with the screaming souls of every creature you've butchered.
Wood. You have the form of an ambulatory, knot-ridden dead tree, brittle limbs crowned with abandoned works of art and artifice.
Sand. You have the form of a massive, humanoid bundle of scorched cloth wrapped in on itself countless times.
Stone. You have the form of a bipedal, geode-encrusted mass of lichen-ridden rock, fragments of stories and poetry carved into your flesh.
Storm. You have the form of a thunderhead shaped like a massive sculpted bust, bright with lightning and screaming with thunder and rain.
Thanks for reading, and happy gaming.
What the heck. This rules! How would you handle losing the gift of creativity? I feel like players are encouraged to be pretty creative at the table, and saying something to the opposite wouldn't fly well. Maybe their character can't be the one to perform any unique plans?
ReplyDeleteI would say that their character wouldn't be able to make anything new, only repair, use, or combine (in very elementary ways) things that already exist. And if they start coming up with original plans, the player's voice just happened to come out of the mouth of a more creative character!
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