The Zealot

Mariusz Lewandowski

You who worship the star lords with tithes and quiet prayers are worth less even than your meagre pittances, less than the silence that the star lords return to you as retribution. Pathetic wretches, open your eyes! Obliterate your pitiful hopes, your horribly banal strivings! For you — for any of us — there is nothing to reap but noise, cankers, darkness.

Only paludal Ydoth, the terrestrial god of murk and mire, will bring the future we deserve: vain architecture crumbled, bodies churned into humus, until the earth is nothing more than a barren landscape of slag, buzzing with cicadas.

We petition Ydoth not for succour nor guidance. The god cares not for our wretched forms; nay, we are merely vessels for its abhorrent desires. Ydoth consumes all; to be the consumed is but abject bliss. 

When doing something that carries risk, Ydoth will decide our fate. We roll as many d6s as you wish, tempting the god's wrath more with each added die.

If we roll a six, we succeed — Ydoth has empowered us, even if only briefly.

For every one we roll, the fate Ydoth has chosen for us draws nearer.

# of ones          potential fallout

1                       A finger lost or broken. An emotional wound. Destitution.

2                       Mangled limbs. A broken mind. Disease, degenerative and unsightly.

3+                     Death by terrible means; perhaps a fate worse than death.