Puritanical Peasantry, A Generator
The people in Blikvēld are sour, puritanical - still paying imagined penance for antideluvian transgressions.
They work hard, aspiring to prosperous quietude, alone among the mountains and the endless rolling pines with one another and their faith. Of course, that’s what they’d prefer strangers think of them. It’s what they’d prefer to think of one another and themselves.
The burning of Castle Von Kyvar - the night of fire and the slaying of Lady Von Kyvar - is a sin the people of Blikvēld know they must pay for. The witchcraft. The omens. The calves born two-headed, spouting perfectly accurate prophesies about harvests yet to come. All must be punishment from the Authority himself. So says the Witchfinder, and he speaks with the voice and fury of the Authority. He must be right.
Townsfolk hurry here and there, heads bowed against an ill wind. They draw dour black clothes around them, and pull their hat brims low; uniform figures picking crowlike through the fields and the market, towards the white church doors.
d20 This one has…
1. Sallow skin and sunken cheeks, like wax pooled around the base of a candle.
2. A needling voice; they punctuate each word with a finger.
3. Pale blue eyes, like the sky after a hard frost.
4. An empty expression; carefully hollowed of emotion.
5. A catachism of the Authority upon their lips; strings of tumbling plosives and muttered sibilant supplications.
6. A booming voice, like the felling of a tree.
7. A habit of tugging at their hair, as though they are trying to count every one.
8. Pale skin, pale eyes, pale hair; like a memory or a ghost.
9. A fastidious strut, like a wading bird.
10. Bulbous eyes; rolls of fat bunched like lace around their neck.
11. Something they don’t want you - or anyone - to see under their clothes.
12. Pink, marbled, melted flesh; burns from immersion in fire.
13. A haughty air; the very act of observing you is somehow a courtesy.
14. Nervous hands; always tapping, tapping…
15. A bandage around their right hand; a recently branded repentance.
16. Quick, darting eyes; the look of a fox who hears the hound’s approach.
17. A bright smile. Radiant. Fixed; a rictus that never touches the eyes.
18. Powerful arms and chest muscles, straining against their clothes.
19. A thin frame. Baggy clothes hang on them like a scarecrow; they haven’t been eating right.
20. Dark circles under their eyes; a faraway stare.
1. Thinning hair, like wheat left rotten in the field.
2. A sheen of sweat upon their skin; the sour stink of fear upon their person.
3. Yellow teeth, stained, cracked; a furry white tongue.
4. Wrinkled skin, like an apple left on the orchard floor.
5. Huge pores; gaping, clogged with grime.
6. A crooked nose that runs this way and that; broken many times.
7. A black eye; deep blues and sickly yellows reaching all the way down their cheeks.
8. Hair greased and oiled; they look like they’ve climbed out of the river.
9. Holy writ tattooed across the backs of their hands; blotchy souvenirs from an imperial reeducation camp.
10. A missing finger; down to the knuckle.
11. Prominent warts; a bufonite constellation across their face, neck…
12. An itch that moves around; always just out of reach.
13. A mane of raven-black hair, tumbling in a waterfall of curls down their back.
14. Heavy-lidded eyes; milky white cataracts growing like mold.
15. Twisted, sneering lips.
16. A tongue that tastes the air, like a snake.
17. Thick veins, bulging in their neck and temple like steel cables.
18. Old scars; mementoes from a war no one else cares to remember.
19. A leg cut off below the knee; casualty of the winter cold.
20. The stink of liquor, oozing from every pore.
d20 They have;
1. Ink-stained cuffs; sheafs of parchment, spilling from a leather binding. They are the town Notary.
2. A hooded lantern in hand and a thick billyclub at their belt; a battered mail coif uon their brow. They are in the town Watch.
3. Black robes, the towering conical hat, neck draped in iron prayer beads. They are an acolyte of the Authority.
4. Rough hessian clothes that reek of chromium salts; a wicker basket brimming with tree bark. They are the Tanner.
5. Muck-caked boots. A laden mule on a short rope. They are a Farmer.
6. Carrying a waxen wheel like a newborn babe. They are the Cheesemaker.
7. A barrow, creaking under the weight of its load, carrying the stench animal filth ahead and behind. They are the Muckseller.
8. The smell of yeast and malt; small puffs of white flour when they move or pat their clothes. They are the Baker.
9. Worn leather trappings; a longbow and quiver strapped upon their back. They are a Hunter.
10. Like petrified teardrops; beads of white wax on their skin, their clothes. A cloth bindle that clatters; They are the Candlemaker.
11. Mud on their knees. A three-legged wooden stool in one hand, a sloshing pail in the other. They are the Milker.
12. Colourful garments, out of place in a sea of monochrome. A bemused expression; a pack full of heretical texts. They are a “Witch Sympathiser”, a Pilgrim on their way to Borhlogen.
13. Simple clothes that chafe and itch. Iron prayer beads and a bandaged hand. They are a recent Re-Affirmant to the Faith.
14. Scarred flesh; a text written in blood and scabs; an iron-woven prayer whip in a white-knuckled hand. They are an Occultoflagellant - one who pays for your sins in their blood.
15. Fine black wool and brass buckles; a fat coin purse and a heavyset goon in tow. They are the Usurist.
16. A blood-stained white apron; guts under the fingernails that just won’t shift and a cleaver like a shortsword. They are the Butcher.
17. Ragged, ruined clothes; hands outstretched holding nothing but filth and desperation. They are a Begger.
18. A grunting, snuffling, reeking cohort of fatbellied sows for market; a stout stick and hobnail boots. They are the Pig Breeder.
19. Buckets on a yoke, teeming with river sprats and mud eels; they are a Fisher.
20. Delicate embroidery; gold and green threaded into patterns of vines and sunlight. A silver thimble. They are the Darner and Threadweaver.