The child is the key.
A minor update to an early 2020 miniature to accompany moderate updates to the Caretakers who accompany him.
“What if they come back, Mister Phlopp?” The child asked.
“It’s no big thing, we’ll be ready.” Came the reply.
“He’ll do well on our farm,” the basso voice rumbled.
The cornered man looked confused, “Oh I’m just passing through, I don’t need a job.”
A female voice intruded, “He’ll do, Napoleon, he looks… qualified,” she licked her lips.
“I said, I don’t need a job, I have a job, I’m a graphic artist – why would I want to work on a pig farm?” He still gripped the pen knife tightly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it work, and anyway, Stonegrave isn’t a pig farm, no,” Napoleon smiled, flashing his black teeth, “No, but you could say this is a long pig farm.”
“This is Stonegrave. Strangers are always welcome here, we’d love to have you for dinner.”
“Do you think anyone will miss this?” Stephia plucked the cast iron signpost from the ground, “Most of these towns are gone now.”
In the dead of night they come down from the North Moor. Those most visibly affected by the Wandering Plague, ostracised from the rest of population formed tribes and no tribe is more feared than The Hill People.
The travellers rested, as the wind whistled across the empty vastness of the North Moor. Each year the Moor seemed to expand further beyond the horizon, and the colours in the sky above became ever more vibrant. Then suddenly, the travellers realised that though they were isolated, they longer alone. Silently, as if they had somehow grown from the ground itself, the unstoppable Moorwalkers were already upon them.
Moorwalkers are said to be former Tunnel Guardians, who no longer serve Kuth. Without his protection they are consumed by the wandering sickness.
The thieves had penetrated the inner cloister, their hunt for the legendary airship felt almost at a close. Suddenly a monk burst through the door, the thieves rapidly drew their weapons. “Travellers?!” The monk shrieked in terror, “What are you…,” but he was turned from the thieves – he was scared, yes, but not of the thieves, “Oh my God, no! He’s here!”
Those who dare enter the sleepy coastal town of Whiteby invariably find themselves in front of the Demon Abbot – swarmed by his bats and terrified by the threat of his cold embrace. Those who are permitted to escape with their lives are known to beg friends and enemies alike: never to journey to Whiteby, no matter the promised reward.
All contact with the world beyond The North Moor and Everytown has been lost since the incident. It was natural that people would look for a leader, and one day they found one. Long live King Chuck!
Hail to the King
Many have foretold the apocalypse – the day when things fall apart and anarchy is loosed upon the world. When that day arrived it felt like a prophecy was being fulfilled and it was natural that some would feel that now was their time to assume a holy mantle.
In the emptiness of the dying world, maybe it was comforting to find a purpose in an ancient prophecy, even a half-remembered one. Three days after the fire in the sky, he rose from the dead, claiming he hatched from from a stone egg – ready to smite the wicked in preparation for a final imminent battle in the heavens.
Introducing Ploppy and Floppy – indistinguishable entertainers from the before times, can they work as a team to survive the apocalypse or has the time come for one of them to retire? They come with a range of hand/arm options for a range of gameplay scenarios.
When times were good, Ploppy recruited Floppy to help him perform more shows. More recently, the audiences died away – does Ploppy still need Floppy?… Or maybe Floppy no longer needs Ploppy?
