Power Level Over 200! Wow! (Patreon)

I'm kind of blown away. It is a great feeling to see everyone here, it's great fun, it's exciting, it feels good. Even my wife is now making a little dance when somebody joins the patreon. Thank you everyone.

I'm planning to redesign a few things about the patreon, about the tiers, and so on, because, frankly I want to put more effort into writing and illustrating really good stuff--so I need to find a way to make that work together with the various reward levels! What worked with 10 or 20 patrons is now getting just a wee bit harder, after all. I'll be posting some polls and questions on this.

I also updated my game website: www.wizardthieffighter.com. I'm going to put download links for the UVG, the maps, the playlists, and more there soon enough. You can check it out. I have a new WTF logo, too. 

This week I haven't written quite as much Witchburner as I planned, but I'll outline it for you.

• It's an adventure, about 32 pages.
• It's set in a single small town and it's surroundings and is built on a pretty strict timer.
• It has a pretty simple goal: find the witch and save the town (preferably by burning the witch).
• It's much darker in tone than the UVG. More Black Sabbath and than Blue Oyster Cult.
• You can also use it as an NPC appendix for other games, as it's built around 30 different characters whom you can drop into any other game (including the UVG).
• This one is _really_ rules-lite.

OK! Enough talk, time for more teasing of Witchburner.

---/---

The Town

The folk call it Bridge. The clerks call it Saint Cleareyes.

Built, burnt, and rebuilt. There has always been at town at this opalescent bridge. Its metal struts resist the weight of years, though the river below it shifts from swift flow to murky mire and back again as it carves its way to the sea.

The town has always been small. Important but limited by geography to always be the pawn, or at best the rook, of either the Western City or the Eastern City.

When the burners come, the natives fly to the thick-wooded hills, like carrion crows from their carcass at the coming of the catamount.

Always the burners leave, and the natives return.

Always some stain of the old days remains in the brooding woods, in the buckled mountains, in the banshee caves.

Always the witches remain.

Remain, and sometimes return. Like this year.

The fish of the river floated upturned upon the water, handprints burned into their putrefying flesh.

A black cat was found, gutted and nailed upon the doors of the Schoolhouse.

A child was born with a third eye, and when he cried, he cried, “Amimam!” The name of the Eater of Virility. The council put the monster spawn to death, as is proper.

The buckwheat wilted black in the fields and the pumpkins bled red under Plum Orchard Hill. It was going to be a hungry winter.

Winterwhite is a dangerous god, and a wise mayor does not play games with the granaries. It is time to call the witchburner.