The following is a location generator for the forthcoming Book of Gaub project.
Charles Ferguson-Avery of Wyrd and Wyld, Rowan of Thawing Kingdom, Paolo Greco of Chthonic Codex, myself and others have come together under Lost Pages publishing to create a new work of delicious horror in the style of Wonder and Wickedness.
49 Horror spells with Mini-Fiction
49 Gruesome Magical Paraphernalia
20 Terrifying Monsters that can be dealt with or mutilated for magic power
100 Awful Catastrophes for those who abuse this wicked power
D4 Severity of Corruption- Roll on d100 list a number of times equal to the roll here.
D6 This Place Is Too
D8 GAUB FINGER/Theme
Gnawed To The Bone- Consumption, waste, loss of self control
Not There- Corrupted memories, things beyond the veil, annihilation
Points The Way- Lost roads, lost causes, fear/thrill of being alone
Catches A Tear-Grief, misplaced and tainted love, manipulation
Trails The Letters- Forbidden lore, obsession, sacrifice
Feels for a Pulse- Disease, lost empathy, remorselessness
Scratches Upon the Floorboards- Unsafe homes, generational evil, dark secrets
Roll Twice and Mix
D10 Environment Descriptor
D12 What Happened Here?
A terrible ritual was botched
A terrible ritual was fulfilled
Someone dug too deep
A prayer was answered
A wish was made
A seal was broken
Corruption seeped in over time
The psychic weight of a long series of grisly tragedies
A mass cult suicide
An experiment was carried out
A prophecy was fulfilled
A foul wind blew
D20 Transitions and Omens
A chill misty fog rolls in suddenly
A wrong turn is taken at a crossroad
You blink and the world is subtly different
Warning signs are posted and ignored
You can feel eyes upon you and breath on your neck, turn around and you are lost
In the days before reaching here, you have had waking dreams of this place
The air feels syrupy as you cross an ill defined border
Things are different after you looked in the mirror
All noises cease– no animal calls, no insects chirp. Every sound you make feels like it shatters the silence
A door leads somewhere that it did not previously
A curse is laid with a creature’s death rattle.
The map did not show this place yesterday.
It felt like walking through gossamer threads as you passed under the archway
Your heart races, your palms sweat, a panic over takes you then passes just as suddenly
A cacophonous wind rattles everything–windows, branches, bones.
A creature races past in panicked flight, its gait in unnatural and its guttural utterances disturbing
Stains spread out from the edges of things, looking not unlike a terrible seven fingered claw
Clouds gather, the threat of rain looms and the sky feels oppressively heavy
The past few days have been a blur, it felt as though you were a rider in your own body. Just now is the first time you’ve felt really, truly in control again.
An eclipse throws your world into darkness, the sun that peeks out once again is colder, dimmer
D100 Additional Horrors
This location repeatedly loops back upon itself
Dolls are hung up around this location, from ancient ragged things of scraps and sticks to modern plastic contrivances
Sudden severe weather shift
Always Night (Roll 1d8 to determine phase)
Always Day (roll 1d4 for Morning, Noon, Evening, Ever Shifting)
Even the faintest whispers echo
Even the loudest screams are muffled
Faces strain and press against surfaces
A sound is always nearby, but you never seem to get closer
The air tastes of iron and ozone here
A single flickering lightsource that leaves afterimages in your retinas
Illegible moss covered gravestones litter the area
Animals come to this place and throw themselves off the highest point
The colors are faded and washed out
Familiar voices whisper
Pleas for help
Plants, walls, the ground–it all bleeds when pierced.
An uncanny scarecrow or mannikin pops up wherever it is unobserved
An especially aggressive murder of crows or wake of vultures haunt the area
Ominous bird calls echo though none are seen
Shadows are static here, changes in light do not change their strength or position
Natural sleep is impossible here, supernatural sleep is filled with psychosis-inducing nightmares
Wounds do not heal here nor do they kill, everything simply festers
Unless kept in skin contact with someone truly faithful, religious iconography burst into flame
Cooked food does not keep here, it turns to sand and grit in your mouth
New fires cannot be lit here, ones brought it must be constantly fed and are dimmer and colder besides
Truths cannot be spoken here, only blasphemies and lies
Dark temptations rise in those to stay here long, primal animalistic urges from the Id
Your heart stops here, nothing has a pulse, instead a cold tugging at your chest keeps you moving deeper.
Anything that dies here rises again and performs halting mockeries of previous lives
New memories of any importance can only be formed here by forgetting old ones.
Maps change, compasses spin, paths divert, this place actively foils all attempts to navigate through it
Everything is heavier here, everything is a strain. There is a terrible urge to lie down, give up, and sink into the soft earth.
A person waits here for you, they are immaculately beautiful in contrast to the corrupt landscape. They make each of you a terrible offer for a terrible price.
If you sleep in the place, a black seven fingered handprint manifests on your stomach. It grows longer whenever you rest. When it reaches your neck it will strangle you and take control
Creatures twist subtly here to reflect their inner vices, slowly becoming grotesque caricatures of their former self.
Anything written loses all meaning here and pieces of writing, such as spellbooks, erase themselves a page at a time every hour.
Any structure built here immediately attracts 1d6 hostile spirits.
Metal rusts at an accelerated rate here, weapons and armor reduce in effectiveness by a point (ex 1d6 becomes 1d6-1 or +4 becomes +3) until at 0 they fall apart. Other items rust and decay at a similar rate.
Every day that passes here a week passes on the outside. The center is here somewhere, time passes faster as you approach it.
Every day that passes here an hour passes on the outside. The center is here somewhere, time passes slower as you approach it.
Sleep and hunger are impossible to satisfy here without magical assistance. Any who die here of hunger rise as a Ghoul and any who died here of fatigue rise as mad Shadows
Acts of charity and assistance are painful to do here, Save or take 1d6 damage anytime you do something selfless. After 7 times, a failed save means Death.
Everything here is damned to repeat itself, repeating their last day before a terrible catastrophe. The inhabitants remember every minute of it but cannot help themselves.
Nothing can stay secret here, all beings immediately understand one another’s thoughts. Something unseen occasionally inserts thoughts of terrible graphic violence.
Any cut here causes the target to be severed clean through. Severed parts gain a life of their own, escaping or fighting to escape to somewhere in the center.
Light perception is reversed here, patches of shadow are brilliant to behold and the full sun is darker than the deepest pits.
There is a wishing well here, it will grant you your heart’s desire without trickery. You must kill a true friend and toss their body down the well as payment.
There is a wishing well here, it will grant you a minor wish. The payment is your coins to the Boatman, you will never find rest in death.
An older couple live in a small home here, white picket fence and well manicured lawn. They will offer aid, they will give you rest and supper. They will kill you in your sleep and eat you.
A cult considers this place holy ground and makes a yearly pilgrimage here to perform their profane mysteries.
A decrepit playground is here, the sounds of small feet and laughter are just on the edge of hearing.
Pain is immensely pleasurable here. Any damage instead appears to heal for an equal amount. This is false. Mirrors show the truth.
The sky is marred by a truly massive seven fingered hand. It cannot be seen from outside the region, but every day it gets a little closer until it is larger than the moon, the sun, it forms a dome around the region. It will then scoop the land away and bare it off to the void. No one will remember this place existed.
All idle time is filled by ennui and regrets about the past. Sweet smiles let go, open hearted talks never had, talents unexploited, promises unfulfilled, friends let down.
All idle times are full of brooding and obsession over slights. Petty insults left unanswered, vengeances unsatisfied, embarrassments relived, annoyances amplified.
Graffito of countless years and countless languages piles upon one another, their messages all begging and pleading, but for what?
All the people who live here are missing a random finger from their hands. The wounds do not close. All floor surfaces are covered in crisscrossing blood trails. People passed out from anaemia lie slouched by the waysides. Those conscious notice no irregularity.
This place marrs symbolic thinking. Every day lose a language (Mathematics, wizard magic, and advanced sciences count as languages), then the ability to meaningfully gesture. Soon you forget your first word (Mama perhaps?) and you become a thing of raw natural instinct.
Like objects wish to unify here, mineral to mineral, flesh to flesh. Two things of the same sort (two humans but not say a human and a pig)that are touched are fused at that point of contact. The few inhabitants wear heavy gloves and tend highly spaced groves.
Dreams feel more real here, brighter, more vibrant, more beautiful. In contrast the real world becomes duller and darker, you wish to spend less and less time awake in it.
Everything here is just slightly off, you cannot put your finger on what it is but it is uncanny.
Shadows are alive here and seek to overtake their fleshy captors if they have the chance. Unless your shadow is kept it line it will detach itself and become 1d6 Wretches of Gaub or a shadowy doppleganger on a 6
Magic other than those deeply tied to this place come at a cost. Any spells cast draw 1d6 per level HP from the caster or a willing proxy of the caster.
The ground below your feet, inside walls, any empty enclosed space, is absolutely writhing with worms. The Emperor Maggot swims amongst them.
This place is Vast and Dark, it makes no sense that such a place could be held within these apparent bounds.
An Oubliette is here, you may not see it but you feel it. A psychic scream of isolation, starvation, madness. Its inhabitant is no longer human.
There is a distant siren, the inhabitants of this place know it is time to lock the cellar doors and hide in their attics. They will not, can not, tell you why.
There is a Library here. It contains books with simple titles. The Life and Sins of Eric Smyth, for example. They are all The Life and Sins. Your book is here too.
This place is thawing, as though it were only just released from an ice age. The cold mud sucks at your boots, the people are ravenous from long denial, there are shadows in the ice.
There is a hole here. There Is A Hole Here. THERE IS A HOLE HERE!
There are doors here. Each one is numbered sequentially, but they are all locked. If you manage to open one, you’ll end up somewhere else.
Ropes hang from the rafters, ropes hang from the trees, the ropes are old and frayed, the corpses are old and frayed. When you join them you will be old and frayed too.
The sky is a cloying sepia, and brittle ash-like particles rain down like soft snow. When they touch your skin, it ages rapidly.
The sky is watching you. If you look closely, you can make out its eyes.
The water is defiled and stagnant here, it is filled with the larvae and spawn of countless crawling things. The inhabitants are filled with the larvae and spawn of countless crawling things.
You can hear a faint voice, coming from behind something. It mocks you, and it knows all your failures.
All emotions are dulled here, the very air seems to sap them away. Abilities that depend on emotions such as rage, fear, inspiration, function only at their most minimum possible effect.
As you enter this place, your opposite also enters it. They do not necessarily wish to kill you, but they do not wish you to leave unchanged either.
There is nothing to be afraid of here, there is nothing hungry and waiting in the corner, we do not know why you are acting this way. Mind the stains please.
Your sister is here, she is in terrible need of your help. You see, her disease has progressed and we’ve done all we could for her. What do you mean? Of course you have a s̴̳̞̱͘i̴̯͋̈́͜͝s̵͈̯͂̆̕t̸͍̞̞͂e̴̫̜̞͝r̷̀͑͝ͅ.
To one of you, this place is crawling with horrors, your eyes are continuously filled with scenes of utter malice. The rest of you cannot perceive it. The One, these horrors are real and your friends are mad.
To one of you, this place is a delightful paradise, in all your days you’ve not been somewhere more serene. The rest of you see this place of rot and despair for what it is. The One, these delights must be shared.
This place is full of all the noises appropriate. Animals calling, people about their business, perhaps the tolling of a church bell. Listen long enough and it begins to sound scratchy. Listen longer and you realize it repeats.
This place is surrounded by a thick haze of fog, the sounds of agony and battle occasionally ring out from within the fogbank. When the wind picks up, the Tide of Turmoil overtakes this place.
This place is absolutely silent, and you find even you are silent.The silence is deafening. Something is eating the noise.
Dozens of Cairns dot this place, they lead up to a great stone barrow. A low moan rises on moonless nights, the Cairns joining slowly in a basso profundo that makes one’s bones throb. It is not safe to sleep here.
Old cast-iron pipes crisscross this place, coming up from under the ground, twisting through structures, wrapping around trees. The place is strangely sharp, everything seems to scratch, pierce, and draw blood. The pipes hunger.
This place is terribly unkempt, every corner seems to be filled with detritus and dust and mites. It is as though everyone and everything is living in the moment, forgetting…These mites bite…This place is terribly unkempt…
A horse is tied to a pole here, abandoned and unkempt. It looks like it would serve an excellent steed, pity about the smell…and the teeth, oh those terrible terrible teeth.
You are here. You are standing in front of a figure that is not you. They are battered and bruised, and cannot speak, but they imitate your every move.
There is a crack somewhere nearby. It might be in a wall, or in the bark of a tree, or running down the side of a stone. It whispers slightly, and if you listen you hear mysteries .
Things you have forgotten
Things you wish were forgotten
Things the World has forgotten
Secrets your so-called friends are keeping from you
The words of those who plot against you
The Words of Gaub
Every exit from where you are takes you back into the same place, forward progress is seemingly impossible. Walking backwards counteracts this effect.
Head-like fungal masses sprout in softly moaning clusters, they jabber in tongues and release spores if approached. These spores cause one to hallucinate that they are rapidly growing more fungal heads from their body. They will be if exposed more than twice.
A mausoleum sits on these grounds, its heavy locks long since rusted away. Within is the columbarium, scores of urns hosting the ashes of the dead. They smell delicious. They want you to have a taste, come–come please please let us inside you.
A cliff is here, a cliff facing a sea that shouldn’t be here. There is a lighthouse on the cliff, its light moving like thick honey through the dark seamist. The rocks below are sharp, lethal…inviting.
The waters are rising here. At first it is just the thick, wet soil. Soon it is over your boots, then over your waist, then over your head. Thick, and befouled, nothing should be living in these waters. But something is.
A tower is here. No, it is a tunnel. It goes down into the earth. It is a tower. No, it is a tunnel. There is something waiting for you at the bottom. It waits for all of us.
This place seethes with corrupt energy, 1d4 Cataclysms strike at random in the form of black lightning every day.
The loud bongs of a distant clock echo throughout the space. It seems to be counting down to something, or adding something up. Counting down to the end? Counting you up? It won’t stop unless…unless you stay, stay and it fades, stay and it will go away.
A great pillar rises into the sky here, a great black obelisk tipped with seven jagged spokes. This is the first. Pray the others are not completed.