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Chaosium Digest Volume 20 Number 07
Chaosium Digest Volume 20, Number 7
Date: Sunday, July 20, 1997
Number: 2 of 5
Contents:
The Gorgoroth (Frank Sronce) COC DREAMLANDS
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From: fsronce@tcac.com (Frank Sronce)
Subject: The Gorgoroth
System: CoC Dreamlands
This is a writeup of the daemonic creature known as the Gorgoroth.
Yes, as in "Body-Warping of Gorgoroth." I don't know if anyone had
ever used that name for more than just the spell, but I expanded it
into an interesting creature for use in my "Children of the Worm"
campaign. This article is a little different- I've written a prose
depiction of the actual encounter with the Gorgoroth from my campaign
which prefaces the actual description of the creature. The atmosphere
of the Gorgoroth is more important than its actual stats.
I hope you like it,
Kiz (aka Frank Sronce)
FOUR VISIONS
The seeker stood at the edge of the black lake, looking grim. Here the
enormous trees of the dense jungle parted to make way for the still
waters, and those trees at its edge were leafless, dead things. He
stared for a long time into the mists, looking for the island said to
lie in the middle of the dark waters.
He shivered in the damp, cold night. The small lake was still,
unmoving, undisturbed. Its black waters glinted oddly in the
moonlight, and he was sure that his native guide had been correct when
he said that those waters were poison. He certainly could not swim
across; the natives believed that the water could even seep into the
skin and poison a man who touched it. While their legends might have
exaggerated the danger, he also knew that it could be true, if what he
had come seeking really dwelt here.
The mists swirled across the surface of the dark lake, obscuring its
center. An ordinary man would have been almost blind in the darkness,
but the seeker knew a way to see by other light, and his vision was
unimpaired. It had been the accidental demonstration of this
particular faculty that had convinced the primitive natives of this
jungle that he was a travelling shaman whom they should aid. The
seeker had found that fact particularly ironic, considering that in
more 'civilized' lands he might have been shunned or even burned at
the stake for possessing such knowledge.
He stood there by the lake for some time, seeking some sign. Finally,
patience waning, he called out, "Hello? Hello? Is there anyone there?"
There was no answer. The lake remained as still and unmoving as the
night sky above.
More time passed. The humid air began to chill him to the bone.
Finally, he called out, "My name is Zarrak. I have come from the city
of Thraa to seek out the Gorgoroth!"
In response, the lake was disturbed by a series of ripples. He backed
away into the jungle, wishing that his native guide had been willing
to accompany him closer to the accursed lake. But rather than some
enormous creature rising from the depths, he saw that the ripples were
great, rounded stones rising to the surface. When all motion ceased,
there was a series of stepping stones leading from his location out
toward the center of the lake, vanishing into the mists.
He stared for a long time at the smooth, rounded surfaces of the
rocks, damp with the poisonous waters of the lake. They looked to be
dangerously slippery, particularly with the lethal waters lying on
each side, but no further aid came. It seemed that this was the only
route further.
Muttering small curses under his breath, he pulled off his travelling
gear and set it carefully aside beneath a particular tree. He wanted
as little encumbrance as possible for this trial.
He laid a booted foot upon the first stone, wishing that he dared to
remove his leather boots, but more afraid of letting the lake water
touch his bare feet. It seemed solid enough to support him. He
wondered for a moment whether the stones were floating at the surface
or if they were merely the tops of some underwater pillars which
descended to the bottom of the black lake. Then he shoved those
thoughts aside as distracting and stepped out onto the first stone.
His progress was terribly slow. He moved from stone to stone so
gingerly that a single intruding sound might have caused him to lose
his balance, but no sound came. No animals lived in this part of the
jungle. It might have been part of another world.
Perhaps an hour passed before he looked back to judge his
progress. The shore was lost in the gray mists, as was the path
ahead. He could only press on, and hope that the legends of the
Gorgoroth were true.
He stepped from stone to identical stone, and neither one so much as
stirred with his weight. From time to time he was seized with the
fantasy that he was somehow moving in a circle, and that these stones
were ones that he had passed before. The strain of constant
concentration and care began to wear upon him, but he did not
falter. His mission was too important.
Finally the mists ahead cleared enough that he could see a single dead
tree rising above the gray haze, directly ahead. He slowed his pace,
taking especial care now that he was near his goal. A few more steps,
and he could see that the tree grew upon a tiny island in the lake,
probably no more than ten feet in diameter. Step after step took him
from one damp and slippery stone to the next, until he was finally
able to step forth onto the muddy bank.
The island was no more than a hill of mud rising out of the black
waters. Its sole feature was the singular dead tree which was rooted
in the highest part of the island. Its short, stunted branches told of
a plant which had never grown in a healthy manner, even while
alive. Now it was a corpse, and the pungent odor of rotting wood
pervaded the still air.
He took a few, cautious steps toward the tree. It looked to have been
long, long dead. There was a small opening on the side of the tree
facing him, a round, crumbling gap in the wood which suggested a
larger hollow space inside the tree. Something inside that hole
rustled as it stirred restlessly. A fetid odor filled the air, and it
seemed to the seeker that this was the source of the unclean mists,
rather than the stagnant waters of the black lake.
He did not attempt to move closer, nor to peer into the hollow inside
of the tree. He was afraid of what he might see. Gathering his purpose
once more, he coughed once and said, slowly, "I am Zarrak of Thraa. I
have come to see the Gorgoroth."
A voice came in answer, like the rustling of dead leaves. Something
stirred weakly inside the hollow and the mists swirled overhead.
The voice was so quiet and strange that he had to strain to
make out its words.
It said, "What do you wish to know?"
Struggling to keep himself from shivering, the seeker replied bravely,
"I have seen portents and read legends which tell of the coming of the
end of the world. I wish... I wish to know if these portents are true,
and if so... what may be done to prevent the destruction."
He waited, tense, sweating and dreading whatever answer this thing
might give. Finally, that dark voice came again, whispering, "This
world will be destroyed within your natural lifespan."
The seeker could not contain a small gasp. He would not have come so
far if he had not been very sure of his conclusion, but legend said
that the Gorgoroth never lied and was never wrong. The certainty of
doom pressed down on his soul like an iron weight.
"What..." he gasped, trying to maintain his composure, "what can be
done to stop this?"
There was another long pause, then that dark, mocking voice came
again. "There is no way to stop the disaster."
The seeker grimaced, but he had half expected this reply. "Is there
any way that something can be saved?"
There was a longer pause, now. Finally, perhaps reluctantly, the voice
whispered, "Yes. There is a future in which all of Man does not die."
"A future?" the seeker asked, cautiously.
"There are many futures," the spectral voice replied. "But there are
few where Man still lives."
"I seek one of those futures," the seeker said, determination filling
his voice. "I must know how to make it happen."
The whisperer might have chuckled, or perhaps it was an alien sound
whose meaning escaped him. Finally it said, "Look out onto the lake. I
will show you three things which must come to pass if this future is
to be."
Trembling, the seeker slowly turned away from the rotting trunk to
look out at the still, black waters. As he watched, their still
surface was disturbed, the waters drawn into a slow spiral. He took a
reluctant step closer to the water's edge.
The black waters swirled, and the moon's reflection was scattered over
the water's surface. It seemed to the seeker that the waters had
somehow become clear, and that it was only the depth of the water
which made it black now.
Somewhere, in the depths, he saw himself standing in an ornately
appointed corridor, making some impassioned argument to a tall,
stately woman garbed in a silken robe. Her flesh was sculpted
perfection, and seemed as cold and inhuman as that of a statue. He
heard nothing of his own words, but he heard her reply, saw the
shining glint of her sharpened teeth. Her words somehow carried
through the waters of the lake to his ears.
She waved depreciatingly at his alter ego and said in reply, "I shall
rule this world. It is already too late to stop me."
The seeker stared at her cold, hard face, at her inhumanly perfect
body where her thin robe did not conceal it. Though her lips were red
as blood, her voice had an icy chill to it, the chill of death. Then
he knew her, knew this woman, who was a mystery and a terror to
students of lore. They called her the Vampire Queen, for by an ancient
accord with her people she consumed one man each year to extend her
life. If the legends were to be believed, she had ruled her small,
insular kingdom for more than ten thousand years and had at her
disposal more magical lore than all the rest of the mankind put
together. She had been human once, it was believed.
No more came from the water. The surface began to swirl once more and
the vision was lost, becoming again the scattered lights of the moon's
reflection.
The seeker turned his gaze back towards the dead tree. "What does this
mean?" he demanded. "Do we have to surrender our world to this woman's
rule?"
There was no answer. He stared at the hollow tree, angry, frustrated.
Then he glanced back at the waters and saw that a second vision was
forming in the depths.
His eyes widened as he saw himself once more, but this time his alter
ego was obviously in distress. He was floating in midair, arms and
legs pinned by circles of shimmering light which held him helpless.
The seeker stared at the waters, trying to find meaning in the image
when another figure stepped forward into view, moving in front of his
alter ego.
He gasped in shock. The figure was not human at all; it was a serpent
cast into the form of a man, a snake-headed being garbed in strange
robes and bearing an oddly carven sceptre in its clawed hand. His
image in the water recoiled from the manlike abomination, but the
seeker could still hear the hissing, sibilant words of the creature.
In a crude approximation of human speech, it hissed, "Do not
struggle. My circles are proof against both magical and physical
efforts. I need you conscious and in good health. There are questions
that I need you to answer."
Then the vision swirled apart, and the waters of the lake were black
once more. The seeker stared into the darkness, trying to sort out his
reactions. What was that creature? Why was it necessary that he be
captured by it? How could such an event be necessary for the survival
of Man?
As he stared, the waters began to turn transparent once more. In the
depths of the lake, he saw a third vision of himself, lying insensible
on the grassy ground. His image stared blindly into space. Some foam
clustered about one corner of his image's mouth led him to believe
that in this vision he had been drugged.
Gloved hands reached over his body and pulled up his shirt to expose
his naked chest. The hands returned with a brush dripping with some
blood-red mixture, and began to trace a series of strange symbols
across his torso. The seeker stared at the runes, trying to grasp
their meaning when those gloved hands returned once more, this time
bearing a damnably sharp long knife.
The seeker watched, hypnotised, as the figure traced the edges of the
central rune with the tip of its knife, drawing a thin trail of blood
across the pale flesh. Then it drew back the knife, as though to drive
it home.
The seeker retained enough of his senses to snap his gaze away from
the lake, covering his face. But he could still hear the meaty thunk
of the blade in flesh, the dreaful noises like a butcher at work. He
fought down the desire to retch.
When the noises finally ceased, he dared to glance back out at the
lake, to see that it was only an undisturbed black stillness once
more.
He took a few shaky steps towards the ruined tree. He whispered,
slowly, "Must these things happen?"
The rustling voice seemed amused. "No. All three visions are very
unlikely to occur. Only great effort could bring them to pass."
"And... And if they do not all come to pass?" the seeker whispered,
dreading the answer.
"Then the race of Man will be at an end," the voice replied,
mockingly.
The seeker stood there for some time, dreafully shaken. Finally he
whispered, "Can you give me no further aid?"
There was a long silence from the depths of the hollow tree. The foul
stench in the air seemed to grow more oppressive. Finally, the dark
whisper came again. "Look out at the lake once more," it said.
Slowly, fearfully, the seeker turned to see a new vision revealed in
the depths of the water. The very fabric of reality seemed to be
parted there, and slowly he was able to focus upon what lay beyond. He
saw what lay beyond the world of his senses; he saw the nature of
flesh and the soul revealed, and he turned away from the lake,
shrieking and falling to his knees.
He lay in the foul mud, crying, for some time. Finally some modicum of
rationality returned to him, and he struggled to his feet. He asked no
more of the Gorgoroth, but stumbled towards the stepping stones that
had borne him out to this accursed place. Like a man driven, he strode
from stone to stone, almost running across them. Several times he
nearly stumbled disastrously, but each time he regained his footing
and resumed his desperate struggle to reach the shore.
He returned to his full senses in the care of the jungle tribesmen who
had befriended him. They nursed him back to health, but not a one of
them asked him about his experience. When he chose to leave before his
health was fully restored, they might have demanded that he remain
longer, but even their chief turned away from something in his gaze.
"He is a driven man," the chief muttered to his son. "He has the mark
of the Gorgoroth upon him."
THE GORGOROTH
The Gorgoroth is a foul spirit of poisoned knowledge and unpleasant
truth. It lurks in desolate places and seeps poison into the land
around it. There may be more than one Gorgoroth, or it may move its
lair from time to time. Legends of the creature and its powers have
been told and retold on several continents in the Dreamlands.
It is said that the Gorgoroth knows everything, and that it will
answer the questions of those who seek it out without charging any
price or fee. Some stories say that it will answer only a single
question, others that it will answer as many as three. Probably the
truth is that the Gorgoroth will answer as many questions as it
chooses to, and not one more.
No one reaches the Gorgoroth save that it chooses to admit them. It is
an oracle consulted only by those driven by desperation. Most people
discount the stories of it as mere rubbish, but learned men may find
reason to believe that the Gorgoroth really exists. Certainly the
goblin-folk believe in it and fear it.
The Gorgoroth is a mocking oracle. Its answers are often misleading,
and invariably unpleasant, but they are always true. It may choose to
answer questions verbally, or by causing visions to appear. These
visions can be of any time or any place, and can even reveal mystical
knowledge to the viewer, causing a permanent increase in the Cthulhu
Mythos skill or the instantaneous learning of some unpleasant
spell. Wizards and would-be wizards have sought out the Gorgoroth for
that exact purpose, in hopes of learning a spell by which they could
accomplish whatever it was that they desired most.
But the answers that the Gorgoroth gives are not pleasant ones, and
while always correct, the recipient often ends up wishing that he had
never asked the question.
A legendary example: a great general faced an unbeatable army and
asked the Gorgoroth to show him a way in which they could be
defeated. The Gorgoroth revealed a cunning but brutal plan by which
the war could be won. It did not reveal that one of the consequences
of that victory would be the destruction of the general's home by the
routed troops and the death of his entire family.
Some scholars of the unknown feel that the Gorgoroth may be an avatar
of Nyarlathotep, because of its expansive knowledge and cruel, mocking
nature. Certainly the creature has never demonstrated any interest in
aiding madmen, only sane men who could truly suffer from the cunning
cruelty of its answers.
Physically, the Gorgoroth must be quite small. Its exact form is
unknown, for it always lurks in hiding. No one has ever seen its true
form and lived to tell the tale.
THE GORGOROTH, Oracle of Nightmares
STR 5 CON 18 SIZ 1 INT 100 EDU 100 POW 24 DEX 20
Move 0 HP 10
Weapons: Spray Poisonous Mist 95%, damage 2d6 per round for 5
rounds. Investigators can attempt to resist a potency of 18 for half
damage.
Armor: None save the protection provided by its hiding place. If the
Gorgoroth is reduced to zero hit points it will merely crumble to dust
and reappear in a new location far away.
Spells: All, but it rarely casts any itself.
Sanity Loss: 1d3/1d6 for conversing with it. 1d6/1d20 for seeing its
true form.
Habitant: isolated, poisoned places hidden in the wilderness
Allowing investigators to consult the Gorgoroth requires a great deal
from the Keeper. He must be able to predict future events in the
campaign well enough to make a correct response to questions about the
future. Like most prophecies, the Gorgoroth's should be vague and
uncertain enough that they can easily come true. It works best when
the Gorgoroth does not predict what will happen, but shows things that
are necessary for something else to happen.
It is then up to the investigators to follow up those leads and try to
bring that better future about. For instance, if the Gorgoroth had
predicted that the Vampire Queen would take over the world and that a
certain king would bow his head to her, then the investigators might
try to prevent that future from occuring by assassinating that
king. Instead, it is better to show them something positive that will
only happen if they work to bring it about.
The better your grasp on future events in your campaign, the more
impressive you can make an interview with the Gorgoroth. Remember that
the Gorgoroth is a cruel spirit who will attempt to mislead those who
consult it. If it chooses to show a future event, it will do so from
whatever perspective makes it look most unpleasant. Seeing these
visions should cause appropriate San loss in all present. In general,
viewers should lose 1/1d6 San for watching even a minor vision, and as
much as 1d3/1d10 for a disturbing vision or learning some new spell.
If people threaten or mock the Gorgoroth, it may refuse to answer any
more questions, or present them with horrific visions which will cause
more San loss. Those who attempt to reach it physically will be
subjected to a spray of a lethal gas which can eat through any
protective covering known to man and seep into the skin with terrible
rapidity. Those who die from this attack quickly rot into dust,
crumbling and corroding down to nothing.
Any water in the vicinity of the Gorgoroth will be similarly
poisonous, although its toxicity may be less.
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