Four days West of horizon from the Free City of Ankh'eth, North of the pyramid pocked desert, deep into the sand wastes, lies the Old Man; a gigantic, half buried iron bust of a vague, yet grim - though some say stoic - figure. Who built it and why is lost to the shifting sands of time, as no civilization has been know to inhabit the region. What is known, however, is the curse that lingers over the odd metal sculpture. Those who spend an extended amount of time within the presence of the Old Man soon contract a mysterious wasting disease, accompanied by painful weeping blisters. It is said that, in the still of night that only the sand wastes can truly reach, should one press their ear to the iron, and echo of scurrying and crashing can be heard. Because of the superstition surrounding the place, along with its remoteness, no one has ever bothered to explore proper.
But, maybe you will.
Should adventurers find a way to gain access (be it the hatch buried under the dune containing the pressure release for the mouth, or some violent magical way in) they'll be faced with two very obvious features of the interior: An overwhelming smell of stale moldy air and a rather large room full of assorted bones scattered about strange levers and lumped in various piles. Those with the appropriate knowledges can tell the bones are dwarven, due to the rings of iron laced through out the calcium.
Continued exploration produces a mostly vertical iron city of twisting, rusted hallways. Homes and shops lie empty, save for moldy, decayed textiles and tarnished keepsakes. Armories caked in dust and rusted, dull blades. Artificial lights adorn the walls, still pulsing with a soft pale glow. Ancient machines continue their unknown tasks, pumping, grinding, and belching steam, attended to by clockwork automatons. A constant hum echoes through the halls, reverberating from the very walls. The deeper one delves, the deeper and louder it becomes. Oh, yes, and then there's the hordes of the inhabitants.
Short and wiry creatures, pallid and hairless, they stand roughly just over four feet in height. Too long arms allow them to drop to a four-limbed shuffle with relative comfort and without hindrance to their movement. Floor, wall, ceiling; their orientation makes no difference, as they climb along with equal dexterity. Emaciated frames hide the deadly strength that their bodies deceptively contain. Should one have the unfortunate chance to compare, their gnarled pointed teeth match perfectly with the constant bones that litter even the deeper reaches. With over sized eyes, they're able to see in low light with full detail. From their mouth spews an incoherent form of gibbering, perhaps a language known only in this forgotten place. The creatures will usually attack an adventurer on-site, eager for the taste of strange, new meat, but they are not above ambushing, or even using their overwhelming numbers to their advantage.
Should one survive the hordes and descend even further, able to withstand the bass reverberations, one would find the potential source: The Demon Core; a 14 pound, 6 inch wide sphere of what appears to be platinum, etched in dwarven runes and pulsing with a sinister glow. Arcane energy arcs from the stone in one of seven surrounding collection rods, seemingly at random. What's more, the sonic assault of the reverberation becomes bearable, focusing into a voice echoing inside the adventurers' minds. The deep voice will bid the characters to free it, offering power, strength, and protection from the wasting curse in return. The voice will respond to questions, and even relay the story of the place and it's entrapment, should it be asked. However, while the story of the place and of it's entrapment is true, any deals made or bargains struck soon fall apart, should the characters find a way to free to trap the entity within: A bound Glabrezu demon.
Countless centuries ago, when this area of the world was still green and teaming with life, the Old Man was a movable city (Variant: Depending on the tech level, and how much credit you wish to give the dwarves, maybe it was just a fancy underground city). Fashioned in the shape of a dwarf, the city stood hundreds of feet tall, bipedal and with arms ending in ax and hammer. The Old Man roamed the landscape, searching for mineral deposits and other natural resources, to fuel the economy within, as well as itself. In time, more resources were being diverted to the upkeep of the city, rather than the people. Talk spread, rumors burning like wild fire, would the city have to be abandoned? Presented with the possibility of such a change, the populous responded in traditional Dwarven fashion - panic and infighting. Chaos reigned; crafting ceased. Forges grew silent and the great steam machines grew cold. But then, in a moment of renewed hope and order, Telkar, a summoner and powerful runesmith, conjured forth from beyond the ethereal a monstrous Glabrezu demon, and bound it's soul to a pure ball of platinum. After nearly being consumed in the task - both spiritually and physically - creating a machine to slowly sap the demon's life force to generate a form of usable energy, was Apprentice's play. With this new source of unlimited energy, the city was free from its constant need and hunger, and, now able to focus solely on crafting, entered an age of Renaissance. Telkar the Binder, Crafter of Energy, was seen as a hero, and his sons, and their sons were held in high esteem.
But, then, the whispers came.
Quietly, at first, able to only be heard in the stillness of night, or when one took their daily meditation. The words were never the same, different for each dwarf that heard them, but the goal was similar. Promises of Power, Skill, or Riches for those that would betray the city - be it through violence, sabotage or theft of the core. Eventually, as evident by its current state, a great sabotage took place. The city moved no more. Lacking redundant systems, with all aspects of the city relying upon the Core, the inhabitants were trapped within. Panic once again grasped the city. Madness soon followed as the food began to run out. But, as before, so again, an alternative was found. In the beginning it was merely upon the dead, and there were so many. In time, though, want for fresh meat took hold. Cannibalism became the new norm. The ways of the Ancestors were forgotten. The ways of the Surface were forgotten. All that remained was a cult like lusting after the Core and a hunger for Dwarven flesh. In time, the dwarves devolved into the creatures plaguing the adventurers. In time, the demon once again found a voice.
So what now? Do the players release the demon in hopes of quick power? Perhaps quick cash from stealing the Demon Core, though with or without the bound demon, it will still continue to inflict the wasting sickness to any one around for several generations. Maybe they take what smaller treasures they can, bury the place back, and never speak of it again. The city is unmovable, and repairable, but maybe the upper levels become a fancy new base, protected by superstition, for their operations as desert raiders. Who knows, it's your problem now.
Countless centuries ago, when this area of the world was still green and teaming with life, the Old Man was a movable city (Variant: Depending on the tech level, and how much credit you wish to give the dwarves, maybe it was just a fancy underground city). Fashioned in the shape of a dwarf, the city stood hundreds of feet tall, bipedal and with arms ending in ax and hammer. The Old Man roamed the landscape, searching for mineral deposits and other natural resources, to fuel the economy within, as well as itself. In time, more resources were being diverted to the upkeep of the city, rather than the people. Talk spread, rumors burning like wild fire, would the city have to be abandoned? Presented with the possibility of such a change, the populous responded in traditional Dwarven fashion - panic and infighting. Chaos reigned; crafting ceased. Forges grew silent and the great steam machines grew cold. But then, in a moment of renewed hope and order, Telkar, a summoner and powerful runesmith, conjured forth from beyond the ethereal a monstrous Glabrezu demon, and bound it's soul to a pure ball of platinum. After nearly being consumed in the task - both spiritually and physically - creating a machine to slowly sap the demon's life force to generate a form of usable energy, was Apprentice's play. With this new source of unlimited energy, the city was free from its constant need and hunger, and, now able to focus solely on crafting, entered an age of Renaissance. Telkar the Binder, Crafter of Energy, was seen as a hero, and his sons, and their sons were held in high esteem.
But, then, the whispers came.
Quietly, at first, able to only be heard in the stillness of night, or when one took their daily meditation. The words were never the same, different for each dwarf that heard them, but the goal was similar. Promises of Power, Skill, or Riches for those that would betray the city - be it through violence, sabotage or theft of the core. Eventually, as evident by its current state, a great sabotage took place. The city moved no more. Lacking redundant systems, with all aspects of the city relying upon the Core, the inhabitants were trapped within. Panic once again grasped the city. Madness soon followed as the food began to run out. But, as before, so again, an alternative was found. In the beginning it was merely upon the dead, and there were so many. In time, though, want for fresh meat took hold. Cannibalism became the new norm. The ways of the Ancestors were forgotten. The ways of the Surface were forgotten. All that remained was a cult like lusting after the Core and a hunger for Dwarven flesh. In time, the dwarves devolved into the creatures plaguing the adventurers. In time, the demon once again found a voice.
So what now? Do the players release the demon in hopes of quick power? Perhaps quick cash from stealing the Demon Core, though with or without the bound demon, it will still continue to inflict the wasting sickness to any one around for several generations. Maybe they take what smaller treasures they can, bury the place back, and never speak of it again. The city is unmovable, and repairable, but maybe the upper levels become a fancy new base, protected by superstition, for their operations as desert raiders. Who knows, it's your problem now.
Oh, yes, the wasting disease. In short, it's arcane radiation. A Constitution check is made at a rate dependent on the proximity to the core (1/day on the surface; 1/hour within; 1/minute near the Core - adjust as needed). Failing the check brings a penalty of -1 Con and -1 Str, as well as some tumors. Passing the check leaves you with just tumors.
Sometimes, the past should remain buried.
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