The Bone Field

Arthur Fieldsman was a good man.

True to his family name he tended the fields, just as his father, and his father, had. His harvests were bountiful and his livestock, more often than not, were hearty.

He had a good wife. Their marriage had been arranged, sure, but he loved her well enough, and didn't strike her often out of turn. She bore him three healthy and strong children. Each looked like him, but with their mother's dark hair.

He had good friends. Every public house welcomed him with cheers. Those who passed him always offered a smile in greetings. Should he be in need, help was not far away. Some disputes were had, but such is way of neighbors, and no ill will remained a fortnight. Save for the Constable, who never seemed to care for him.

He was a pious man. Like all those that worship the god of Agriculture, he kept a field dedicated - always planted and never harvested. He even rotated the location of the Dedicated field, giving it the best soil he had. Every morning, as the sun rose, he would read the scriptures and recite the Words. Truth be told, though, his reading wasn't the best, so he look upon the illuminations of the codex and remembered what he had been taught.

Arthur Fieldsman was an unfortunate man.

A strange predator came upon the town; a creature glimpsed only in moonlight and shadow. A creature appearing as though a bear, but with a bird's beak rather than a muzzle. It took small animals at first. Chickens, ducks, rabbits, pets. Tearing at the cages and pens with a surgical precision, it started at Arthur's homestead, returning night after night, seeking its next meal. When Arthur's small animals had been exhausted, it moved to the next farm, then the next. When the village ran out of minor livestock, it took bigger. Again it started at Arthur's, then moved on, carving a strange pattern through town.

Then, it came for the children and women folk. Seemingly embolden by its unstopped trail of destruction and carnage, it took to claiming the lest able to protect themselves, and usually without so much as a scream. One night the children would be tucked away, the next morning they would be simply missing, usually with nothing more than a broken lantern or stray torch to suggest foul play.

While it didn't follow the usual pattern around the village, it did begin at the usual place: Arthur's farm. The first night it grabbed the youngest child (rumored to be a mistake), the next the oldest (whom with Arthur often argued), and on the third the middle child (whom Arthur truly favored). From there it randomly began to take from the town. The smith's child, then the butcher's. The general store owner's was next. When the children became too hard to take, due to increased watching over or increased rarity, it turned on the wifmen. Again, starting at Arthur's.

At this point, keen observers were likely to point out that the Constable and his family had largely been spared these hardships. An outsider, assigned to the town by the King years ago, the Constable had disliked Arthur from day one. Some rumored it was an ancient family blood feud, others claimed the Constable had Known Arthur's wife before she was married to him. Still others spoke of strange technicalities in land holding that made the Constable a tenant of Arthur's family, and therefore ineligible to vote in the council which he served.

However, those rumors were put to an end when a distraught Arthur staggered into a tavern, wild eyed and covered in blood. He described a scene of gore and bloodshed, in which him and a man whose home he was helping keep watch were attacked by the beast. Moments later, however, the new widow, who had been hiding within the house, arrived and revealed having seen the whole scene. Only her version involved Arthur attacking and slaying the man, before dragging him off towards Arthur's farm.

Seeing himself surrounded, Arthur quickly drew his dagger and opened his own throat.

Arthur Fieldsman was fucking insane.

Before any of this began, in his annual tillage of his fields, he unearthed a collection of bones. Most appeared to be deer, though more than a few he couldn't identify. Thinking little of it, as the land was ancient, he continued his farming. Come night fall, though, the voices began. Indistinct at first, mere whispers on the wind, the coming days proved stressful for Arthur. Who was speaking to him? Why did no one else hear them?

Hiding his mental break down under the veil of a moonless night, the voices drew him into the cornfields, growing louder with every step. Deeper it called him, and deeper still. By the time reached the bones, the din was deafening. Crying out to his gods for mercy, he collapsed to his knees and took up the bones. For the first time, they spoke clearly.

"We are lonely. We thirst."

Confused by this, Arthur offered water and to stay, to speak with them. But the Dead do not seek mortal company, nor crave living libations; they sought death and blood. Fetching a chicken at once, he drained the body over the bones, and left the body among them. This, for a time, sated the Bonefield, and it fell silent. Though not for long. More and more the Field cried out, more and more he gave it. He soon moved his Dedicated Field to hide his crimes, and dawned a costume used in winter traditional celebrations to hide his shame. And thus his murder spree began.

Arthur Fieldsman was fucking insane.

Or was he?

The Bone Field

Centuries ago, before the town was founded, a battle took place here between forgotten armies. Forgotten and berried in time, the dead become restless and, when finally uncovered, lashed out, making demands cryptic and hungry. They'll more than likely continue their havoc until sated. They literally have nothing else to do.

So what do the dead want? Hell if I know, let's check:

  1. Blood, at least a person's worth.
  2. No, no. More than that. MORE BLOOD.
  3. A memorial stone raised to mark the location of the battle.
  4. For vengeance to be taken out upon the enemy army.
  5. To be returned to their homeland for proper burial. But, who's bones are who's?
  6. News on the war and/or the outcome.
  7. More company! More blood! More bones!
  8. A hogshead of eels dumped on the sight (They're dead, not sane.)
  9. An oath of servitude
  10. Seriously, is this all the blood you have on you? Go get more. 
So why do your Murder Hobos care about this? Some thoughts for usage:
  • The PCs find the town completely empty, save for a crazed Arthur. He'll relay to them how the town was attacked by a strange creature crossed between a bear and an owl that comes at night, and how it has taken everyone in town. He'll plead for the heroes to stay and protect him, as the last survivor. He'll then try to get them alone. For murdering purposes. 
  • The town is currently in full terror at the mysterious killings and disappearances. The people will ask the PCs to help and someone, probably Arthur, will direct them to a cave in the hills, several miles from town. Ain't nothing in the cave, save for a hermit with several bear cloaks. He claims ignorance of the situation and should probably seem suspicious from his social ineptitude. 
  • The events above have carried out as told. The town is scared, confused and suspicious. On top of this, the Dead have begun sending Undead into the town to investigate the loss of their servant. Like, a lot of them. They do the usual undead things. 
Hellrunas will at once recognize this place as a location of power, and fully able to make additional pacts here. Arthur, in fact, nearly joined their ranks, but his mind strayed and became lost. 



To be blunt: You're hated.

Your only crime, however, is that your family name became included in a rhyming song meant to remind the people that you and yours are meant to be shunned. How'd your family name get on the list? Who knows, it was centuries ago. Since then, though, your kind as been outed from the community: forced to live in separate towns; unable to walk barefoot along roads; not even allowed to take religious services with the general public. Any attempt to do so, on your part, will be quick removal of the offending body part.

Almost as if you're some sort of curse bearing monster.

Oh, right.

the Cagot

So, your only OTHER crime is being the embodiment of what these people fear. It is highly likely that someone in your ancestry had these abilities, and got your family added to the list. Not all Cagots have these abilities, but all that have them are Cagots.

Any Wizard Sight or magical sensing used against you shows you as a creature of corruption. Even if you're a philanthropist, who's given your vast treasure to orphans. Though, no one is likely to take any money from your filthy hands. Animals Hate you and will instinctively avoid you.

Special requirement: Charisma must be 9 or below.

Starting equipment: Half normal starting currency; Duck's leg necklace

XP progression, HP, and Saves as Specialist

Bushcraft Skill as per Halfling.

Curse! At first level, and every level there after, you're able to "cultivate" a curse within you. This curse functions as per the Bestow Curse spell, and is deliverable through touch. A specific curse is determined when you begin to cultivate it. Each curse may be cast once per day, but a specific curse may only have one on going version. If cast again on a new target tomorrow, it becomes dispelled from the original target of today. Should the curse be Removed before you dispel it, you can not use it again for a week.

Closing Thoughts
I've no clue as to how this class plays, or why the hell someone would want to play it. I've simply read an article on these unfortunate group of people, who were shunned after someone said "You've got cooties!" and no one else got the joke, then had a hankering to write a class during lunch. Seems like a one trick glass pony to me, but if you're smart with the curses, seems it could be powerful.  Other abilities considered where using your blood on weapons to inflict your curses at range, and one where, in a very messy operation, you pass your cagotry on to someone else, loosing your levels, but being free of the curses. It amused me, but seemed off.

Varient: Diseases rather than curses. Same great shunning, new great taste.