Jaws AP: Black Heart of the Petrified God (part 2 of 2)

Continued from here, I present the concluding second part of Black Heart of the Petrified God, an episodic solo used to show off the wonderfulness of Jaws of the Six Serpents. In this one, Thordis gets into a dire scrap or two. Pulpy, unbridled action awaits!

page 7, panels 25-27

Thordis moved like a flame whipped by wind, circling fast along the pool’s edge, every step deadly close to the acid’s simmering hiss. The metal giant tracked her with clunking precision, turning its bulk with effort. She danced out of reach, then planted her boots and grinned savagely across the steaming divide.

“What’s wrong?” she barked, raising her blade. “Can’t swim?”

The golem marched forward, uncaring, stepping straight into the pool. Acid surged around its legs with a furious hiss, steam and bubbling froth rising as the liquid found seams in its armor. The gears shrieked and the plating smoked, but it pressed forward through the pain, each motion slower, more tortured than the last.

It reached the far bank and swung. The mace came low and fast, catching Thordis on the retreat—she hit the ground hard, wind blasted from her lungs. Her side flared with pain as the guardian thudded up onto dry stone again, joints whining in agony. She scrambled to her feet, one knee buckling, and in that moment… she heard it. The tick.

In Evelok, long ago, she'd seen one of these things—an automaton built by alchemists for a mad king. A warrior found the clockwork heart… and stopped it.

page 8, panels 28-31

The golem staggered forward, a cacophony of hissing vents, grinding gears, and leaking oil. It raised its mace again—too slow. Thordis shot beneath its bulk in a blur, boots sliding across stone as she sprang up its back like a panther finding its prey. High above the pools, in a place acid had not reached, she clung to its plating like a burr.

The giant thrashed, arms reaching back, but its range was limited. It turned and rammed its back against a support column with crushing force—stone cracked, dust flew. Thordis grit her teeth through the jolt and held fast, her eyes scanning. The ticking was louder now. There—at the base of the neck, a thin panel.

She tore it open with a savage grunt, exposing snarled copper guts. Viscous black fluid sprayed her as she thrust her blade deep, severing tubing and grinding through steel. Her fingers ripped upward, wires trailing, until the great ticking motor was revealed. The colossus reared back for one last blow—too late. Thordis leapt clear, and the thing smashed into a pillar and crumpled beneath the falling masonry.

But the tremor spread. Cracks webbed across the ceiling, stone dust fell in sheets, and the sanctum groaned like a dying beast. Thordis rolled to her feet, bloodied and breathless, as the roof threatened to collapse and bury god, guardian, and barbarian all in one final tomb.

page 9, panels 32-34

Dust rained from above and the sanctum howled in agony. Thordis turned toward the only unmoved figures—the six priests, still kneeling in their dead devotion around Ar-Saren’s crystal coffin. With no better plan and no hesitation, she sprang toward the dais, landing hard between the unmoving worshippers, boots cracking ancient stone.

She slammed her shoulder against the sarcophagus—but it did not budge. Her eyes caught a strange glint: a black amulet on a golden chain, pulsing with menace against the sorcerer-king’s chest. As she reached for it, winded and bloodied, the impossible happened—Ar-Saren’s eyes opened. Cold. Black. A curse made flesh. 

The sanctum buckled. Petrified ribs broke loose from the ceiling and crashed down like thunder. The priests—no longer statues—hissed as one, rising to strike. Thordis gasped, instinct cutting through her terror, and threw herself down the dais as claws raked the air behind her. The Heart was lost. One of her blades ruined. The tomb collapsing. With only her boots, her breath, and one blade left, she fled for the god’s throat—stone crashing all around her.

page 10, panels 35-37

She charged up the throat, but the god had not finished with her. A titanic shard of petrified bone crashed through the roof and drove her against the slick wall—acid hissed at her side, burning through fur and flesh. She snarled, teeth bared, and twisted violently, shredding her cloak as she wriggled free and surged forward in a burst of instinct and pain.

The entry chamber yawned ahead, already collapsing. The arch gave way behind her in a groaning roar of crumbling stone, but she hurled herself through the breach just before it sealed shut. A single heartbeat slower and she'd have been buried with the priests. Outside, the air hit her like a slap—the mist, the wind, the swinging vines. She didn’t pause.

She leapt for the vines as the floating corpse trembled beneath her. Acid pools ruptured, stone cracked, and jungle cries rose in the distance. As she swung down, the vine snapped her into the cliffside—another wound for the gods to count—but she held fast. Then her eyes widened. A hand—withered, jeweled, impossibly strong—latched onto her wrist from above. Ar-Saren had followed. Dead eyes gleamed as he leaned over the edge and began to pull.

page 11, panels 38-41

Her muscles screamed. Her vision blurred. The burning ache of torn flesh and crushed ribs dulled for a heartbeat as her mind plunged into memory—not escape, but warning. As Ar-Saren’s death-grip latched onto her wrist, Thordis remembered another corpse that would not rest.

Tal-Orh, the city of bells and blind prophets, where theocratic pigs ruled from towers of obsidian and smoke. She and Tijeni Toh, the silver-tongued rogue with a crooked grin and nothing to lose, had slipped into the manse of one such priest-lord, hoping to plunder a hoard fat with relics and gold. They found the vault, all right—laced in runes, bathed in silence. But the master of the house was not asleep.

He rose from his stone bed like mist rising over a barrow. Tijeni froze. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Thordis saw it—how the thing fed on fear like meat. Her gut screamed at her to run, but her instincts pulled her forward. She struck, dragged her friend clear by the collar, left her sword in the creature’s side. They escaped. But they never spoke again of what they’d seen… nor what Tijeni had whispered as the fangs pierced his skin.

Now, in the shadow of the sky-god’s broken skull, those same dead eyes stared down at her. Ar-Saren had followed her from a tomb not unlike that one. But this time, she didn’t freeze. The fear was there, but it had nowhere to go—so it became fire. And that fire became rage.

page 12, panels 42-45

His grip crushed her wrist like an iron trap, and the blood fled her hand in seconds. Dangling over the abyss, Thordis snarled and twisted—not away, but toward—swinging her body up in a savage arc. Her fingers found the chain around Ar-Saren’s neck, slick and pulsing like a living thing. She latched on with both legs and clung like a predator climbing for the kill.

The dead sorcerer hauled her closer, the other hand rising for her throat with the patience of nightmares. But Thordis writhed like a serpent, her instincts firing in wild defiance. She slipped past the second grip, chest to chest with the abomination, her trapped arm burning with numbness—but her other hand free and deadly.

With her offhand, she drew her last blade and howled. The strike came from her very soul—rage, fear, fury, and survival all twisted into steel. The scimitar bit deep, cleaving through rotted sinew, bone, and the black-throbbing heart that still hung from the chain in her right hand. The head flew free. Ar-Saren teetered backward—headless, lifeless, but somehow still standing.

Thordis fell. The chain flailed in the air. Somehow, she kept hold of both the amulet and her blade. Wind screamed in her ears as she plummeted backward into the green fog below. Above her, the corpse-king’s body swayed as stone and bone cracked and began to collapse. She vanished into the jungle mists like a crimson comet—bloody with burning embers of rage.

page 13, panels 46-49

The jungle floor rose like a fist. Branches snapped, vines tore, and stone hammered into her spine as Thordis crashed through the canopy in a storm of blood and splinters. When she struck ground, the breath left her body in a violent gust. She rolled to a stop in a twisted heap, ribs shrieking in protest—alive, but only barely.

From a stony ridge overlooking the jungle canopy, Zoryn and Videric surveyed the devastation. Where once a petrified god hovered above the trees, now only ruin remained—scattered bones and pulverized temple buried beneath fresh foliage and choking dust. “She’s gone,” Zoryn spat, eyes wild with rage. “No body. No blade. No heart.” Videric’s jaw clenched in silence. Ana, still bound, kept her gaze low—but her eyes searched the treeline for the impossible.

Then it happened. Leaves rustled. A shadow limped from the brush. Thordis—battered, bloodied, barely standing—emerged with the pulsing black heart clutched in one hand and a blade dragging in the other. Zoryn shrieked and yanked Ana close like a shield. Videric’s hand drifted to his sword. “Learning not to trust sorcerers now, eh?” Thordis growled through cracked lips.

Zoryn hissed, “Give me the heart or she dies!”  

Thordis raised it slowly, letting the thing pulse in the firelight. “Kill her,” she said, voice low and sharp, “and your life ends before you draw your next breath.”  

She dangled it with a bloody grin. “Let her go…”  

But then, in the distance—the hoots. The trees behind them stirred. The ape-men were returning, and their rage had reawakened.

page 14, panels 50-52

The standoff stretched thin as gut-string. Thordis, half-dead but unyielding. Ana, breathing quick and quiet. Zoryn, sweat slick on his pale brow. And Videric—gripping his blade, jaw set, unreadable. “Tell me, southlander,” Thordis rasped, “you ready for the biggest gut-stab of your life? ’Cause that pale leech is eyeing your back like it’s a feast.” Her words landed like arrows—but didn’t stick.

“Nice try,” Videric sneered. “Still two against one.”  

But the hoots were closer now. The jungle pulsed with movement. Something big was coming.

“Here,” Thordis said, raising her hand. “Catch.”  

She flung the amulet high into the air—an arc of glinting black fire—straight toward the sound of the approaching ape-men. Both men's heads snapped toward it. Zoryn shrieked, lunging wildly, arms outstretched toward the trinket and the peril behind it. In that single heartbeat, Thordis moved like lightning.

She seized Ana’s wrist and tore off into the jungle in the opposite direction, boots hammering earth. Behind them, Zoryn vanished into the brush with a scream, lost to shadow and madness. Videric stood frozen, sword half-drawn, caught between gold, girl, and grave.

Epilogue

The road was rough, the sun low and mean. Thordis and Ana trudged through the red dust toward the outskirts of a shanty town pressed against the jungle’s edge—no name, just a scattering of lean-tos and planked hovels crawling with refugees, smugglers, and the lost. Both women looked half-dead: clothes torn, faces streaked with dirt and blood, shadows under their eyes deep as wells. Thordis limped with every step, one hand never far from her remaining blade.

Ana glanced up, voice soft but certain. “You saved my life. I owe you everything.”

Thordis snorted. “We’ve got to break this habit.”

Ana smiled faintly. “I’ll be fine.”

Thordis didn’t answer right away. Her eyes swept the settlement—watchful, instinctive. She smelled desperation in the air, like old meat and wet coin. And somewhere out there, behind them in the trees or already inside the walls, Videric might be watching too. She shifted the weight of her scimitar on her hip, grimacing.

“No,” she said. “You’re not fine. You’re staying close. Right where I can see you.”

They walked on—two figures cut from different cloth, but bound now by blood, fire, and the black heart of a god.

Jaws AP: Black Heart of the Petrified God (part 1 of 2)

 Actual Play – Jaws of the Six Serpents

Black Heart of the Petrified God, Part 1

In this post, I present an actual solo play report using Jaws of the Six Serpents. This comes on the heels of my full Jaws review. If you missed it, you can find that review here.

Even though this was a short, self-contained one-shot adventure, the report itself turned out longer than expected. So I’ll be posting it in two parts.

A Few Notes Before We Begin

While I use a handful of solo RPG tools, I won’t be spotlighting them too much here. The main reason for this post is to shine a bit more light on this indie gem. I’ve posted a few PDQ-related actual plays before, but rarely do they dig into the mechanics the way I’d like.

For this adventure, I’m using The Random Location Crafter from the Mythic toolkit, specifically the version featured in Mythic Magazine issues #2 and #3. I won’t go into the mechanical weeds on that tool, other than to say this was a dungeon crawl with zero prep—everything was rolled randomly using the theme and descriptive tables. It worked beautifully. I’ve had great experiences with Location Crafter-style games, and in this session, it served as my sole oracle and adventure driver. I may occasionally roll yes/no questions with a basic d6, but that’s the extent of my GM emulation tools.

As for style, I adopted a structure I once saw on The Big Purple (RPG.net), though I doubt I could find the original post now. Credit to the excellent mind behind it. The format is simple:

• One paragraph of setting fluff

• Three paragraphs of action (inspired by pulp fiction or high-octane comic strips)

• Then stop.
  Bonus points if you end on a cliffhanger. The idea is to emulate a 3–4-panel comic strip per "page." That’s the reason for the structure and tone.

Off to the side in my own notes are mechanical summaries for each "page" of panels.

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Meet Our Heroine: Red Thordis

Stat Block (Jaws of the Six Serpents)

Strengths

• Good [+2] Faculty: A Cold Heart and a Burning Temper

• Good [+2] Peoples: Bloody Reaver

• Good [+2] Driver: Take What Can Be Taken

• Good [+2] Peak-Level Athleticism

• Good [+2] A Sell-Sword Once Upon a Time

• Good [+2] A Thousand Leagues in These Boots

• Good [+2] Swordplay

• Good [+2] Primitive Instincts, Feral and Quick

Weaknesses

• Poor [-2] Uncivilized

Learning Points: 0
Fortune Points: 1
Props: Average [0] Pair of Curved Scimitars
Average [0] Skins and Furs
Expert [+4] Torches (supply prop)

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Background: Red Thordis

Born beneath the howling winds of the frozen north, Red Thordis was the daughter of a fearsome chieftain and heir to a legacy of war. From childhood, she was forged in blood and battle—her swordplay swift, her instincts feral. But when she slew the man chosen to be her husband in the heat of a raid, rejecting the ancient customs of her clan, she was cast out as a pariah. Alone but unbowed, she turned her exile into legend.

Thordis now roams a savage world of ruins, jungles, and empires, her name whispered in awe and fear. Where others seek shelter, she walks into the storm—trusting only her blades and her brutal code. Every step of her journey is driven by a defiant hunger to prove she needs no master, no tribe, no destiny. Her battle cries echo from the mountains of her youth to the cursed temples of forgotten gods.

Tall and sinewed like a huntress carved from ice and fire, Thordis bears the scars of a hundred battles and tattoos that sing of her Aesir bloodline. Her crimson hair and piercing blue eyes strike fear and fascination in equal measure. With her twin scimitars at her side and a soul like sharpened steel, she is a force of nature—a blazing fury against a world of monsters, tyrants, and fate itself.

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Black Heart of the Petrified God

Preface: The Heart of Ar-Saren

“Tell your pale sorcerer if the girl dies, I’ll split his skull like a melon and piss in the halves.”

So spoke Red Thordis—scarred, towering, and fire-haired—clad in furs that stank of blood and jungle sweat. Her eyes, twin shards of glacial blue, cut through cowards and false gods alike. She was a she-wolf of the north, outcast and reaver, whose blades sang only for coin… or vengeance.

They came to her on the edge of the world—Zoryn the Pale, whose eyes gleamed like twin moons over a grave, and Videric, the once-brother-in-arms turned jackal. Together, they brought chains of flesh and duty: a girl named Ana, bound and wide-eyed, whom Thordis had once saved from slavers in the high passes. A debt paid in blood now held her heart hostage.

Zoryn’s voice slithered like rotwater through stone. He spoke of a relic lost to the gods—a pulsing crystal called the Heart of Ar-Saren, said to throb still in the ribcage of a petrified sky-titan above the jungle of Zal. A corpse-temple suspended in air, hidden for eons in the mists above the canopy, shunned by tribes who whisper of cursed dreams and sleepers who stir in stillness. Ar-Saren, they say, was no mere king, but a sorcerer who bent time and death itself to his will.

The bargain was struck before the breath of refusal could leave her throat. In exchange for Ana’s life, Thordis must climb into the dead god’s body—alone—and steal its black and beating heart. No map. No promise. Just her blades, her will, and the curse-laced winds that howl around the floating tomb. For Red Thordis, exile of the north and slayer of ten thousand dead, it is not the danger that stirs fear—but the question: what if the god is not dead at all?

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Page 1: Panels 1–4

Above the steaming canopy of the Zal jungle floats a nightmare fossil: a god’s corpse, locked in mid-air by forgotten sorcery, swaddled in mist and strangled with parasitic vines. The temple, built into its stone-fleshed spine, stretches across its massive form—now more ruin than monument. Wind howls across the open surface, where jungle creepers dangle like ropes from heaven. Moss, orchids, and damp lichen coat its bones, but atop its cranium sits a yawning skull-gate—the mouth of the dead god—and a clan of beasts that guards it.

Red Thordis grunted as she hauled herself upward, muscles flexing with effortless strength. The vines strained and groaned but held as she climbed toward the island of bone and overgrown ruin. Sweat streamed down her temples as her boots found purchase on a slab of ancient ribs slick with moss; a moment later, she vaulted over the edge and crouched low among the ferns and rubble.

A monstrous ape sat atop the skull, its body massive, posture too upright, its black eyes glinting with cruel knowing. It saw her at once. With a deafening roar, it bellowed an alarm, and from the underbrush came hoots, snarls, and a barrage of stones hurled with deadly force. Thordis snarled a curse and rolled into a cluster of broken masonry, the hail of rock splintering just overhead.

She crouched in shadow, catching her breath, and understood at once—this was no temple, it was a den. The beasts had claimed the floating corpse as their holy ground. She pulled flint and steel from her pack, and with two quick strikes, brought a torch to life just as the sound of heavy footfalls pounded closer. But before she could rise, a new shape blotted out the gray light above—massive, hulking, and silent.

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Page 2: Panels 5–7

Thordis spun on the balls of her feet, torch flaring in one hand, her scimitar hissing from its sheath in the other. She bared her teeth and shrieked like a beast possessed, the fire casting wild shadows across her face and the surrounding stones in the misty gloom. The towering ape-man reared back, uncertain now, and the flame's hiss made even its muscled chest flinch.

The brute stalked toward her, but each step met a counterstep—Thordis circling, snarling, the blade tip dancing. She matched its menace with a feral confidence that unnerved even this inhuman beast. The torch spat sparks as she feinted forward with a scream, and the male flinched, gave a great, grudging howl—and backed away into the vines.

The spell broke. The rest of the apemen scattered with hoots and cries, leaping into the jungle mist below. Thordis remained alone, breathing hard, watching their shadows vanish. But their cries still echoed far below—mocking, waiting—and before her yawned the god’s skull, dark and open like a mouth waiting to swallow her whole.

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Page 3: Panels 8–11

The god's skull opened into a domed chamber of dust and echoes, where the breath of time clung like mold. Cracks in the petrified bone let in shafts of gray light, revealing broken pottery strewn across the floor—once offerings to Ar-Saren the sorcerer-king entombed within the cadaverous titan, now forgotten shards of some ancient devotion. Crumbling stairs climbed the curved walls to alcoves heavy with dust and urns, where brittle silence reigned. The air here was thick and dry, unnaturally so, and the sweat of the jungle evaporated from Thordis’s skin like a fever lifting.

She advanced slowly, the torch crackling in her fist, its light dancing over cracked stone and tarnished relics. A figure knelt in the gloom ahead—robed, motionless, bowed before an urn. For a moment, Thordis believed it a mummy left in reverence, some priest entombed mid-prayer. But then the figure moved.

It turned, revealing leathery skin stretched tight across a sunken face, its lips split with age and madness. A rasping voice oozed from the thing as it rose on all fours and lunged—chanting in a dead tongue that clawed at the mind. Thordis hissed a curse and stepped back fast, blade raised, torch flaring between them.

The creature did not halt. It skittered toward her, gaunt and relentless, its voice climbing in tone until the phrase became a shriek—one repeated over and over like a demand from a forgotten god. Thordis braced herself as the undead priest’s face loomed into hers, inches from the flame, whispering words she could not understand… but which chilled her to the bone.

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Page 4: Panels 12–15

The priest’s rasping voice climbed into an unearthly crescendo, demanding something—an offering, a prayer, perhaps a sacred name Thordis would never speak. She gave none. With a snarl, she raised her blade and struck hard, the torch’s flare casting the thing’s face in molten orange just before her edge cracked against brittle flesh.

The blow should have split a mortal skull. It staggered instead, still chanting. Thordis howled and drove into it with a fury, hacking again and again, sword flashing, limbs flying, until the creature collapsed in a dry storm of bone-dust and shredded robes. Her breath tore ragged from her throat—her arms ached, and pain throbbed in her side where the thing’s claws had grazed her.

She spat and kicked the fragments into a corner before turning back to the urns. She pried a few open with the edge of her scimitar, revealing only the blackened crumbs of what might once have been food. Then her gaze froze—etched into the wall were crude carvings: small, hunched figures bowing before towering warriors in strange armor. The scene dragged at something buried deep—memories of her own people in the north, when dark-sailed invaders came with fire and oaths of dominion. They hadn’t bowed. The clans had answered steel with steel, howling into the blizzard, and sent the southern dogs fleeing back to their ships.

“Looks like these poor bastards bent the knee,” she muttered, spitting. “Should’ve learned to bite before they learned to bow.”

The floor dipped, descending into the petrified throat of the god. The torch guttered as foul air drifted up from below—wet, cloying, and wrong. Thordis paused, nostrils flared, as the reek of rot and something older than corpses curled up to meet her.

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Page 5: Panels 16–19

The stair descended deep into the petrified god’s throat, a tunnel both architectural and anatomical—rounded, ribbed, and damp with unnatural slickness. The air grew heavier with each step, filled with a stinging, acidic stench that clung to the nostrils and gnawed at the senses. Echoes danced with eerie precision, each footfall rebounding down the stone gullet like war drums in a cavern of giants. It was not just a place of death—it was a place that remembered.

Torch in hand, Thordis moved warily, nostrils twitching at the sour reek that curled up from the depths. She heard it now: chanting, low and rhythmic, a cadence spoken by many mouths in perfect unison far below. Her eyes narrowed. Whatever lived in the god’s belly was not praying to anything sane.

She tried to slow her pace, placing her feet toe-to-heel, stalking like a panther across ancient flagstones. But the grit betrayed her—each step rasped like steel across bone, and the tunnel seemed to drink in and echo every sound louder than the last. She froze, heart hammering, half-expecting the chant to pause or shift—but it continued undisturbed, steady as a heartbeat.

The air grew wet. Something viscous dripped from the ceiling and ran in greasy rivulets along the curved walls, burning slightly where it touched bare skin. The acidic stench thickened into something unmistakable. Thordis looked ahead and clenched her teeth. Was she walking into the beast’s stomach?

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Page 6: Panels 20–24

The steps ended at a great landing where the air thickened to syrup and the walls fell away. Thordis stood in the belly of the god—its sanctum—a vast, vaulted space shaped like a ribcage of black stone and ivory bone. Light pierced down through unseen vents high above, casting skeletal beams upon the floor, which was marked by shallow pools of hissing green acid arranged in haunting geometric patterns. The heat pressed down like a furnace, and every breath stung her lungs.

At the center of the chamber rose a crystal sarcophagus, tall and gleaming, cradling a perfectly preserved corpse clad in gold-stitched robes: Ar-Saren himself, hands crossed in ceremonial repose. Six mummified priests stood around it, murmuring their eternal chant in perfect rhythm, blind to Thordis's presence. But something else had noticed. 

A titanic figure detached itself from the shadows near the far wall. Clad in overlapping armor plates like the scales of a giant insect, it bore a mace the size of a tree trunk and a faceplate of solid bronze, expressionless and ancient. It moved with thunderous steps, each one shaking the sanctum floor. Beneath its cuirass, clockwork gears hissed and clicked with mechanical fury.

Thordis dropped her torch, letting it roll and gutter near a pool, and drew her second scimitar with a hiss of steel. “Come on, then,” she growled, backing into the narrow path between two acid pools, boots crunching on salt-slick stone. “Let’s get this over with!” The giant closed in with relentless pace, mace raised.

She lunged, blades flashing in a storm of motion, one swing after the other. But the curved edges clanged off its plated chest with the sound of steel striking an anvil. Pain surged up her arms. The guardian swung—and Thordis, too quick to think, brought her blade up to block. A terrible crash echoed as the mace connected, sending her scimitar flying, end over end, into the nearest pool of acid where it sizzled and vanished. Thordis staggered back, breath heaving, one blade left, a wall at her back. The automaton loomed above her, gears grinding, mace raised for the killing blow.

[Continued in Part 2 →]

Scions of Ziklii

Time to dust off the old blog for a new play report.

Using the Jaws of the Six Serpents roleplaying game (the PDQ system) and the Nine Questions, the story follows standard Sword-and-Sorcery themes and is set in a post-apocalyptic world similar to that in Thundarr the Barbarian.

This actual play was written long ago. I have refreshed and tidied up some language. Sadly, this is not an AP containing much mechanical detail other than a few stat blocks which can be used as examples of character construction and enemies. Given a recent request for me to publish something featuring a PDQ rpg (Prose Descriptive Qualities), Jaws has remained one of my all time favorite table tops in the decade or more that it has been around. In my opinion, it has held up remarkably well of the years. I’m always of a mind that Jaws can always get more love from the gaming community, as can many of the great PDQ titles.

In a nutshell, players roll 2d6 adding the MODs of their relevant Qualities and compare to a static TN or against one another in the case of opposed rolls. The interesting thing is that characters take the margin in damage directly off of each Quality, reducing it in rank. When all ranks are zeroed out, the character is taken out. The first Quality damaged in a conflict generates a story hook which the GM (or solo player) can create additional personal interest, side quests, or additional richness to the story. Jaws characters are quite resilient, making them good candidates for solo gaming. They are killed when dramatically appropriate. Normally, a GM assigns one of three danger levels, meaning PCs are merely incapacitated, receive some lasting scar, or in the worst case (Doom) perish entirely.

The fantastic freeform magic system as well as a number of other great aspects make Jaws of the Six Serpents a great toolkit for all sorts of sword and sorcery goodness. It can model just about anything one can imagine easily. It is a very satisfying and complete game for such a lightweight selection.

Without further ado, meet our heroine:

Doria Nightraven

Dark-haired and pale-skinned, Doria is an attractive yet imposing figure. She hails from the forgotten north, a place few have seen, finding her way by virtue of the sword. She has served as bodyguard, mercenary, and adventurer.

Strengths.

• Good [+2] People: Survivalist
• Good [+2] Driver: Revenge Against the Wizards
• Good [+2] Faculty: Peak Level Athleticism
• Expert [+4] Swordplay
• Average [+0] Old Earth History
• Good [+2] Quick as a Cat
• Good [+2] Willful as the Devil
• Average [+0] Charm: A Way with Crows*

Weaknesses.

• Poor [-2] Unnerving Presence

Fortune Points: 1
Learning Points: 0
Props: Average [0] dirk, Average [0] broadsword

* This Charm ability allows Doria to have an affinity with these feathered creatures, and may summon a group upon need to confuse, bewilder, or for diversion.

PARTICULARS

Thematic Anchor: “Survival of the Strongest…”
Heroic Motivation: Track down Amalfus the Many-Eyed

PRELUDE

Ziklii, a great city amid a sea of barren waste – a haven for scum of all corners of Earth and a capitol of decadence and villainy. Scions hid ages-long within their citadels twisted by mutations, and self-proclaimed lords entertained themselves with spectacles of blood and gore.

Here was the perfect place for Doria Nightraven of the forgotten north to hunt her prey. Few other locales harbored as many wizards as Ziklii. Here she would finally mete out justice.

She strolled the filthy squalor-stricken streets. Dressed in a harness and rough leathers of black and with knee-high riding boots, she was a formidable sight of predatory prowess and wild beauty. The pommel of a leather-wrapped hilt extended above one shoulder and a dagger at her side foretold of her profession. The few scars on her white skin and fierce preserved beauty vouched for her talent.

She scanned the vermin of the street through hard emerald green eyes. Here she would find a place to hunt and kill, and perhaps she might also find reward. It was said that here in Ziklii, the Jewel of the Seven Wastes, Amalfus the Many-Eyed was said to lair. Doria the warrior-woman would soon know.

1. Procession on the Way of Serpents

An enemy pursues new goals and takes aggressive action against unsuspecting victims.

Doria had made it a habit to haunt the Way of Serpents, a narrow thoroughfare that led through the poorest sections of the city from the south gate to the arena. She observed a steady traffic of travelers, traders, robed priests, and mercenaries. However, today, she observed a procession of unlikely folk – vagabonds, smiths, cart wrights, as well as folk without respectable trades. They were chained and escorted by armed men, following a litter borne by four slaves, its occupant shrouded behind silk screens.

Doria assumed their ultimate destination of the arena. Folk lined the narrow street crying their cheers and taunts. However, those jeers soon quieted as news spread that this poor lot was destined for a different, less glamorous, and gruesome fate.

Doria took a step closer out of the shadows. She tried to descry the occupant in the litter. A fat purplish hand was all she could see, but that was more than enough to confirm her suspicions. The only mutants to be treated as kings were sorcerers. Suddenly, the she-warrior had a vivid scene playing out in her head. A hand strayed to her sword hilt.

None paid her any attention as they all watched the procession in a mournful mood full of pity and loathing. The sorcerer’s escort also paid her no heed. If she were to strike, she would have but a momentary advantage against such numbers. No, it was better to wait and see. Instead, she blended into the crowd and followed at a safe distance.

The procession continued, and Doria remained close.

2. The Leaping Lurker

An encounter features intrigue and pursuit.

As Doria shadowed the train, high above on the rooftops a shadowy shape darted from edge to edge, keenly observing the she-warrior’s progress. A darkened hood shadowed the figure’s features. When it encountered an alley or roadway, it leapt across the gap like a grasshopper, impossibly high and impossibly fast.

Golem (Minion Construct)

These appear as artificial humanoids of any variety of shapes, sizes, and colors. Many are given some form of intelligence through sorcery.

Strengths.

• Average [+0] Intelligence
• Expert [+4] Damage Resistance*
• Expert [+4] Leaps Like a Grasshopper
• Good [+2] Observant
• Good [+2] Strength
• Good [+2] Skill with Blades

Weaknesses.

• Poor [-2] Aversion To Water

Intent on the group before her as they neared their destination, Doria was oblivious to the threat from above.

The figure continuing to follow the follower, observing her every move. Ahead, the procession turned onto Wizard’s Way and passed into the desolate quarter where the sorcerers of Ziklii roosted. Before them stood a towering monstrosity built from the ruins of Earth’s past — a massive half-buried craft of some sort — a skyship made of metal overgrown with hanging vines. Under its considerable girth the group disappeared.

3. Confrontation with a Construct

An encounter features revelation and combat.

Doria was watching and waiting and weighing her options, when a dark shape dropped not far from her side. A figured swathed in a dark cloak rose to slightly taller than man height. Its form had gangly proportions. In a bound, it leapt to arm’s length from the warrior woman, and the hood fell to reveal a gaunt inhuman face fashioned from metal or some other pliable substance. Glowing yellow eyes evaluated her coldly.

“None are to enter the warrens of the sorcerers,” it said with a cold metallic voice. Then it lunged forward to grasp the warrior.

The fierce independence flared in Doria’s heart as the threat made itself known. She rolled away, coming clear and sweeping out her longsword with a steely skirl. She eyed the inhuman thing, repulsed by its unnatural appearance.

“You will not take me!” she promised.

The creature leapt forward again, drawing out its own blade, and battle was joined. Doria brought her guard up. She was quick as lightning, and after a few exchanges, she took advantage of an opening, slashing through the creature’s abdomen. The blow should have felled an ox, but the attacker became jarred from hitting something solid. The thing’s eyes flashed in momentary astonishment. She had obviously hurt it, but she wasn’t sure she did more damage than the hurt she felt in her arm.

The two fought like wildcats, exchanging places in the blink of an eye and moving like perfectly synchronized dancers. Where the creature moved with effective but stiff motion, Doria moved with sinuous grace. She found a few more openings, and each managed to pierce the thing’s exoskeleton, though it should have slain a veteran warrior thrice over. The creature managed to score a minor touch, and a cut bled about the warrior’s left shoulder.

The animation leapt back several strides. It made strange whining and whirring sounds. It was clearly agitated by its nervous movements and the flashing of its eyes. It looked up, and vaulted impossibly high, disappearing about the rooftops.

4. A Way Into the Fortress

Doria took a moment to catch her breath, watching for signs of the leaping construct. Seeing none, she returned her eyes to the hulking Old Earth vessel draped with growth. By now, her presence must have been noticed.

Sword still in hand, she stood poised ready to charge ahead. She looked to the air. Not far, several crows roosted around the square bickering noisily. Doria put a hand to her mouth and called out in a shrill voice. Immediately the birds stirred and took to the air. The squawking mass of birds circled and then darted in the opening after the procession that had disappeared. Doria was no longer where she had been a moment earlier.

In the shadows under the ruined aircraft’s girth, Doria crouched and allowed her eyes to adjust. She scanned the surroundings as the noisy ravens circled above. She saw no sentinels. Instead, there stood a massive seal of metal that led to the interior of the citadel.

Doria needed little confirmation to know that the massive portal was locked. She was learned in some issues of Old Earth History — the thousands of years before the coming of mutants, the sundering of the seas, and the breaking of the moon when humanity was at its height. Much science came from this early time, though few, except the sorcerers and cult orders, knew their operation or secrets.

She stood and approached the door. Examining it, she realized science clearly was the mechanism, but its operation or trigger was beyond her ken. She backed away. She would need to find an alternate entrance.

She left the fortress’s threshold and circled around, seeking another point of entry. She found another place — a sheer climb among hanging tendrils of orange and red vegetation. Among these she began to climb hand over hand. High up she clambered. At the top, she found a terrace of sorts and crept in.

5. An Alarm Triggered

An encounter of betrayal.

As soon as Doria set foot within, a loud blaring scream bleated at even intervals with red and yellow flashing lights from old refurbished instruments. Down a corridor from her present chamber, she heard the approach of footsteps and yells by sentinels.

Rather than run, Doria again drew her blade from behind her back and set herself ready to meet any challenge. She set herself against the wall beside the corridor and listened for the enemy’s approach. She waited until their panting and boot steps were close, then she leapt out, sword at the ready.

• Good [+2] Mutant Guards (eight in total)

Furiously, Doria slashed and hacked, dropping one purple-skinned mutant and then another. There were eight in total, and they were relentless. The warrior-woman parried a jarring blow that numbed her shoulder, and another opened a nasty wound high on her left thigh. She kept fighting, and now the guards had to climb over three bodies to get at the intruder. Doria had to give up ground, and the remaining five warriors swarmed in around her. Yet, she kept them at bay.

She spun and whirled in her circle, striking and parrying. Sweat matted her dark hair to her face, and now there was blood along her arm — she had no idea if it was hers or not, but she fought on. Now, only three remained.

“Go warn the wizard!” one called out.

The two remaining cornered the wildcat to allow their companion to retreat. Doria was further enraged, and pressed her attack in an unbridled display of reckless fury. A growl of sorts escaped her lips as she leapt forward.

Two fell back and couldn’t defend against the ferocity and went down with screams. Doria leapt over the bodies and slashed at the remaining guard before the fool had a chance to turn and flee. The warrioress took in gulps of air as she surveyed the carnage around her. However, she delayed herself no more.

6. Battle in the Throne Room

A do-or-die encounter featuring combat.

The corridor led along a dimly lit grated way. Ahead, it opened to a wider area. As Doria traversed it, she realized that the passage continued to become a catwalk above some larger storage area. She came within a few steps. Suddenly, a steel door slid shut behind her and more warning sirens went off.

She was trapped in the open, and numerous bright lights were aimed in her direction. There was nowhere to go but forward. When she stepped in the open space, she heard warning shouts. Looking down, she was in some large place of congregation. Dozens of guards stood in a circle around the shackled folk that had been recently ushered within. All eyes were on Doria.

Near to them was a throne of sorts. Atop it sat a robed figure. He wore strange multi-colored robes. He was bald with long blue whiskers hanging from his jowls to his lap. Looking up at Doria, she swore she could see what appeared to be red glowing dots about his eyes. There could be no doubt that this was Amalfus the Many-Eyed.

The sorcerer yelled an order and the guards immediately turned to Doria with crossbows at the ready.

Doria thought quickly. Ahead, the catwalk continued to another corridor system. That, too, was closed. On the opposite wall, numerous cables and counterbalances hung to the floor below. There was only one escape — to the floor below.

The she-warrior charged across as arrows rained about her from the floor below. She was struck twice, one missile grazing her shoulder and one sticking painfully in her thigh. She fought stoically through the pain and took cover across the way behind a blind. She sheathed her sword again behind her back and broke off the shaft of the arrow feathering her leg.

Next, she vaulted over the catwalk rail, grabbed a handful of hanging line, and swung down. She landed hard, but on her feet in a crouch like a cat. Standing, she drew her sword again and waded into battle.

All at once, the score of guards drew their own axes and spears and descended upon Doria in droves. From behind, Amalfus got up from his seat and made a hasty exit down a darkened rear passage.

Bleeding with the wicked and terrible mask of the angel of death, Doria choreographed a sinuous and deadly dance. Wherever her blade flashed, screams and spraying blood erupted. The screams of the terrified captives created a panic and all chaos broke loose.

• There are 11 Average [0] Warriors

Doria waded in. Those wielding bows could no longer make effective use of them. In close quarters, the she-warrior’s broadsword and her honed skill cleaved through the ranks until there were none left standing to oppose her. Any remaining fled along with the captives despite their encumbering chains. Doria hefted her blade, but faced no new challenge.

Suddenly, more sirens blared and more guards approached. Doria fled, covered in blood and possessed with a vengeful blood rage that could no longer be quelled.

7. The Wizard’s Demon

A scene featuring pursuit.

Doria ducked down the narrow corridor through which the wizard fled. Her pain, fear, and weariness were all gone, hidden behind a screen of revenge and bloodlust, fueling her with an endless well of energy. Her goal was near at hand!

Doria stopped midway along the dark corridor. The air felt close and something unseen threatened with unknown and unreasonable terror. She felt that something was in the passage with her.

Ahead, she could descry nothing in the darkness. There was only a deeper black in the deepening shadows ahead. Something blotted out all light, and all hope with it. She heard a snort through large lungs. The breath of something caressed her blood-caked cheek, smelling of death itself. Then she felt the thing step and the floor trembled. It was followed by another tremble and another in increasing tempo. The thing charged her and let out a hideous roar like the chorus of the damned.

Guardian Demon (Demon Ape)

This is a relatively modest threat from the nearer reaches, suitable for a sorcerer to call forth from behind the wall hangings when confronted by fairly new player characters. (It’s based on the giant ape in Fierce beasts.) It appears like a huge ape with night-black hair and red eyes.

Strengths.

• Master [+6] Strong
• Expert [+4] Tough
• Good [+2] Fierce
• Good [+2] Keen Senses
• Good [+2] Climbing
• Good [+2] Camouflage in Darkness
• Average [+0] Shocking Appearance*
• Average [+0] Darksense*

Doria turned and ran again with all her former vengeful ire turning to fear. She heard something terrible coming up behind her impossibly fast and unstoppable. She could almost feel the thing’s ghastly heat.

She returned to the great room, again teeming with guards. She leapt to her hands and knees at the foot of an exultant guard poised to strike. However, the mutant noted the approaching horror and the expression on his face melted from joy to terror.

Leaping over Doria and slamming into the guard, a huge muscular black shape exploded from the tunnel with a terrifying force and a bloodcurdling scream louder than an army’s war cry.

Panic scattered the folk in the room again with even greater effect than Doria had achieved before. Guards and slaves alike trampled one another to get free of the charging fiend. A monster stood in the center shrieking and spreading great arms as thick as tree trunks which ended in muscular talons. A black devil stood there exulting in its tremendous dark power. It looked like a great black ape, but larger, bulging with exaggerated corded muscles. Its fur was blacker than jet or any known color known by mortals as black. Its eyes were red like burning brimstone — pinpoints of light that looked into the depths of hell.

[after a contest of chasing, Doria resists the thing’s shocking appearance]

The thing turned toward Doria who was momentary frozen by fear. The thing charged, scattering furnishings in its stampede. Doria sucked in a breath and readied herself, girded in honor and courage that somehow welled to the surface at the moment it was needed.

The she-warrior slashed with perfect timing, and rolled to avoid massive limbs that could fell an old oak. She straightened up as the thing rushed past to explode into a furnace, sending pieces of metal and ash through the air. A trail of oil-like liquid marked the horror’s passage.

Doria quickly readied herself for another charge, taking a stance and gripping her sword hilt two handed and shading her eyes with its dripping naked length. She set herself in grim anticipation. The thing appeared beyond the settling debris and charged again.

This time, the sword was batted aside and the monster bore down on its singular and seemingly overwhelmed prey. Doria strove with the unholy beast, tangling like two beasts. She danced with it, striking with hot steel while deadly strong talons slashed in return.

Neither was able to score the final death blow, until Doria gave up ground. With an opening between them, the ape demon pressed for one last charge. This time, Doria did not rely on cat like agility, but instead braced for the attack. She set her blade against an iron girder ultimately impaling the beast through the heart. Knocked back by the force, she was awed as the creature backed away, bubbling with gouts of black viscous fluid. It screamed a mighty challenge, but the fight was not yet fully beaten from it.

Again it closed, but its energy was lessened. Doria was the quicker and finally scored the final touch. The creature fell with a scream, and its form melted away to nothingness.

Stunned, Doria examined herself to find that she was uninjured by the experience, though highly wearied.

8. The Fall of Amalfus the Many-Eyed

A final showdown in which the enemy nears completion of his goals and takes aggressive action against unsuspecting victims.

Amalfus the Many-Eyed

Strengths.

• Expert [+4] Genius Intellect
• Good [+2] Arcane Knowledge
• Good [+2] Seeks Unimaginable Power
• Expert [+4] Sorcerer*
• Good [+2] Old Earth History
• Good [+2] Disciplined

Weaknesses.

• Poor [-2] Insane
• Poor [-2] Arrogant

Props. Expert [+2] Ruby, Good [+2] Sack of Gold, Average [0] Dagger

Doria flew down the darkened corridor. She came to a medium-sized round room. The middle of the room sank with a few steps. A grate of steel with a single door screened the inner portion from the outer. The door was closed and locked.

Steel Cage

Strengths.

• Master [+6] Strong
• Good [+2] Locked
• Good [+2] Reinforced

Beyond the gate, five men and women were strapped to chairs, struggling against their restraints. They screamed in horror. Most were attached to some strange apparatus festooned with connecting hoses and cords. One by one, Amalfus attended to the apparatus and each victim. At the very center was some sort of construct that hummed with energy and buzzed with flickering lights.

Doria tried the gate, but it was locked fast. At that point, the sorcerer turned, his red eyes aflame with evil delight.

“The sword wench!” he said. “You’re too late to save these folk. Soon, they will be dead and I will absorb great power and turn back the sands of time!”

Doria looked on the folk from behind the fence with honest compassion. Her true goal, however, was not one of liberation, but one of vengeance. Now, behind the fence she felt helpless.

“You’re mad, Amalfus!” she proclaimed.

“You have me at a loss,” the sorcerer replied. “You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are. It matters little! Soon you will be dead, and I as hale as a young lad!”

“You are wrong, sorcerer! I am Doria Nightraven of the forgotten north, where it was that you and your consortium destroyed villages, killed and enslaved my kin! It is you that shall be dead!”

With that, Doria kicked in the gate with astonishing strength and ferocity. The sound reverberated loudly like a great drum.

By the second hard kick, steel mesh began to give way, and the post securing the fence bent noticeably.

“Impossible!” muttered Amalfus.

The sorcerer interrupted his work and began chanting. His hands worked strange gestures and shapes above his head. Slowly, a mote of light appeared in the air between his hands and began to dance. Something went amiss, for whatever reason. He doubled over in pain.

Doria counted her blessing and kicked again. With her persistence, the lock finally gave way. Doria drew her sword and stalked in, the promise of death on her grim features. Amalfus stepped back in fear as the approaching bloodstained apparition approached.

Then, the sorcerer’s eyes widened in elation. “Ah, Golgon!”

Doria followed the sorcerer’s gaze. She turned suddenly to face the strange leaping robed thing she had battled before entering the fortress. The creature leapt forward with steel in its hand. Doria had but a moment to prepare her defenses.

Steel skirled as the two intertwined in a ferocious melee. The construct countered Doria thrust for thrust. The few openings she had, she seemed not to make a dint in the yellow-eyed thing. In the meanwhile, Amalfus started his incantation anew. Moments passed and still, there seemed no immediate end to the exchange with Golgon.

[here, Doria used the Digging Down Deep option, converting learning points to fortune points and the Hell for Leather option to save the day]

Doria knew her doom was upon her. The sorcerer crescendoed, rising in pitch in anticipation of the powerful magic’s release. In desperation, the warrioress withdrew to the far corner of the cage. In one fluid motion, she drew her dirk and flicked it at the sorcerer. She pivoted back to the creature just in time to parry another blow.

The dagger flew end over end, striking Amalfus square in the chest. His look was open-mouthed, one of complete shock. The hilt protruded from his breast, with a dark wet blotch quickly spreading on his multi-colored garb.

At that moment, the green-yellow magical field above his head collapsed. The light engulfed him and his skin began to smolder and char. A horrified scream escaped his lips, and slowly, his form sank in a convulsing shiver of pain and anguish. No sooner had the sorcerer hit the floor when his form melted, leaving only his bloodied, steaming garments.

Simultaneously, the magical construct collapsed and exploded into miniature metallic parts and gizmos. Doria shielded her face from the blast with her arm.

9. Escape from Jewel of the Seven Wastes

Doria freed the captives of Amalfus and drove off the remaining guards. She found a number of jewels and gold on the befouled remnants of the sorcerer’s trappings. However, Ziklii was one of the few great cities full of many more wizards than only Amalfus the Many-Eyed. Simply ridding the place of one evil magician in a foolishly reckless, albeit equally unpredictable raid would do little to impress lasting change the world. The menace of the city’s rulers arose quickly.

Doria took a disguise and hastened from the city, buying a gray destrier with some of her loot. The city would harbor her no safety. Only in the wilds beyond the wastes would she afford herself a chance of survival — and even then only by her own skill and wit against overwhelming odds. And so she fled, wandering through barrens and old roads, avoiding travelers and mongrel men. Her loot, including a dazzling ruby — worthy of a king’s ransom — was quickly sold, its gold depleted, so that she had almost none remaining within a moon.

But wander alone among the ravens she had to, until the next opportunity to rid the world of another sorcerer presented itself…