Monday, November 5, 2018

Secret Police Tables

Continuation of this post here.


The Anti-Wizard SWAT teams. This table probably loses some cohesion when each column is rolled independantly. Recommend rolling d10 then reading left to right.

Squad is led by...
And Their Thing Is...
A talking armored crocodile with a lisp.
Coming up out of solid ground like they’re a bunch of god-damned land sharks.
A grinning madman to whom nobody should have granted any authority. Teeth like unkempt gravestones.
Marty McDoom
Blasting open every single door they run into. At first sign of trouble they lob in explosives and keep doing so until resistance ceases.
A Mo-RON in a Kraken-class exosuit. A dozen razor-sharp prehensile tentacles and an intense hatred for “meatsuits”.
Logan III
Regeneration. Limbs cut off will spawn combat-ready copies within minutes. No physical injury is permanent. They attack reckless and self-destructively.
A woman wearing a tank’s worth of gleaming armor and a combined polehammer / cannon. Eyes ice cold.
Mother’s Maiden Name
Professionalism, discipline, and hammers. Corner and gang up, then beat their ass into pulp, one foe at a time.
This man looks like a potato that’s spawning more potatoes.
“Go Fuck Yourself”
Collapse the building first, ask questions later. Interrogate the bodies. Rock to Mud spells galore!
Holy shit is that a sprinting refrigerator?!
Smashing through walls like the Kool-Aid Man. Charging, tackling, and wrestling those wizard nerds.
A giant floating fetus with telekinetic powers riding in a hovering placenta-chair. Prenatal celestial child.
Illusions out the wazoo. Hallucinatory terrains, fake walls, fake traps, disguised selves.
A cackling skeleton who addresses your bones directly. She calls them out like teasing snails from their shells.
Luna Belfry
Being undead, with all immunities implied. No minds to charm, no flesh to burn. They live on until every single rune-carved bone is turned to dust.
A sentient blimp that serves as the team’s base of operations and commanding officer. Shark decals.
The Overlord
Dropping in from the sky, landing on the roof, bursting through windows like a bunch of badasses. Occasionally, dropping bombs from half a mile up.
Nobody is really sure, but they have surprisingly soft hands.
Permanent Invisibility. They wait until an opportune time, then stab vital places with knives. Multiple simultaneous throat-slit.

The Stewards

The politically-minded Secret Police of the Archmages. Now this table you can go crazy with. Read 'em by row or scramble up with independent columns, your call.

Dressed Like...
Accompanied By...
A pin-striped lawyer with a giraffe neck.
A PhD in Torture Studies. Dissertation on Subliminal Brainfuckery.
You are 40% certain that that’s a dog...
Someone you trust. Zipper going down the back. Full-body skin suit.
A sociopathic ease of use with Charm and Suggestion spells.
A crow that caws whenever it detects bullshit.
Michelangelo’s David, but made of solid gold.
Perfect hair.
A small boy ludicrously overburdened with all of the Stewards things.
They were a canvas for Jackson Pollock.
A disturbingly sunny disposition.
A spellbook with a yellow-toothed mouth on the cover that repeats threats and blasphemies.
A really corny tenured college professor: ugly plaid, off-color khakis, sneakers.
Enough dirt on important people to make them untouchable.
A throng of coo-ing sycophants, hissing and snarling at their enemies.
They’re attending a secret masked cult gathering. Different mask every time.
An intense and creepy obsession with trashy romance novels.
An ambulatory animated throne. Why is it shaped like a gaping mouth?
A cosmonaut. Opaque bubble helmet and a baggy reflective suit. Do they even have a face?
A crackling cattle prod that shoots ranged Shocking Grasp at liars.
Whatever it is, it has more teeth than anything else!
They’re at a wedding for serial killers who kill at weddings.
Bright blue latex gloves...
An exactly copy of themselves. They can talk simultaneously.
The Secretary at the Ministry of Many Hats. Headwear stacked to the ceiling.
So much debt that even death won’t let them escape it.
A personal court reporter who furiously transcribes every single word said.
You. Wearing exactly what you’re wearing.
Eyes containing the writhing trapped bodies of miscreants just like yourselves.
Some very, very beautiful people. 10/10s, terrifyingly so. You think they must be assassins?


Agents of the Bureau of Spatial and Temporal Matters. With this table you can go crazy. Roll multiple times for each agent if you feel like it.
This Asshole...
What Space-Time Fuckery Is Going On Around Them?
Has their head constantly slowly rotating 360-degrees like a rotisserie chicken.
All their sentences and words are spoken backwards.
Can’t stop twitching, like an invisible demon is poking them in the face with a needle.
Every 10 seconds the final second repeats itself.
Went back in time and screwed his mom. This is his sentence.
They are simultaneously standing exactly next to every single person.
Won’t stop commenting about “How we’re all fucked anyways, so might as well…”
They are always in your peripheral vision, no matter how quickly you turn.
Is literally on fire. They don’t mind.
Everything is slow like molasses around them.
Doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move. Not a millimeter. They just are, and then are not.
They exist only in reflective surfaces (mirrors, watery eyes, puddles, etc.)
Smells like acetone, looks literally like a fuzzy stick figure - all black and grainy. No face. Just grain.
They are always really really far away, but communicate like they’re right next to you.
Has eyes like a mouse’s, blacked-out and without life.
Clocks whirl around madly in their presence.
Has so many wrinkles you’d think an elephant's butt was talking.
After the conversation is finished a week has passed.
Seems completely normal and unremarkable...
They walk on ceilings or walls. Gravity is different for them. They act like this is no big deal.

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