A City On The Edge Of Deception

On the border between Hell, and the Plane of Despair, is the river ‘Corruption’ a glacier of poisoned coins and frozen blood. The coins are all those used to bribe and betray, the frozen blood is that which fell from unsuspected wounds struck by false friends. When bribery, corruption and betrayal end, the glacier will melt and fade away

In the centre of the glacier of red and gold, is a shining island, made of compressed knives, whose earth cuts unshod feet. The knives are those used by backstabbers traitors and thieves. The island is constantly carried away by the glacier of groaning poisoned gold and frozen blood, and constantly it is renewed.

On this island is a city. The city of Ganglia Moor.

Many palaces are seen there, facaded in marble and ceramic brick. All deceptions, fronting warrens of black decay. Within, chained madmen and foul-smelling cells, the doors banging wide. Without, are cold ice-mists, and in the mists an eternal and unceasing Secret Police.

Ganglia Moor is known to the rulers of both Hell, and the Plane of Despair, and regarded as a secure border between the two. Politically inert. A kind of Casablanca of Pain. Few go there, but sometimes the souls of the betrayed, or accidental suicides are sent as payment to maintain detente.

Arranged, as it is, on the borders of Hell and Despair, Ganglia Moor specialises in marginal cases of corruption, depression and loss. When corrupt police force a bag over the head of their partner, just before shooting them in the back, the city they see rising up inside the grey is Ganglia Moor. When liars and deceivers die in shame, sometimes they come here. Suicides of a particular kind as well.

Ganglia Moor is ruled by a madman, Duke Blight Liken. This insane Duke of Hell is convinced of infinite conspiracies against, within, and beyond, the throne of eternal hate. Maddened and obsessed by the endlessly spiralling schemes that only he can sense and find, he has turned his city into one vast ceaselessly self-policing counter-intelligence cell and madhouse. Everyone informs upon, spies upon, imprisons and tortures everyone else.  There is no trust but only paused contempt. Duke Liken exerts the most unrelenting and murderous villainy and has never been observed to smile.

You will find the court of Ganglia Moor gathered, in a cellar somewhere, around a vast machine of valves and wire. A Security Organ. There, you will see Duke Liken, his wife, Recto Lath-Liken, (half naked, poorly fed and chained to a wall,) Doctor Damned Me-Hilt who built the thing, but only repeats the following words; 

“he is the talisman” again and again and again.

There you will also find Judge Comer Host-Jackles, taking notes on information received from the machine, making a merriment of the business, offering weak quips with grins.

“I’m here to see fair play”, he often says.

The Organ is attended and operated  by Lady Magno Vowel. Watching her gloved fingers play across the keys, is Lady/Lord Iris He-Arc, foul mouthed, low minded, dressed in yesterdays fashion and throwing out coarse guffaws.

This Organ, (always being tested and refined) spits out regular reports on treasons done, or about-to-be-done about the town. With each report received, new arrests are made and new tortures  planned.

Many monsters haunt the misty streets of Ganglia Moor. Well known are the Fog Dogs, shaggy centripetal blue-eyed wolves that climb and writhe. Also known, the Mist-Men, wrapped in vomited binding sheets.

The Anaemics, coal-eyed wastrels make up the citizenry/bureaucracy/police.

Malefic Ashen Automita. Gracile machines of stained unpolished brass, moulded metal hoods over masks with downcast eyes and tragedy-mask mouths that breath out continual flecks of just-warm ash that rapidly cools. The eaters of evidence. Powered by the ghosts of fires.

The Caliphs Of Wire. Rarely seen behind the faraday-cage veils of their antennae-palanquins. They are hauled about by Anaemic teams to perfect listening posts. They gather intelligence and can hear the thoughts of any creature that lies as it is lying. These double/signals fall in waves from the world above and the movements of the Caliphs, if recorded, look like the shifting of iron filings in a magnetic storm.

The Blue-Grey Chasm Cats create mile-deep metre-wide chasms as they leap across your path.  Then leap back, bringing your shattered body to the surface for them to feast on.

The Icelings are corrupt children with spires and blades of broken ice growing from their bones out through their skin. They make a tinkling as they walk, a shattering as they run, and are impossible to grapple with.

The maddened Ice Elves live out on the glacier of coins and blood that oozes round Ganglia Moor. Savage immortal hunters.  Looking for something. Never finding.

And that is all they know, in Hell, of Ganglia Moor….

Kamikaze Librarian

 Extra class thing based on the LOTFP ruleset. 

The idea and one or two of the entries yanked from Zak Smiths Fighter, Wizard and Thief

Its this-

 Plus this-

 

No shields, no plate mail, Its Kamikaze Librarian.

 This can be applied when you level up to either .

A Specialist; when you level up add  d6 Hp,  or

A Dwarf; add d6 Hp

And also, roll twice on the table below for each level gained.

(All references to books can also count for equivalent cultural artefacts, paintings, sculpture etc, so long as it makes sense in context.)

(Elves and Halflings cannot be Kamikaze Librarians, they are not Punk enough. Elves are Disco, Halflings are Folk.)

1-15 A dull day out indeed, add 2 skill points if a Specialist, if a Dwarf, either roll a d10 for hitpoints, or add one skill point to any skill of your choice.

16-30 RAAAAAGGGHH!!! Either +1 to hit (continual) or attacks equal to your level for one fight per game or one extra move action whenever you like, so long as you use it to get into melee combat with something bigger than you.

31-50 I have a book on that… Name a book, its contents and subject. You own it. Once per game you can use it to add your level to a roll regarding something relevant to the subject of the book.

51-52 Bookzerker. If a book (or equivalent cultural artefact) is in immediate danger of destruction, then you gain +1 to hit AND +1 attack AND +1 move action for each item that is threatened, up to 1/2 your level (rounding up . So a level 10 bookzerker gets +5 things they can do and can decide each as they wish. Only in effect while the item is in danger. (If you deliberately put it in danger then fucking shoot yourself, don’t play this class.) If you roll this again, add one to your total  of actions each time.

53-54“It belongs in a MUSEUM” Once per fight, as a free action you can grab an item of cultural/historical significance from someone adjacent to you. No roll or penalty. (Significance, i.e.  A Sword, no, but The Sword Of The King Of Tazadun, yes.)  roll this again and on a dex test they didn’t notice, 3 times and they definitely didn’t notice plus you get a free move action.

55-56 Bookclub/ Scrollknife You can roll up any scroll and turn it into an impromptu D4 weapon Jason-Bourne style. A book likewise. A big book you need two hands for becomes a d6 weapon, though that is less of a surprise. If it’s a magic book or scroll then the dice ‘explodes’ on a max roll. Add a die size every time you roll this result.

57-58 ‘Oh..  My… God’  The daVinci Mode. This carving on the wall, detail on the cup, marginal note, the sculptures eyes, concerto’s notation, the temples alignment, THE RAYS COMING FROM THE STAFF. It breaks the whole thing open, now you see what’s really going on. Once per game you can talk for exactly thirty seconds, no more, without pause or prep, about some detail you have found and how it REVEALS EVERYTHING. If the DM and players buy it, then can re-write reality equivalent to a limited wish spell. It must make sense in the context of the game.

59-60 Alexandrian Fire Brigade. You are really good at stopping things (and people) being on fire very very quickly. Books, buildings, city states. It scales up if you have the time and resources.  Roughly one second for a painting or book,  Takes about 10 seconds per man-sized-mass-equivalent. 

61-62 Curatorial Expertise. You can tell when any organised group of physical things is out of place or other than it should be given the system in which it is arranged. Books in a library, statues in a row, paintings in a gallery, knives in a cupboard. There must be five or more things. Time taken to inspect is relative to the size of the grouping. It tells you nothing else about the thing, what it is or why it is there. Not people, unless they are arranged like objects to an abstract logic. The assassin in a dancehall, no, one of the red queens playing-card guards, yes.

63-64 An Angel of Formaldehyde. Give you a jar big enough and a solid place to stand and you could pickle the world. You can pickle any dead once-living thing you find. Assuming you have a jar big enough and the chemicals.  If you take it home, every day of study will grant you some piece of knowledge about the thing. Up to your level. (Base expectation is a vulnerability or a +1 to hit or damage). If you only have part of a thing then it might take you more time or more examinations to works stuff out proportionate to the chunk that you have. As you increase in level you can go back to your old specimens and maybe find new things about them.

65-66 An Axe to Smash the Face of Time.  Time is the enemy of Librarians, a book is a stony dam in the torrent of Lethe, a museum is like the Hoover Dam. If carrying an Axe in Tragic circumstances (i.e. witness to things being subject to inevitable loss) then you may enter a screaming fit and hew your Axe into the face of Chronos. Chronos is currently incarnated,( in the manner of Moby Dick) as the people/things pissing you off at this particular moment. (It’s an Ahab thing). The Axe will wipe their memories. By smashing their fucking brains out of their head. Every blow is to the head of humanoid enemies, d20 damage each time. One fight per game. Add one for each time you roll this. Any survivors suffer amnesia. If you are not carrying an Axe, why not? Not even a small one? A tomahawk? What kind of librarian are you?

67-68 Five Thousand Furies in the Teeth of the Gods. You know the names of 5000 furies from scraping for weeks through broken cuneiform script. Well you sort of know them, you kind of forgot most and they blur a little into one after a while. If you can point at a person (or intelligent monster) and name correctly the thing they have done that would enrage the Kindly Ones then the Fury of that particular act will plunger out of the heavens and fill you with divine rage. So long as you are trying to kill that particular person. Plus (=your level) attacks and plus (=your level) damage for each hit so long as you fight that person. Pass out for minutes =your level after fight is over. Once per game for every time rolled. 

69-70 An oath of bone, and eye of stone. Your word is as a rock, and that rock is for caving skulls. You may single out one opponent whose name you know and describe in sonorous pseudo-celtic or plastic anglo-saxon verse, exactly how you will kill them in this fight. If you score a critical against them in this conflict, and if at all possible, the oath comes true. Once per game per times rolled. 

71-72 Raw Punk Hair. You get a new haircut and it looks punk as fuck. You now stand out as an opponent of Authority. Anyone who has been oppressed by the Man will find it hard to distrust you. Anyone working for the Man will peg you straight on as trouble. (Who the Man is shifts relative to circumstances). Hair effect disappears with skull shaving or a helmet, but reappears once the hair grows back or helmet (or hat) is removed. You will not change the hair. Why would you? +1 CHA to those opposed to authority each roll. No-one suspects you are a narc.

73-74 Sharp Motherfucker.  You look like a detective in an off-kilter tv series, a teacher who reads Vice magazine, a social worker whose sister owns a boutique.  Kind of a low-level vaguely beneficial authority figure who dresses really well. Police will trust you. The mayor likes you shoes. If you ask about the crime scene people will just assume you are supposed to know. You going to that thing later? +1 CHA to authority figures each time, plus no questions at the door. (if you roll both Raw Punk Hair and Sharp Motherfucker then you will confuse the fuck out of people, you can decide how people take you, but you better act the part, you also look amazing).

75-76 Dewy Decimal Deathsong.  As your life bleeds from you, in a flurry of doomstruck blows you categorise the fuck out of everything you can see. Add your WIS and INT modifiers together. When at half hit points or below, you may have this many extra attacks per round, so long as you (the player) shout the category of each individual thing you are hitting as you (the character) swing. Once per game. Plus once for every  time you roll this.

77-78 Flynnsertion. One per fight, as a free action, you can grab a rope or curtain or chain or anything like that and freely swing anywhere it could reasonably take you. If you are swinging into danger, there is no roll involved. If trying to get out of danger, roll your DEX, unless you are carrying a book away from someone who shouldn’t have it. Once per fight every time you reroll this.

78-79 ‘lefthanded writer,  just ate lunch, hates his mother’  You can analyse handwriting, ink types, paper scars, all kinds of pseudo forensic bullshit. Reading any piece of handwritten text lets you describe/discover nouns and adjectives equal to your level about the writer. If you get it wrong (if the identity is already set in game) then the DM has to give you the correct word.

80-81 We Have Heard of Those Princes Heroic Campaigns. You remember these guys from somewhere.. When confronted with a high level noble, king, merchant house, church, guild or equivalent you can recall the real story as to where they come from, they source of their power, it rarely what they say it is. The DM must provide any and all information about this family/organisation. The information must be at least 100 years old. Once per game per roll.

82-83 Chomskarian Rhetoric. With an opposed CHA vs WIS roll and a long (an hour at least) conversation, you can use reductive logic, carefully chosen evidence and shocking confidence to  temporarily  convince low level members of any group that EVERYTHNG THEY KNOW IS WRONG. Up is down, black is white, THEY are US. Wears off after a day or so. Once per game per roll.

83-84 Divine Mandala Telephone. Pick a god of knowledge or writing from the setting or from real history. You know them. You don’t necessarily worship them. They don’t necessarily like you or owe you anything. But you know them and can contact them by making a complex mandala of special sand (takes d6 – DEX mod hours and no wind or interruption)

85-90 ‘dammn my eyes’ Your eyes are fucked, you now need glasses to see. Roll this twice and your glasses can see one thing normal glasses can’t (Infrared, ghosts etc) Add one thing for each time you roll this result. Make sure to clean them carefully after each blood-spattered brainbashing.

91 My Axe is my Bookmark. +1 Str to racial max, excess goes to Str or Con.

92 You are the steely-eyed one at the end of the bar. +1 Wis to racial max, excess goes to Int or Cha.

93 Reading pays off. +1 Int to racial max, excess goes to Wis or Cha. Note: You look no smarter.

94 You actually DO know what you’re talking about. +1 Cha. to racial max, excess goes to Wis or Int.

95-96 Cartographers guild party crasher You were at this party, with these map guys, you think, you were pretty drunk. Anyway they had this map that looked a bit like where we are now. Probably…  Player can close their eyes and draw, with pencil, and their off hand, one thing on the DM’s map. It’s probably there, or roughly there. Something like that anyway. Once per game per roll.

97-98 I only read the action scenes You actually read a prophecy about this exact event ages ago somewhere, actually you skipped most of it and you forgot how it ends but the death scenes were really specific. 2+ save against the next thing that would have killed you as you suddenly remember what it was. Of course now the prophecy is useless because you broke it. Once for each reroll.

99-100 Marcus Brody You have a Brody,

 an excellent, decent, civilised, knowledgeable friend at home. They consistently advise you no to go on adventures. They will never (no matter how much the Dm wants them to) betray you. If you make it home wounded or broken they will patch you up. They will look after your stuff while you are not around. If you are captured and they hear about it they will bravely (and stupidly) set out to rescue you. This rescue will, amazingly, considering how utterly useless they are at adventuring, be successful. As soon as you are rescued, the Brody will themselves be captured by someone horrible. Should you fail to rescue them, they will be killed. Who’s going to look after your stuff now you self-centred piece of shit?

And you get this

‘Another piece for the collection’ You have a place, somewhere, it’s safe. Like a small off the beaten track museum, library or gallery. You can keep your stuff there (reasonably) safe from DM interference. Name it.

For each exhibit of a type (sword, vase, picture, style, era, genre, author, smith.) retrieved and preserved safely by you. Once per game you may assess any item of that type. Roll a percentage dice.

-if the first d10 is under the number retreieved, the price, makup, creator, likely owner and any other mundane information within reason are known.

-if the 2 d10s, taken as a 2-digit number, are lower than the total slain, you know EVERYTHING that may be useful about that item. Including magical effects, strange conspiracies, likelt plot relavence e.t.c

Identicals or multiple mundane examples don't count, max is 90, collected after that just goes to bragging rights at your FLGS.

GMs are free to determine what constitutes a "type", Librarians are free to bore everyone by buying endless books in little second hand shops for no reason just to notch up, and the other players are free to have a little talk with them if they abuse these rights and perhaps should view them doing so as a nice little red flag.

Drinking and Thinking about Robots

I invented these Mechs for a game I'm playing with some friends set in a distant-future mars. Somewhere in the middle it turned into a lecture from a wise old caln advisor to a young heir.

ORCNEAS

Orcneas is a flat smooth oval of unknown origin and design. It was clearly designed to brave the tides of some alien sea, or the core -winds of a Jovain Giant. But some remark on the thickness of its hull, the inexplicable strangelet-scarification swirling in momentary iridescence in the red Martian light, clinging sparks of unknown shade waving and rippling in violent fractal curls just as the creature skylines in the dying sun. They say Orcneas went somewhere terrible. That it was never meant to return.

The limbs are of more recent design, only a few thousand years old. Eight titanic monomolecular spider-crab limbs, flaking endlessly in paper-thin confetti-shards. Children keep the discarded metallic curls as good luck charms. The limbs are renewed slowly from within by some forgotten process fed by the still-humming core. The power still flowing over uncounted millennia, engineered for a timeless watch somewhere beyond the sight of man.

The two front limbs have four-fingered hands. The front legs walk on car-sized knife-bright claws. Within the shell, the Signal blade.

SIGNAL is the only still-legible word on the energy projector inside Orcneas. Its beams gash gold-vermillion and the blade itself is named in the death song scratched in mono-carbon ruins in the shadow of Olympus Mons. What work it did there long ago no-one can remember.

FROST-FETTER

Frost-Fetter is old, as old as one of the great cyclic terraforming events of Mars, perhaps the first. She is a tall tripod, moving with unnerving grace on delicate tips. We know she was not made to kill, but to work great crafts upon the planets living flows. Yet we must use her so, and be glad of it.

The tripod core houses a lance of ice. A burning ray that freezes all it strikes and that cannot fail. Legends speak of Frost-Fetter surviving hordes through her speed, her dancing legs and her inexhaustible freezing light. On each side of her canopy are nests of prismatic tractomorphic tentacles. These can spiral and combine to form burning prisms that bleed fire. Some think that Frost-Fetter was made to mould and shape glaciers. Though not intended to, Frost-Fetters tentacles can be used as a man uses his hands, to hold and wield. An unexpected advantage. Much valued, and kept secret to the best of our ability.

STORM-WIFE

Storm-Wife guards the Tempest and holds the Star-Stone. Like Frost-Fetter he was not made to kill, but to preserve. Bards sing of a day when our hands are returned to their purpose and do not hold the sword. Perhaps those days have already past.

Storm-Wife was born in the night above the sky. Men walked there once. He was built to rescue those that fell, to preserve the traveller and safeguard the weak, an honourable design. His smooth white limbs, shaped like a man, and his delicate human hands were built to hold and preserve. Other houses may mock his frame. Remember the design. We have armoured him in crude steel, welded around his snow-bright skin and helmeted his pilot-dome in five-times-riveted metal cold. We have given him the Tempest, the greatest cannon we possess, the storm is crude some say, but this is a technology known to us. Her hundred-cal rounds give a sermon that will not be forgotten!

We have given him the Star-Stone. A fragment of ruined earth. Blasted into the darkness and plummeting into the Martian soil. The stone is meteoric iron. Burnt into runnels and channels by her blazing descent. Scooped and shaped in wild peaks with the covering rock scorched away. We have sharpened her, burnished her edges till they glow red like our sun. A haft we have long sought, and found. The black spindle-steel, it made the ruined helix that long ago reached up to the stars. We have traded much for this invincible metal. Now Star-Stone is ready. A mace like no other. Should Tempest fail, the stone shall answer.

But remember the design. They laugh at us and call us scavengers. But hidden in the war-shells hasp is the memory of the past. Of what we were, and could be again. He was made to guard lives. Do not dishonour his purpose.

WEEP-YET-I-DIE

Weep-yet-I-die you know. A scratch-built mining rig with nothing left to mine. Her drill-bits blunted, broken and abandoned. She is a work-horse now, as she has always been. She carries and labours while others fight. Four stout legs and her one rambling arm.

She has secrets yet though. One day soon you will go deep into her core and listen to the message hiding there. You will know the secret of her name.

A man long ago spoke of a ship, noted in war and preserved against time. He said that even though each part of this ship rotted and fell away that this ship itself, the pattern, remained. He said this was the secret of identity, not pieces contending against each other, but patterns, repeated and renewed. Selfhood.

Weep-yet-I-Die is the oldest of out Mechs. She has been replaced and renewed in every part but she has remained. Perhaps her lesser nature has saved her from the eyes of the powerful. Her lumbering stumbling gate is still fast enough to dodge the eye of history. She has been there. In every war, through every cataclysm. She has survived. Not always the same, but always in part. She is out true link to the past. The death message recorded inside her, from one of her first pilots, long long ago, can barely be understood. Men have changed much since then. But you will know those words when the dead men speaks them. Weep-yet-I-die. Those have not changed.

Tell no-one this.

Trilobite-Knight

Two hundred and fifty million years ago a war began when something tried to kill the earth. No-one alive knows what or why. The coal burned in the ground and poisoned the sky. The forests were consumed en-mass. They died to fast to leave a trace of oil. A fungal spike occurred. Vast growths feeding on the rotting flesh of disaster-taxons. Whole species. Most species. Big enough to leave a negative trace in rocks we find today. A speckling of empty oil beds, fossil fungal spores, shocked quartz and fullerines holding some unknown extraterrestrial gas.

Ninety four percent of everything alive was killed. We descend from the surviving six per cent. The war was lost by life, which shrivelled on the earth.

But not quite.

One survived. Carrying the memory of the war beyond Gowandaland. The Trilobite. A blind and sleepless knight in clanking armour clad. Wandering the hidden places of the world, carrying its burden through the empty night, lest darkness rise again.

They saw the first light on earth. Not the first made, but the first seen. The first eyes possessed by living things. The first to fully know the light, the first to fear the dark. The first to know what shadows were, how colours work. The first to see the other suns beyond the moon. The first to see the light that stains the sky before the dawn. They loved the Earth.  

Trilobite eyes are subtle hexagonal hives of liquid-bright calcite. They see in depth, with great complexity. Their sight became a curse. The artful sheet-glass transparency made them prime, unavoidable, and sole witnesses to the holocaust of earthly things. A scale and intensity of murder forgotten by prophets, a soul-blinding horror.

The few that lived abandoned sight, they moved into the silent knots within the planets skin. They waited while the rotting flesh of every living race piled past in torrents of corruption. They waited while the fungal lords ruled briefly on the dying corpse of earth. They waited while the slow rebirth of life began again. They concentrated on survival. They have a reason to go on. Apart from the strange myconid dream-mind that might or might not span the globe, they are the only ones who remember. The only living thing to even know the threat exists. They are hiding but they are not beaten, they know it will return.

 

A Trilobite-Knight is a six-foot, silent, intelligent bug. Clothed in natural plate and following something pretty much like the chivalric code. Fight with honour on life's right hand. Never kill a surrendered foe. Defend the weak against the strong. Uphold the right.

They will challenge adventurers to learn their worth. It is not so unusual to find a Psychopyge sword-bearing bug, rearing in heraldic defiance across a needle-thin abyssal pass. Or duelling on the rocks through Nightmare Falls. Sometimes appearing unannounced when danger lurks. Striking evil from the darkness.

 

They will test the skills and morals of those they meet. They are looking for honourable opponents. A single enemy that advances and fights alone, fail or prevail, will win their respect. They always accept surrenders and always punish scheming and deceit.

They will not help Myconid slaves, or interact with myconids in any way. No-one knows why.

Dragonraid Deities

 










The Names of Christ from bonkers evangelical christian D&D clone Dragonraid sound exactly like the titles from the village/cult leaders from Carcosa.


As of now every single one of these is now a separate god in my setting. They all hate each other. New clerics will be asked to choose one to worship.

The Offspring of the Woman Who Crushes the Serpent

Shiloh, the Great Rest

Star of Brilliant Leader Who Came Out of Judah

The Sceptre of Ruling Authority from out of Israel

Redeemer

Rose of Sharon

Lily of the Valley

Wonderful Councillor

The Mighty God

The Everlasting Father

Prince of Peace

Branch That bears Fruit from the Root of Jesse

Banner for the Peoples

The Arm of the Lord

Man of Sorrows

Leader and Commander

Lord of Righteousness

Ancient of Days

Anointed One

Desire of All Nations

King

Messenger of the Covenant

Sun of Righteousness

Son of David

Immanuel, God with Us

Bridegroom

Friend

Servant

Son of Man

Prophet

Holy One

Our Brother

Horn of Salvation

Dayspring (Sunrise)

The Great Physician

The Word

Lamb of God

The Christ, Son of the Living God

Teacher

Only Begotten Son

The Messiah

Living Water

Saviour of the World

Bread of Life

Light of the World

The “I Am”

The Door

The Good Shepherd

The Resurrection and the Life

The Way

The Truth

The Life

The True Vine

Rabboni

God

Judge

Our Passover

The Spiritual Rock the Quenches Thirst

The Last Adam

The Indescribable Gift

The Beloved of God in Whom We are Accepted

Chief Cornerstone

Head of the Church

Lord

Image of the Invisible God

Firstborn over All Creation

Creator and Sustainer of the Universe

Firstborn from Among the Dead

The Supreme in Everything

All in All

Our Hope

Mediator

Our Ransom

Blessed and Only Potentate

The King of Kings

Lord of Lords

Heir of All Things

The Radiance of Gods Glory

Exact Representation of Gods Glory

Exact Representation of Gods Being

Pioneer of Salvation

Apostle of Our Profession

High Priest

Guarantee of a Better Covenant

Pioneer of Our Faith

Shepherd and Overseer of Our Souls

Our Advocate with The Father

The Atoning Sacrifice

The Almighty

The Living One

The Amen

Faithful and True Witness

Lion of the Tribe of Judah

Alpha and Omega

The Root and The Offspring of David

The Bright Morning Star

Next I'm going to the Demonicpedia for the alternative list.

Hey... I'm your cha'DIch

I was going to write a long argument in favour of Lawful Good. I have a friend who is essentially Lawful Good in real life, he doesn't think it's cool enough.

The way I see it, Bad Guys play Life with the setting on easy. Lawful Good is expert level.

But I got side tracked by Worf/Picard quotes.

You'd think having two lawful good characters talking to each other would be boring but in reality it's like they are constantly daring each other to be even more good and even more lawful. It's fucking boss.

Don't blame me for knowing you so well.

Picard: Well, I know that I am an old man and I am out of touch. But the Worf that I remember was more concerned with things like honor and loyalty than rules and regulations. But that was a long time ago, and maybe you're not the Worf I once knew.

[Worf curses in Klingon]

Worf: You have always used your knowledge of Klingon honor and tradition to get what you want from me.

Picard: Because it always works, Worf! Your problem is that you really *do* have a sense of honor, and you really *do* care about trust and loyalty. Don't blame me for knowing you so well.  

For me to seek escape when my Captain goes into battle...

Captain Jean-Luc Picard: Now hear this: printout message, urgent, all stations on all decks. Prepare for emergency saucer sep. You will command the saucer section, Lieutenant.

Lieutenant Worf: I'm a Klingon, sir. For me to seek escape when my Captain goes into battle...

Captain Jean-Luc Picard: You are a Starfleet officer, Lieutenant!

Lieutenant Worf: Aye, sir. 

Worf's question is valid

Lieutenant Worf: What gives them the right to enter Federation space?

Commander Tebok: Silence your dog, Captain!

Capt. Picard: Lt. Worf's question is valid.

some of the things I said

Captain Jean-Luc Picard: Mr. Worf... I regret some of the things I said to you earlier.

Lt. Commander Worf: Some?

Captain Jean-Luc Picard: In fact, I think you're the bravest man I have ever known.

You would do no less for me

Lieutenant Worf: The family of a Klingon warrior is responsible for his actions, and he is responsible for theirs. If I fail in my challenge, I will be executed. - Will you grant my leave, Captain?

Captain Jean-Luc Picard: No. If I understand correctly, a Starfleet officer, a respected member of my crew, could be accused of a capital crime. Your actions in this matter will reflect on this ship and on the Federation. Therefore, it seems only appropriate that your Captain should be at your side while you make your challenge. I'm sure you would do no less for me.

Oh Lieutenant

Captain Jean-Luc Picard: Lieutenant - sometimes, the moral obligations of command are less than clear. I have to weigh the good of the many against the needs of the individual, and try to balance them as realistically as possible. God knows, I don't always succeed.

Lieutenant Worf: I have not had cause to complain, Captain.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard: Oh. Lieutenant, you wouldn't complain even if you had cause.

Hey... I'm your cha'DIch

 [Picard informs Worf that he will go into the city's old quarter to look for Kahlest]

Lieutenant Worf: It is too dangerous. You must not go alone.
 
Captain Jean-Luc Picard: Hey... I'm your cha'DIch.