The Dark Tower Adversaries Errata, Podreczniki RPG, The Dark Tower
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Topiary
Attributes:
S F D W A Sz Ap E K
19 10* 12 5 14 20+ 10 4 2
He stopped by the hedge-clipper, but made no move to pick it up. Yes,
there was something different. In the topiary. And it was so simple, so easy to
see, that he just wasn’t picking it up. Come on, he scolded himself, you just
trimmed the fucking rabbit, so what’s the
(that’s it)
His breath stopped in his throat.
The rabbit was down on all fours, cropping grass. Its belly was against
the ground. But not ten minutes ago it had been up on its hind legs, of course
it had been, he had trimmed its ears ... and its belly. His eyes darted to the
dog. When he had come down the path it had been sitting up, as if begging for
a sweet. Now it was crouched, head tilted, the clipped wedge of mouth seem-
ing to snarl silently. And the lions—(oh no, baby, oh no, uh-uh, no way) the li-
ons were closer to the path. The two on his right had subtly changed positions,
had drawn closer together. The tail of the one on the left now almost jutted out
over the path. When he had come past them and through the gate, that lion
had been on the right and he was quite sure its tail had been curled around it.
Fight Bonus:
1d6
Weapons:
Claw 50%, 1d4 + FB (x2)
Bite 50%, 1d6 + FB
Armor:
none
Skills:
none
Habitat:
The Overlook
Move:
12
HP:
15
Sanity Loss:
1/1d4
They were no longer protecting the path; they were blocking it.
*Topiaries are lammable
Staring at the hedge animals, he realized something had changed
while he had his hand over his eyes. The dog had moved closer. No longer
crouching, it seemed to be in a running posture, haunches lexed, one front
leg forward, the other back. The hedge mouth yawned wider, the pruned
sticks looked sharp and vicious. And now he fancied he could see faint eye
indentations in the greenery as well. Looking at him. Why do they have to be
trimmed? he thought hysterically. They’re perfect. Another soft sound. He
involuntarily backed up a step when he looked at the lions. One of the two
on the right seemed to have drawn slightly ahead of the other. Its head was
lowered. One paw had stolen almost all the way to the low fence. Dear God,
what next?
(next it leaps over and gobbles you up like something in an evil nurs-
ery fable)
He jerked his head around to look at the dog and it was halfway down
the pathway, just behind the lions now, its mouth wide and yawning. Before, it
had only been a hedge clipped in the general shape of a dog, something that
lost all deinition when you got up close to it. But now Jack could see that it
had been clipped to look like a German shepherd, and shepherds could be
mean. You could train shepherds to kill.
Powers of the Red:
Telepathy
It wasn’t the snowmobile he wanted but the gascan held onto the back
by a pair of elastic straps. His hands, still clad in Howard Cottrell’s blue mit-
tens, seized the top strap and pulled it free as the hedge lion roared behind
him — a sound that seemed to be more in his head than outside of it.
Widow’s Tongue
Attributes:
S F D W A Sz Ap E K
6 10 8 1 8 9 4 1 1
Ahead of us, the path ended. Or perhaps it had been
overgrown. The plants blocking the way were a ilthy grayish
black, and from their branches lowers sprouted —I
think
they
were lowers—the pinkish-red of infected wounds. They were
long, like lilies on the verge of blooming, and they were opening
and closing slowly, making those smacking sounds. Only now
that we were upon them, it no longer sounded like smacking. It
sounded like
talking
.
There comes a point where the mind either breaks or
shuts itself down. I know that now. I was all at once illed with
a species of surreal calm I’ve never felt before. On one level I
knew that I was there, looking at those hideous, slow-talking
blossoms. But on another, I rejected that completely. I was at
home. In my bed. Had to be. I’d overslept the alarm, that was
all. I wasn’t going to beat Roger to the ofice as I’d wanted to,
but that was okay. More than okay. Because when I inally
did
wake up, all of this would be gone.
“What in God’s name are they?” Roger asked.
Tina Barield looked at me with her eyebrows raised. It
was the expression of a teacher calling on a student who should
know the answer. “They’re the Tongues,” I said. “Remember the
letter? She said some of the Tongues had begun to wag.”
“Good for you,” the woman said. “You’re maybe not as
stupid as you acted when Carlos irst got in touch with you.”
For a moment no one said anything. The three of us simply
looked at those blossoms opening and closing, their scarlet
interiors winking. The soft, toothless whispering sound made me
feel like clapping my hands over my ears. It was almost words,
you see. Almost real talk.
Ah, fuck. Scratch that. It was real talk.
“Tongues?” Roger asked at last.
“They’re widow’s tongue,” Tina Barield replied. Known
in some European countries as witch’s tongue or crone bane. Do
you know what they’re talking about, Mr. Kenton?”
Fight Bonus:
-1d4
Weapons:
Vine (50%), 1d2 + FB
Armor:
none
Skills:
none
Habitat:
Any (soil)
Move:
0
HP:
9
Sanity Loss:
1/1d3+1
She lead us back quickly and with no hesitation. Once I
clearly saw an earth-clotted root come snaking out of the foliage
at the left side of THERE Street and slither around her shoe. She
gave her foot an impatient jerk, snapping the root without even
looking down. And all the time we could hear that low, whisper-
ing, smacking sound behind us.
Tongues, wagging.
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