|by Dominic Alves, distributed under CC|
There is a god, and its name is Thirteen. It is the lord of inversion and the architect of misfortune; its clerics wear yellow and hold power over doppelgangers, oozes, and devils. The Constables hunt its worshipers like animals, but there always seems to be more.
|by Jerry Kirkhart, distributed under CC|
There is a society, and nobody knows its name or its members. Everyone who matters has gone to one of their parties--they only invite thirteen people at a time, and it's terribly difficult to secure an invitation. Sometimes people don't come back, but that just makes it all the more exciting, doesn't it?
There is a city where nobody goes, a city of sepulchers, a city by the sea. You can't find it on a map, and no matter how far you travel, you won't ever reach it. Some priests say the gods cut it out of this world like a tumor, but if you take a certain route, passing through certain cursed doorways and traversing certain cursed crossroads, you will arrive on one of its thirteen grand avenues, which intersect in the center like a spider's web or a perverse star. The dead hang by cables from the telephone wires.
There is a man by the side of the road, and he is shouting at you. He speaks of an angel with thirteen wings and a hydra with thirteen heads. He says he will be dead soon, but this is a thing that you all must know.
You found a book about a crow with thirteen eyes, scattered across its face like any ugly constellation. It is terrible old and utterly malign: a colossal rival of dragons, a gleeful anthropophage, a bearer of curses. It steals children from their parents, raises them and loves them with all its evil heart. They don't grow up human.
|by Anne-Sophie Leens, distributed under CC|
There is a syndicate with thirteen captains. They traffic in drugs, slaves, and precious metals; they are undercutting just about every major player in the city. Nobody can figure out who their suppliers are, or where their shipments are coming from, but everyone wants them gone. The Weaver's Guild has placed a colossal bounty on the heads of their leaders, but it's only resulted in a lot of dead assassins.
Somebody murdered a Saint of Honey and Salt, carving a thirteen-pointed star into their chest. The local House has promised blood, and rumor has it they've had to purge their ranks of spies, though the details are fuzzy on who they were working for.
This buried and desecrated temple is the home to thirteen warlocks:
- Gog and Magog, the hateful witch-children, each of which draws magic from the other
- Illhammer, who casts spells with a mace fashioned from a devil's femur
- The Perfect Child of Man, who wears a yellow hood. The emissary of a god-city exiled from this world
- Ratbelly, the red eyed waif, bound by her own oaths to the Forbidden Hour, which once sat between midnight and 1 a.m
- Catbelly: the neurasthenic malefic, carried on a silk palanquin by 5 horned skeletons and empowered by a devil of smoke and blue fire
- Murderboy: he walks on ceilings and weeps black tar; he was raised by a spider the size of a school bus that still sings him to sleep
- Toothgirl: a creeping obsessive, built a god of neon tubes and rat bones that tells her who to kill
- Gurn: she can unhinge her jaw like a snake and spit out almost anything she wants; cursed by her mother to be killed by a weapon of her own making.
- Mammon: everything he does looks awkward and wrong, like a dog walking on its hind legs or a man running on all fours. A centipede lives in his clothes that teaches him the secrets of secret-eating and memory-killing
- Nadir: wild haired troglodyte who lives at the bottom of a hole, which moves around when nobody's looking. Sold her soul to a gravity angel, so she can't pick herself off the ground.
- Maculata: jelly-fleshed voyeur with a visible skeleton; holds congress with puddings, oozes, and jellies of all sorts.
- Maastricht: a wretched old man with metal teeth, his pact with Satan makes him nigh omnipotent; his secret weakness is that he can only move when you're looking at him
There's a series of thirteen pamphlets everyone's reading. They make you remember things you'd forgotten, give you advice that makes you feel smart and capable and stronger, they make you forget your own inadequacy and weakness and stupidity, they make you want to find the other pamphlets, but they're so hard to find and you can't figure out where they come from. Everyone says something wonderful happens if you read all thirteen.
I'm tired of writing now. I'll probably write more and I want to find a d13 for this.