d100

Minor Curses

Inconvenient afflictions for cursed loot, angry witches and bad decisions.

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Minor Curses — 100 entries
d100	Result
1	Your shadow points the wrong way, and dogs notice.
2	Bread turns stale at your touch; toast, inexplicably, improves.
3	You can no longer say your own name aloud; it comes out as a sneeze.
4	Every hat you wear migrates slowly to the left.
5	Coins you flip always land on edge, unsettling everyone present.
6	You smell whatever the nearest person fears, faintly, at all times.
7	Doors do not stay open for you; each drifts shut with a disappointed click.
8	Your reflection is always yawning, regardless of what you are doing.
9	Any song you hum lodges in every head within earshot for a full day. They know it was you.
10	Candles gutter when you tell the truth and burn tall when you lie; dinner parties become dangerous.
11	Your left boot is always slightly wet.
12	Cats say your name. Just your name. Only when others can hear.
13	You cast the shadow of a chicken at exactly noon.
14	All ale served to you arrives flat, with a faint air of judgment.
15	Ink smears only under your hand; your signature is now legally 'the smudge'.
16	You cannot cross a threshold without knocking first; your knuckles do it without permission.
17	Every chair you sit in creaks a note of the same dirge.
18	Your pockets accumulate sand from a beach no one can identify.
19	Birds land on you as if you were furniture, and are offended when you move.
20	Once per day, at random, you speak a sentence backwards and do not notice.
21	Mirrors fog when you approach, then write 'not now' in the condensation.
22	Your hair rearranges to windswept dramatic disarray at solemn moments only.
23	Anything you point at drips, briefly. Ceilings included.
24	You are always dealt the second-best hand at cards, and can feel it.
25	Milk curdles if you say a god's name; the gods, presumably, are aware.
26	Your footsteps sound like they belong to someone much heavier, approaching.
27	Butter will not melt on your bread, out of spite.
28	You wake each morning holding a small stone you did not go to sleep with. The pile grows.
29	Whenever you whisper, it is somehow louder than your speaking voice.
30	Horses bow to you, deeply, refusing to be mounted until you bow back, in public.
31	Your bathwater is always the wrong temperature by exactly the amount that matters.
32	Every map you hold reorients so that you are at the center, ruining navigation and implying things.
33	You cannot keep a hood up; unseen fingers flick it down at dramatic moments.
34	Small change in your purse rearranges itself into frowning faces.
35	You taste nothing but parsley on Wednesdays.
36	Rope, string and laces near you work loose in sympathy with your secrets.
37	Your snore is a perfect imitation of distant war drums; camps keep waking to man the defenses.
38	Flowers turn to face away from you, pointedly.
39	Each door handle you grasp is briefly, alarmingly warm, as if recently held by someone else.
40	You cannot descend stairs without humming; the stairs insist.
41	Any bell you pass rings one beat after you have gone, tattling on your position.
42	Written words squirm slightly when you are tired, swapping one letter per page.
43	Your drinks develop a slow whirlpool, always counterclockwise, always noticed by wizards.
44	Everyone consistently misremembers your name as 'Gerald'. Documents update themselves.
45	Wounds you take heal into faint runes that scholars cannot read but pigeons apparently can.
46	Your sneezes extinguish every open flame within ten feet. Temples have opinions.
47	You attract exactly one mosquito at all times. Killing it summons the replacement immediately, angrier.
48	Fruit ripens as you hold it and rots if you compliment it.
49	Your clothes squeak in the rhythm of whatever you are trying not to think about.
50	Salt spills toward you across tables, slowly, like an accusation.
51	All statues appear, in your peripheral vision, to have just stopped moving. All of them. Always.
52	You cannot enter a room without announcing yourself; your own voice betrays you at the threshold.
53	Grass dies in your footprints but grows back double; groundskeepers both hate and worship you.
54	Once a day your belt or sash unties itself at the least convenient moment available.
55	Your teeth itch during sermons.
56	Any bed you sleep in is short-sheeted by morning, from the inside.
57	You smell of woodsmoke indoors and of libraries outdoors.
58	Spoons bend away from your mouth by one degree; soup takes forever.
59	Your laughter echoes even in open fields.
60	Keys stick for you. All keys. Locksmiths can find nothing wrong, and charge accordingly.
61	Rain begins the moment you praise the weather, and stops when you apologize.
62	Your bootlaces tie themselves together whenever someone nearby says 'hurry'.
63	Every portrait's eyes follow you; the painters swear this was not the commission.
64	You cannot hold an umbrella; they leap from your grasp toward the nearest stranger.
65	Bread lands butter-side down; for you, it also rolls.
66	Your echo answers half a heartbeat early.
67	Wells whisper your debts back at you, with interest calculated.
68	Chalk, coal and charcoal refuse to draw you; sketches of the party show a polite gap.
69	Your right glove keeps going missing and returning with dirt under its fingernails. Gloves have no fingernails.
70	Anyone who toasts to your health hiccups once, in unison.
71	The moon looks slightly too large to you, and only to you, and it is getting slightly worse.
72	Your yawns are contagious to animals within a hundred feet; you have flattened kennels, stables and one menagerie.
73	Ale foam spells short rude words in your mug. The bartender is not doing it. Probably.
74	You cannot pass a graveyard without your pockets jingling, even when empty.
75	Wind chimes fall silent as you approach and resume behind you, gossiping.
76	Anything you bury unburies itself within a week and is found on your doorstep, cleaned.
77	You always feel you have forgotten something; once a month, you actually have, and the feeling is identical.
78	Your fires burn in complete silence, which is worse than it sounds, around a camp, at night.
79	Every seventh step you take makes no sound, and things with too many ears notice the pattern.
80	Ivy grows toward your bedroom window at roughly a foot a night, no matter the floor.
81	You are exempt from rainbows; they visibly bend to exclude your position.
82	Your name, written down, attracts moths to the page.
83	All soup served to you contains one ingredient from a soup you ate as a child.
84	Cows regard you the way people regard tax collectors.
85	Your gear is always one item heavier at dawn; the extra item is always a single unfamiliar button.
86	Whistling is beyond you; what comes out is a creditable owl impression, and owls answer.
87	When you sleep in a chair, you wake with a blanket no one placed and no one recognizes.
88	Thunder pauses politely until you finish your sentence, drawing everyone's attention to what you just said.
89	Your dice roll off every table and are found pointing, all of them, at the same door.
90	You can no longer board a boat without every sailor aboard learning your most embarrassing story by dusk. The sea tells them.
91	Frost forms your initials on windows you sleep behind; somewhere, you feel, something is signing your work.
92	Any queue you join stops moving; any queue you leave surges forward.
93	Your bruises appear one day before the blow that causes them.
94	Songbirds learn your sighs and perform them back to you at dawn, in chorus.
95	You cannot blow out candles; they must be pinched, and they take it personally either way.
96	Anyone who borrows something of yours forgets it was ever yours; you have receipts, and the receipts are fading too.
97	Your campfire smoke leans toward the nearest unresolved argument.
98	Once per tenday you wake fluent in a language you have never studied, and mute in your own, until noon.
99	Mud is deeper for you. Measurably. Cartographers have started paying you to test fords.
100	Roll twice more; the curses are married and refuse separation.