DM CritBear |
"That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die."
Hello bros! It feels great to finally get started. We all know why we're here, so I'll skip right to it.
This inaugural play-by-post game will be full of a lot of experiments and growing pains, but I know we'll work through 'em. A few key differences are:
[list]
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Initiative will matter only for the purposes of a surprise round. Combat will largely take the flow of "all of us" then "all of them," excepting when a player or players neglects to post in time. In that event, I will assume an "active defense" sort of posture. This will imply your dood is using a move action to assume a defensive stance and a standard action to aid any fellow combatant nearby.
Space and flanking will operate entirely by description. Now before you groan, this should be a pretty smooth operation.
Lancecock moves to flank the snork with Cocklance.
Bojangles retreats behind Joe's Bangles.
Crunchmeat charges to smash the kitten.
Elfstab stealthily moves around the room to sneak up on the sleeping bear.
Whizbang ducks out of the goblorc's reach.
Moving in or out of reach, rummaging in melee, etc. will not
provoke an attack of opportunity *gasp*.
Advantage will take the place of AoO. This is a system I am steal-/borrow-/adapting from DnD 5e as a simpler method of dealing with AoOs in pbp. Acronyms, woo! This will manifest as a +1 to attack and damage on the next attack made by the provoked character. I will make sure to note this in the actions of NPCs and I hope that you will do the same for my benefit and timekeeping.
Alfredo advances to filet the kobold (giving the kobold advantage.
Backed into a corner, Sir Char of Broil must cast the firebloast under threat from the landshark(advantage).
The anklebiter slips in the grease puddle while charging toward Spadlok(advantage).
I know that this is a significant change to the balance of AoO, but I think that overall it encourages bravado in the martial folks and caution in the sneakers and casters, which sounds fine to me. Any weirdness that might occur with this system based on builds we can handle privately on a case-by-case basis.
Two-Coin Joe intends to sell his spangled silken undergarments to Corwin the Clothier Appraise+Diplomacy+lewd Local history check: Sell the Silkies: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (15) + 2 = 171d20 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 51d20 + 7 ⇒ (6) + 7 = 13
"'ello there, Corwin you old sacksewer, Oi've got a set of skivvies you'd find a real treat. A real treat. Fit to cushion the bum o' th' Barrister, theses are."
Thant being said, you'll notice that I have been experimenting with the fun and easy-to-use style coding inherent to these forums.
Example: the dice function
[ dice = Sample D20 Roll ] 1 d 20 + bonus of 3 [ / dice ] *minus extra spaces*
becomes Sample D20 Roll: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9
An excellent rundown by DM Doomed Hero of some basics of great pbp writing and formatting can be found here.
My only requirementread *very sincere request* is that you begin every post with a quick "tagline" of some basic stats.
Ex:
Male Human [HP: 13/13] AC: 12 (Flat 12 / Touch 10/ CMD 13) [Fort +1, Ref +2, Will +1] Init: +1, Perception: +4, Sense Motive: +1
I, personally, will be saving those (as well as many other text blocks) in a notepad document for quick use later.
Other excellent suggestions and example of pbp can be found here and here.
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My Personal Pledge to You: "I will hold myself to the same standard I hold all of you.
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Good luck, gents! May y'all make it to 20 with your souls, skulls, and sanity (mostly) in tact!
-Jared a.k.a. DM CritBear
DM CritBear |
Each of you become aware of standing on cold, hard ground in the dingy alley between strangely warped stone walls of several stories. All around is a membrane of sickly yellow fog, tumbling through the alley's canyon of twisted and crumbling, grey brick walls like a sluice of jaundiced bile.
Ahead, the unfamiliar alley splits, curving to the left and right. Behind, from the silent swells and eddies of mist, echoes the sound of footsteps - slow, but somehow keeping pace with the hungry approaching cloud.
You all have no equipment at all, but ragged pants and sackcloth shirts. Cloth wraps take the place of your shoes, and you are armed with nothing but your own name.
Trichor knows he should have a sweet smelling and sweetly-singing bird nearby, but neither the bird nor it's name can be found.
You all have time to take a single move or standard action.
As I have not seen any of your character sheets yet, roll your own initiative for now. In the future I will post initiative rolls at the start of each encounter.
DM CritBear |
A section of collapsed wall half-buried in dirt and mold that stinks of flooded graves and rusted relics conceals all but the tufts of hair atop Scrof's head.
The cloying yellow mist seems to thicken ever-so-slightly in the well-lit end of the ally. A barely perceptible sound as that of ragged, wet breaths groaning out of diseased lungs permeates the air.
The walls blur and the ground shivers.
There is time for a single action.
DM CritBear |
From the jaundiced vapor a figure emerges.
It stands twenty feet away, but seemed to approach from much farther away despite short shuffling steps. As the sickly light illuminates its features a sensation of lukewarm moldy fingerbones squirms up each spine.
It is taller than a grown man but thinner than a starving child.
Rags and bandages of yellowed and muddy cloth hang in tatters from mottled grey skin. A mouth far too circular continually rasps out choking breaths as though it were drowning with every pull. No eyes can be seen behind a vivid yellow bandage, but you all can feel its probing gaze.
A head that seemed bald at first glance, is a dull wet skullcap crowned with hanging flecks of flayed flesh. The grey-white bone bears fresh scratches trailing what could be blood were it not crimson black. It's doubled, twisted arms hang nearly to its knees and seem to have joints were they should not be. The left hand is hidden against the sunken chest, but the right hangs low to the side. Clasped in the clawlike digits is a cruelly-hooked razor dripping ropes of crimson black ichor.
It shows no sign of hostility, or of anything at all. It is closest to Trichor, only 20ft away.
Trichor |
Trichor Male Gingerbread Witch Tiefling [HP:11]AC:18 (Flat15/Touch13/CMD12)[Fort+1,Ref+2,Will+3]Init:+2, Perception:+8,Sense Motive:+3,KnowledgeArcana:+8 I casually draw my iron skillet & my morning star whilst grinning companionably, and try to recall if I've ever seen such a creature as this before.KnowArcana(19)+8=27)
DM CritBear |
Trichor Male Gingerbread Witch Tiefling [HP:11]AC:18 (Flat15/Touch13/CMD12)[Fort+1,Ref+2,Will+3]Init:+2, Perception:+8,Sense Motive:+3,KnowledgeArcana:+8 I casually draw my iron skillet & my morning star whilst grinning companionably, and try to recall if I've ever seen such a creature as this before.KnowArcana(19)+8=27)
DM CritBear |
The ragged stranger pauses briefly and inclines its head as though in contemplation, and begins to sway side to side with a perverse lurching grace. Its head snaps back and the terrible skinless lips part revealing a mouth like a pit of needles.
A sound fills the air at once like a low-pulsing throb heard echoing from a mountaintop and the deathshriek of a wild feline. Both sounds undulate in a song disgustingly pleasing to the ear.
Trichor cannot wrench his gaze from the figure, and Scrof is rooted and helpless in joyous splendor at the pantomime.
DM CritBear |
The figure shuffles toward Trichor with a loping, undulating shuffle seeming to approach too quickly for it's shallow steps.
The razor hangs loosely at the thing's side but the left arm withdraws from the folds of it's rags to extend the backs of gnarled, overlong fingers of mottled and twitching hands toward Trichor's face.
Trichor has time for a single action. Scrof remains transfixed in glee.
Trichor |
Trichor Male Gingerbread Witch Tiefling [HP:11]AC:18 (Flat15/Touch13/CMD12)[Fort+1,Ref+2,Will+3]Init:+2, Perception:+8,Sense Motive:+3,KnowledgeArcana:+8 Keeping his gaze locked on the creature, Trichor shuffles carefully backwards, attempting to moonwalk safety. "A little help here would greatly sweeten my disposition- free candy to whoever helps me!"
DM CritBear |
Trichor's voice sounds as though it echoes much farther than it should, but also comes from farther away than he stands. His voice is muffled by the dense air, and his tone's seem both tinnier and more bass than they should be; as though an elephant's trumpeting were piped through a foghorn.
Cobb's Stealth: 1d20 + 5 + 1 ⇒ (9) + 5 + 1 = 15
the thing's Perception: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (7) + 12 = 19
The ragged horror twists its gaze onto the man in rags, but advances straight toward the treatmaker. It covers more ground in a single step than its gait should allow, and strikes at the devilspawn.
1d20 + 9 ⇒ (5) + 9 = 14
The wickedly-curved instrument splits the air in front of Trichor's face as the bulk of the thing's torso doubles over in front of it.
Scrof |
Male Mooncursed Skinwalker [HP: 14/14] AC: 13 (Flat 12 / Touch 11/ CMD 16) [Fort +5, Ref +2, Will +0] Init: +4, Perception: +1 Sense Motive: +0
I stand up, trying to make sense of what has just unfolded in front of me. I pick up the trash can and hurl it toward the horrific mass. (Out of game: at this time, would I feel my rage in some way?)
DM CritBear |
The moment of clarity in a violent urge helps clear the skinwalker's vision. Scrof's head shakes briefly as he clears the euphoria from his eyes and brain. The yellow mist suddenly seems tinged with crimson as the rage sets in- but stilted and hazy as though a few degrees off from the familiar fury. The refuse bin seems weightless as he lifts it over his head.
Yo, Stefan. You can use the dice code here to make an attack roll. Since you'd use both hands to throw it I would add 1.5xStr to the damage roll(just do two dice functions, we should get in the habit of rolling attack and damage at the same time). Thanks, man!
DM CritBear |
Scrof: free and raging
Trichor: fascinated
Cobb: prone
"the thing": unknown
THERE IS ROOM TO MANEUVER
The tattered horror faces up once more, and calmly flings its razor at Trichor's chest.
The steel buries itself in the Tiefling's chest.
Damage: 1d4 + 1 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 1 + 3 = 5
Disco Elemental |
Cobb [HP: 8/8] AC: 11 (Flat 10 / Touch 11/ CMD 13) [Fort +2, Ref +1, Will +4] Init: +5, Perception: +4,
Sorry about the discrepancy on the Will save, I have an Int of 18, but apparently can't add.
With a nearly valiant gusto inspired entirely by fear and lunacy, I stand up, throwing my filthy, withered, old, and tired body into the fray with a hoary-voiced battlecry.
"No, no, NO! I'm not going to deal with any weird spooks like this tonight!"
I cast Sleep, the Will save is 15 to negate.
DM CritBear |
As the thing languidly repositions itself after the knife toss it becomes wrapped in the warm glowing motes of a soporific spell.
It takes as much notice as a jackal might of a mosquito.
The thing's focus instead drifts to the source of the arcane weavings and, with a slow dry chuckle like a drowning man swallowing dry grass, begins to sway side to side and spin an arcane gesture.
DC 15 Spellcraft check to identify.
Trichor |
Trichor Male Gingerbread Witch Tiefling [HP:11]AC:18 (Flat15/Touch13/CMD12)[Fort+1,Ref+2,Will+3]Init:+2, Perception:+8,Sense Motive:+3,KnowledgeArcana:+8 "Oh, what now? Is that a spell you're casting? Ooo, it would be a shame if the person you STABBED STARTED SHOUTING TO DISTRACT YOU!!!" Trichor withdraws in disgust, screeching a vile string of obscenities at the tattered horror in Abyssal and attempts to get behind the much larger Scrof for safety. Cursing is a fine way to distract others & concentrate on identifying spells, especially curses. Spellcraft: 1D20+5+3= (12)+5+3= 20
DM CritBear |
-Be sure to use the dice code as much as possible found in the forum help page here.
-Also remember you keep track of your current hp. I'd list it as Current/TOTAL, ex. HP 6/11.
The thing appears unaware of the gibbering profanity. Scrof sees a Hellspawn-looking thing screaming foulness in a dark and foreign tongue sprinting toward him.
The stranger's spell has yet to take effect, but all three of you feel the soft edge of a wave of tiredness brush your mind.
Trichor |
Trichor Male Gingerbread Witch Tiefling [HP:11]AC:18 (Flat15/Touch13/CMD12)[Fort+1,Ref+2,Will+3]Init:+2, Perception:+8,Sense Motive:+3,KnowledgeArcana:+8 HP:6/11 "Thank you Mr.Garbage can man! As a down-payment on the promised candy, you're welcome to take this razor stuck in my chest... the better to kill the jerk who threw it there." Trichor narrows his eyes at the fiend down the street, juts his lower lip like an injured child. "Soon as I remember what in oblivion I'm actually good at, I'll see you boiled in salt-water taffy you razor flinging lunatic!"
DM CritBear |
The waste bin smashes into the ragged horror's chest, and falls to the ground with seemingly no effect.
The gibbering song from the stranger's twisted throat ends abruptly, and a wave of drowsiness sweeps over the the shaken amnesiac men. The arcane gestures continue, and become rapid and more expansive, accompanied by a different warping tune from the grotesque singer.
Trichor: 1d20 + 3 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 3 + 2 = 14
Scrof: 1d20 ⇒ 5
Cobb: 1d20 + 4 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 4 + 2 = 9
Trichor and Cobb at once realize that the thing is Quickening a spell, but just as they begin to recognize the slightly-skewed Sleep spell they sink to the ground like wet rope. Scrof sinks to his knees, Trichor slumps against the boarish man, and Cobb drops back into the refuse pile.
All three feel half-conscious as though awake in a dream, but have their eyes wide open.
The yellow mist seems to become entirely translucent as all three men feel a yellow wash over their eyes as though some itching bile were smeared under unblinking eyelids.
DM CritBear |
The creature appears somewhat changed to sleep-singed eyes. Its features softer and cleaner, and its tattered coverings more whole and unsullied. But it's visage is no less horrible.
It casually shuffles toward the pair of Scrof and Trichor. It crouches before the kneeling Scrof to peer, eyes still wrapped, into the boarman's face. To Scrof's notice only a faint fleshy tearing indicated the razor being withdrawn from Trichor's chest.
The steel is exquisitely sharp. If it were not for the tiny serrations in the hooked blade, the coup de grace would have felt like naught but a feather's trace.
As Scrof's throat yawns open his eyes briefly cloud and a voice not his own cries out from his lips, "WAKE UP-".
DM CritBear |
Trichor's limp form slips to the ground as his kneeling perch falls forward, lifeless.
The stranger's fleshless lips twitch in a perverted paroxysm of a smile at the body laid right before it. The blood-spattered blade finds the hole it made in the Tiefling's chest and traces down toward the naval, slowly.
The vile butcher finishes the cut with an arching flourish across the belly in a wretched perversion of a y-shaped incision.
As Trichor's entrails spill onto the dusty stone street his visage goes blank and he gives a parody similar to Scrof's bizarre deathrattle, "WAKE UP, AND S-".
DM CritBear |
As Cobb hears the two unthreatening strangers, perhaps even companions in this hellish nightmare, expire with uncanny proclamations he has only a moment to wait before the tattered horror turns his way.
In a pair of shuffling, gliding steps the thing sinks to face Cobb. The razor is missing as it raises its pulpy scabbed hands to each side of Cobb's face. The cold and slimy touch is almost tender before the crack-nailed fingertips cover Cobb's open eyes and press into his head. With a sigh of delighted effort the monster begins to squeeze Cobb's head with far more strength than the ropy arms would suggest. The force of an admantine vice presses on Cobb's face and head.
As the gnarled nails pierce his corneas and he feels his skull cave in, he hears a familiar voice not his own burst from his lips and ring in his ears, "WAKE UP, AND SAVE ME!"
DM CritBear |
Thichor, Scrof, and Cobb all wake up laying on a cold, hay-strewn stone floor. Blearily, groggily you can each see that you are in individual barred cells at one side of a larger chamber.
With blurry vision you can see through the bars that a figure is circling a waist-high bed or table with the vague outline of a man laying on it with hanging apparatus above it. The light is dim and your vision is blurry after just waking.
Occasional clinks of metal can be heard, and as the roving figure bends over the table the sound of weak choking moans and tearing break the silence. The roving figure gives a, "Hmmm...," of contemplation.
No equipment can be seen or felt nearby. Trichor feels the vague presence of Treat somewhere nearby, but he feels great distress through their Empathic Link.
DM CritBear |
In response to Trichor's entreaties a frantic, flapping rattle sounds from the far corner of the room near the ceiling.
"Quiet!" cries a quavering, distorted voice from the stranger, "your time will come soon enough!"
The stranger returns her focus to the figure on the table, seeming not to notice the stirring, clownish devil in a cell. As Trichor focuses on the figure on the table he realizes why it has not stirred, despite being unbound.
A man's torso and head lies on the table, arms and legs amputated at the first joint hang limply at his sides. His abdomen lies open and laid bare as though he were a university examination specimen. The internal organs are now external, suspended in trays and dishes above the torso, but feeding back into it through strangely-stretched and fleshy tubes. The man's head is a bare skullcap with the brain raised from its bone cradle by several inches. Red-ribboned pins and needles, driven into the grey matter, extend a few inches out of the tissue, twitching occasionally.
Below the brows is a permanently wide-eyed stare, the eyelids seemingly missing, and a cloth-bound gag causing the muffled groans leaving the bruised throat.
The stranger continues to poke, prod, or make small cuts in the man's stumped limbs with half a pair of broken scissors.
DM CritBear |
Also, please try and use the forum code found here. It makes my forum life easier.
The three amnesiac survivors are in adjacent cages against the West wall of the room. At the moment, with both Scrof and Cobb still laying on the hay-strewn stone floor, Trichor can just barely reach Scrof's foot by stretching his arm through the Southern bars and Cobb's head by doing the same with the Northern Bars.
Trichor |
Quoted material here....
This is bold and italics and strikethrough.
Go to Paizo Publishing.
Contact customer.service@paizo.com
- one
- two
This is bigger and this is smaller.
This is out-of-character commentary for play-by-post threads.
Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 51d6 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7 This is a dice expression.
I move stealthily to tickle Scrof's foot through the bars
DM CritBear |
-And just barely stifles a
-just as the butchered man gives a muffled scream as the torturer drags a particularly long cut along his shin.
The torturer has not noticed her(?) captives are conscious, but the butchered man's unblinking eyes have turned from the torturer to the boarish man in the cell.
Scrof |
I awake with a squealsnort.
"What the-?"
I look around my dank cell and at the source of the tickling.
Unsure what to really say, I stand up, not taking my eyes of the thing staring back at me, i slink back to the cell door.
I look behind me, blinking to make sure I see what is really around me.
I rub my eyes, and everything is still as it was before.
I look back at the other person.
"Oy (frrrt) who the hell're you?"
Trichor |
Ooc:Sorry, about that rules text accident. Btw, Trichor looks human, just small- easily mistaken for a human child.
"Shhh, I'm Trichor, the guy trying to get us out of these cells," Trichor hisses in an anxious whisper. "Remember that weird thing in the fog, from that dream before you woke up here? The crazy hobo from the dream is in the next cell too- I'll go poke at him & see if he can pick the locks before we end up like the poor wretch on that table." Trichor slinks carefully across his cell to poke at the other prisoner.
DM CritBear |
-whirls about at the sudden slight squeal. Her face coming into full light is that of a beautiful red-haired woman only just passed her prime dressed in a doctor's long tunic, but as she takes a step toward Scrof's prison her features melt away and reform into a nearly perfect imitation of the boarman's own face. "Pipe down! Your turn will come soon enough!"
Just as quickly as it changed, her face returns to stern auburn beauty as she turns back to coldly contemplating her vivisection of the bound man.
Trichor |
Hissing in a low voice, "we are so screwed," I strain my eyes to scan the ceiling from whence the frantic flutters of Treat originated, to see if one of the doctor's keys on that ring would likely fit the all-too-likely bird cage mt sweat little bird is trapped in. Perception +6 (earlier 8 had included Alertness bonus)
Scrof |
Male Mooncursed Skinwalker [HP: 14/14] AC: 13 (Flat 12 / Touch 11/ CMD 16) [Fort +5, Ref +2, Will +0] Init: +4, Perception: +1 Sense Motive: +0
I feel my eyes burn as I blink the sleep from my face and stand up. I can't help but think, "Man, that guy looked a lot like me."
(OoC: How far away is said doctor from the bars of my cell?)
I look at the doctor's belt and wonder if I could yank it to death against my cell door.
I look at Trichor and hold up a single finger against my lips.
"Shhh." I say quietly and turn back to the doctor...waiting...