Homecoming (Inactive)

Game Master The Wyrm Ouroboros

People who get things done.

Homecoming Information on Google Drive.
Chalion Wiki, helping to explain five of the Gods (the Holy Family) and how they work in the world; see especially The Curse of Chalion and Paladin of Souls.
Especially For Paladins: Knights of the Cross from the Dresden Files (Jim Butcher) and 'Oath of Gold', the third book in the Deed of Paksenarrion (Elizabeth Moon).


151 to 200 of 201 << first < prev | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | next > last >>

Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

The Professor shakes his head at the Acolyte's naivety. "In all likelihood, this is not a matter of a grudge. Many men simply wish to gain as much power, control, and wealth as they conceivably can. The perpetrator is almost certainly doing this for his own ends, rather than simply some "grudge" against Mosval."


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

... And It's Only Lunch-Time:
Horst sits back in his chair and sighs. "The Father teaches us that we only need enough to provide for our children and their future. Thirty-six thousand crowns is surely enough for that."

He looks over at Professor Brooks. "Whoever did this is either motivated by a near-insane greed, or deep hatred."


Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

...And It's Only Lunchtime:

Brooks raises an eyebrow at this, and Ham begins laughing uproariously inside his head. "Not all of us follow the Father, Acolyte, and many of those who do, only do so in the most marginal sense. Even those who are devout wish for more than just the bare minimum to provide for their children. Fine wines, fine clothes, he gestures his own well tailored suit as he says this, fine food, fine women- everybody desires comfort above and beyond the bare minimum. Most people desire as much comfort as they can grab. I would argue that they are motivated by perfectly normal greed."


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

...And It's Only Lunchtime:
Horst scoffs. "The Father doesn't call on us to be Aesthetes, my friend, and securing a better life for you and yours isn't greed ('provide' is a pretty broad term, after all), but you and yours benefit most when all benefit." The dwarf shifts in his seat, facing the Professor. "Once our own fortunes are secure, we must look to the community around us and secure and improve it so all can prosper. The individual is part of the all. When one benefits, so does the other."

He leans back in his seat "There's a time when commendable and natural self interest turns the corner to greed, and I think it's fair to say that when you steal a small fortune and start spending it to overthrow a city you're a fair piece down the road from mere self interest." A slow grin turns the corner of his bushy mustache up, and a thick eyebrow arches "Or would you suggest, my friend, that sabotage and conquest on the level the Lord Provost suggests is 'perfectly normal'?


Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

...And It's Only Lunchtime:
The Professor shakes his head. "Most people care not about their neighbors, and fail to see the benefit in helping them. And I did not say that the actions were perfectly normal, only the motives behind them. Greed and selfishness are perfectly normal."


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

...And It's Only Lunchtime:
The Acolyte sighs heavily. "I'd say "frustratingly common", but your point is made."


Female Human (Aryind) Magus (Bladebound, Kensai) 3 l AC: 15 (18)/T: 14 (17)/F:11 l HP: 30/30 l F: +5, R: +5, W: +3 l Init: +6; Per: +9 l AP 4

And It is only Lunchtime:

Nissa watches the conversation between the nervous doctor and the eager priest primly.

After they are done, she turns a respectful gaze to the gathering's leader.

"Should we assume, Lord of Reeves, that you are telling us this scandalous information because you want us to do something about it? Do you have suspicions about who has done this crime? It seems that you have an enemy that cares nothing for your safeguards."


Mistaken Identity:

There are shouts of alarm as your gestures and muttered phrases cool the surrounding air. With the morning mist having lasted almost until noon anyhow, and being right next to the river - almost at the lake, in fact - it doesn't take much to cause the morning's mist to reappear; a swift localized drop in temperature does it just fine, a sudden pea-souper coalescing about druid and ranger.

It would serve you as excellent cover for the two of you to get out of dodge, if one of you weren't a plodding, klonking, kludging dwarf. But then again, you haven't seen much more than a double handful of dwarfs around so far today; far more humans in Mosval, after all. As you reach the edge of the mist, you can hear one of the thugs behind you say, "Which way? Which way??"

Another one replies, "Careful, don't get clobbered!!" And while they're only starting out ten or fifteen feet away, going by sight they might as well be on the moon - and in the couple or three seconds that follow, it doesn't look like they're coming through at anything resembling normal speed. Smart tactics, to not rush into a counter-ambush ... but hopefully it'll mean they lose their prey, i.e. you.

The crowd that you're moving into doesn't look happy, though - a number of peoples' eyes look a little wild about the edges, and at least a handful of stevedores and dockworkers are reaching for boathooks and pieces of timber.

... And It's Only Lunch-Time:

"No 'of', Lady Alami - and no plural. There are no other reeves under my direction." The linguistic correction - after two or three errors said to him or within earshot - is given rather absent-mindedly as the Lord Reeve watches the entertainment of Logic and Faith getting into a philosophical tussle. "Nonetheless, you have a very pertinent question. I am, in fact, requesting and requiring your assistance in this matter - specifically because you are not in the government, and so you are only a very remote suspect in the embezzelment and, I am moderately confident, not guilty of the murder." The cool, calculating grey eyes of the old man behind the desk shift back over to Nissa. "And while I have suspicions on who's been siphoning monies out of the Purse in my care," and you can hear the capitalization of the word, "Right now those suspicions are not firm enough to allow me to apply the law - or even execute justice." He smiles thinly at the latter.

"However," Hostler continues, "this murder suggests to me - strongly - that someone is either panicking or very, very dangerous. I want to get an outside angle on this - someone they're not expecting, someone from outside the Provosts. That's where the three of you come in," and he gestures at Nissa, Horst, and Theodore. "I want you to find my murderer for me."

"And what about us?" pipes up the gnome mage, her bird settled back onto her chair, the second one having left with the halfling.

"You, Mistress Farview, I thought might want to witness the execution of a request I'm making of Master Zooskin," replies the Lord Provost.

"Which is?" asks the hale master-mage.

"That blood-of-the-slain spell you used in the Partridge case. How long would it take you to prepare?"

Zooskin's face folds into a frown. "Hm. Half an hour, forty-five minutes. Why? Do you have a sample?" Silence echoes through the room as Milo looks at him with a mild sort of disgust, until the wizard snorts laughter. "Okay, a stupid question. Where, for the casting?"

"Just outside," says the Lord Reeve. "I have four suspects downstairs, but I've been told they couldn't have done it. I'd like confirmation."

"All right. Larissa, care to come with me?" The mage rises from his seat, leaving it in its place instead of putting it back. (Clearly a mild but running conflict between the two.)

"Absolutely," she replies, standing and walking down the ramp behind the three of you before exiting with Zooskin.

The old man behind the desk looks at Baltor, or perhaps past him to the fireplace, for several long moments. Finally, he speaks again: "That will be all, Nelson. Thank you. Seal those when they're dry, please, and put them with the evidence for this case."

Nelson doesn't reply, only standing, sanding the papers, and with a few well-rehearsed movements extracts himself from the room.

Silence again for a moment, and then the Lord Reeve looks at each of you in turn before speaking. "What I want," he says, enunciating his words very precisely, "is for you to find the bastard that did this. I want you to find him no matter where the hell he goes, or is from. If you're in the city, you turn him over to the Provosts. If you aren't, you finalize the son-of-a-b!tch and bring me his head so I can put it on Lydia Rasmussen's grave and apologize to her for failing her by not catching the bastard before he could hurt her.

"More," adds the de facto ruler of the Duchy of Mosval, "I want you to find who this creep is working for. This is a very thick and vibrant thread in the tapestry of this whole problem. If pulling and following that thread leads you to it, find out if this is linked to the druid's predicted invasion, if our own money is paying for a bunch of greenskins to come howling down out of the north and chop us into dogfood. I want you to grip the thread, follow it where-ever it goes, and rip this bastard's tapestry into shreds.

"Now, the suspects I'm talking about are of course the four we fetched from the rooms at the inn. The boy is a local, worked at the Sword; the half-elf female has claimed to be a divine, here on Temple business; the orc says he's a 'businessman' from an Ice Bay group that I know for a fact is nothing less than a crime syndicate, and the last is the orc's valet, if you can believe it. The residue in the pitcher confirmed what my healer stated - all four had been drugged into unconsciousness, same as the girl. In about twenty minutes, I'll send down for them to be brought up, so they'll be here when Master Zooskin and Mistress Farview return.

"Any suggestions, questions ... refusals?"


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

... And It's Only Lunch-Time:
Horst shakes his head solemnly.


Female Human (Aryind) Magus (Bladebound, Kensai) 3 l AC: 15 (18)/T: 14 (17)/F:11 l HP: 30/30 l F: +5, R: +5, W: +3 l Init: +6; Per: +9 l AP 4

And its only lunchtime . . .:

Khadga, tired of being ignored, offers commentary of on the Lord Reeve's prospective.

शायद खतरनाक है। यह कभी भी किसी के दुश्मन डर रहे हैं ग्रहण करने के लिए मूर्ख लगता है। बेहतर है कि वे आप के आगे मान रहे हैं कि और आप पकड़ने के लिए खेलने की जरूरत है।.

Lady Nissa cannot help but agree with her sword's perspective on that matter.

"I fear I must beg pardon, Sardar." Nissa murmurs quietly. She was retreating to the proper address for the Reeve in her mother tongue because she couldn't quite say what the difference between being the Lord of Reeves, the Lord of Provosts, the Lord Reeve, or the Lord Provost might be. Something for future consideration.

She continues, "I am not certain what you want from us that your . . . provosts . . . cannot provide. I am not a trained detective. If you desire me to vanquish some scoundrel in combat, then I could do it with grace and ease. But you want us to discover some villain whose wicked deeds have eluded your sight, then are we not being set up for failure? Are we the goat staked out on the bluff? Do you hope that we rile your enemy into striking out at us?"

Nissa's tone remains even with no hint of accusation. It would be beneath her to bargain. If she did this task, she trusted that the Reeve would reward her as befits her station. To do otherwise would be to dishonor himself.

Rather she was thinking of the doctor's blurted confession. What does he actually want from us that his own professionals cannot provide? He must know that if the doctor confronted the killer, he might end up confessing his secrets, the Sardar's secrets, and then apologizing for the bother. The priest seems out of his depth. For that matter, so do I. Khadga is my preferred answer to trouble.

Translation:
Probably dangerous. It seems foolish to ever assume one's enemies are panicking. Better to assume that they are ahead of you and you need to play catch up.


Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

...And It's Only Lunchtime:

The professor remains silent. He strongly suspects the reason for the Lord Reeve's course of action, but the last time he made such an assumption, he accidentally gave away more information than he would have liked to. True, it was very little information- nobody who didn't already know his secret could have gained anything useful from it- but it was still more than he should have said.


Male middle-aged LN dwarf cleric (forgemaster) of Torag 5/Evangelist 5 | HP: 110/110 | AC: 31 (14 Tch, 29 Fl) [+4 vs. giants, +4 vs. crits] | CMB: +10, CMD: 24* | F: +12*, R: +8*, W: +13* | Init: +5 | Perc: +17, SM +17 | Speed 20ft | Spells: 5th: 2/2, 4th: 4/4, 3rd: 5/5,2nd: 6/6, 1st: 6/6 | Active conditions: freedom of movement

Mistaken Identity:

Leaving the fog behind, Baltor looks around, searching for somewhere to hide. He sees a couple of warehouses but fears that they could be just jumping from the frying pan into the fire if one of them were controlled by the thugs or if they follow them into those.

Hum... the opens should protect us more... even if the crowds hampers our movements, the same applies to those men.

He looks behind once more, just to make sure Brand is closely following him and runs as fast as he can on the streets, trying to leave the thugs and this whole damned district behind.

Where are those guards when you need them?

The Exchange

Human Ranger 3; HP 36/36; AC 18, touch 14, FF 14; CMD 20; Fort +5, Ref +7, Will +3 Init +5, Perception +7, speed 30 ft
skills:
Handle animal +5, Heal +5, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (geography) +4, Knowledge (local) +4, Knowledge (nature) +4, Survival +7, Perception +7, Profession (caravan guard) +4, Sense motive +6

Mistaken Identity:
Brand comes out of the fog only to find members of the city looking fearfully and hesitantly around and a few seem like they may be getting ready to attack whatever made the fog.

It's fog. Brand shook his head at the short-sightedness and fearfulness of city dwellers. Fog is as natural as things come. It's not like the dwarf rained fire down from the heavens.

However, Brand did not waste more time on such thoughts, but instead focused on following the dwarf as he ran on the streets.

I hope you have some idea of where we're going, he thought as they ran.


Male Orc Barbarian (Urban) 1/Rogue (Thug, Bandit) 2; HP 36/36; AC 16, T 12, FF 14, Fort +6, Ref +6, Will +2; Init +4; Darkvision 60 ft. Perception +6

Whooo Are You?:

Burhul breaks out in a cold sweat as he hears the emergency situation down the hall. Likely the girl, Ms. River. They were trying to keep quiet about it, no doubt to keep people from panicking too much. Which means...

Arthur! He hisses. "Arthur are you alright?" Burhul's lackey is strong for a human. If he's done, then Burhul might not last it either.


And It's Only Lunch-Time...:

"What I expect from you three is ... a different angle of attack, Lady Nissa," replies the old man. "You are a new ingredient in this odd, nasty little mixture. You have skills above and beyond what many of my provosts do not - skills in find things out, different ways of looking at and thinking about things, and most importantly, something you've already deduced - the capacity to defend yourself. I wouldn't be surprised if a strike was already being prepared for you three, together or apart; I am not so foolish as to think that the provosts under my command are incorruptable and loyal to me alone, and a mole in their midst is entirely possible. But if the four we brought in are innocent, and if the three of them are all entirely new to the city - well, then someone has tried to throw my attention away from where it has been going, and perhaps given me information they did not intend to give. That chest, after all, was supposed to burn - as was the parchment we found inside it.

"That said, the parchment itself might be our only lead; I've sent it up to the scribes of the House of Laughter to see if they can deduce anything about it. If the direction it imposes on this investigation - or at least suggests strongly - is out of the city, then sending a provost won't do much. It might send up a red flag, or just set off the raging hordes early, or something other than keeping the peace - or at least the relative quiet. I want you," he nods to Horst, "to figure out how that knife got here, ask around, see if there are merchants who have recently acquired or sold such a thing. I want you," and here he indicates Brooks, "to look into this drug, figure out where our shadowy bastard could have gotten it from, and see if there's some way to find him from there. And you," he looks again at Nissa, "I think would be best talking to the merchants and their caravaneers, and speak particularly with the Romny - find out whether they've noticed any disquiet to the north, or if they've seen or carried unusual shipments to or from the city, northwards or in any direction - let's not get married to craziness happening to the north, because the desire for greater influence happens among every kindred and kind.

"And I'm asking you three because someone official - a guardsman, a provost, even one of the scouts or a ranger - can button up the lip of a man on the take faster than a halfling can eat a sandwich. You're not trained in investigations, fine - I agree with that, you're not. But because you aren't trained in it also means you have no preconceptions on how to go about it. You'll think differently, act differently, see things differently, react differently. Can you three do that?"

Mistaken Identity:

City guards don't seem to be anywhere convenient, that's for sure; Brand being right behind Baltor as the two of you emerge from the cloud, you can push through the denser portion of the crowd right around the point of the assault and, in only a handful of seconds, manage to dodge around a corner.

Brand, however, looking back at the last moment, spots someone leaning out of a third-floor warehouse opening - you know, the big floor-to-ceiling ones with the pulley arm so that cargo can be hauled up right from the street for storage? - and watching the two of you round the corner. Moments after you disappear, there's a sharp whistle over the hubbub of the crowd.

Whooo Are You?:

"I'm fine, Burhul," drawls the voice of you valet. "It would seem that our fair maiden may have ... partaken generously last night."

"She did," comes the uncertain-sounding voice of the young man from the inn, David. "I didn't think it was that much, though ..."

"Drugs," comes the mild-mannered voice of the officer of the law outside, "can have different effects on different people - or so I am told. Do any of you have anything you would care to add, or should I arrange for a spare bite to eat while Miss Zoraya sees to the curative she promised - presuming she manages to get Miss River out of danger, that is."


Male Orc Barbarian (Urban) 1/Rogue (Thug, Bandit) 2; HP 36/36; AC 16, T 12, FF 14, Fort +6, Ref +6, Will +2; Init +4; Darkvision 60 ft. Perception +6

Whooo Are You?:
"No, my good man that will be all. I just couldn't have my valet go down poisoned to death like a two-bit Tachaga Thug. Wouldn't be good for my reputation. Just like being ill fed." Burhul snorts.

"I'd imagine that Ms. River dying on your watch couldn't be good for your reputation either, guard. But I am but a humble merchant and know little in the affairs of the city guard."


Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

...And It's Only Lunchtime:

"Do you have a possible sample of the drug that I could work with, sir?" Brooks asks politely. "If so, that would make things much easier."

The Exchange

Human Ranger 3; HP 36/36; AC 18, touch 14, FF 14; CMD 20; Fort +5, Ref +7, Will +3 Init +5, Perception +7, speed 30 ft
skills:
Handle animal +5, Heal +5, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (geography) +4, Knowledge (local) +4, Knowledge (nature) +4, Survival +7, Perception +7, Profession (caravan guard) +4, Sense motive +6

Mistaken Identity:
Uh-oh Brand thought, looking up and spotting what he took for an overly-interested observer. Then, hearing the sharp whistle, he knew they'd been made.

"We're gonna have company, Baltor" he said to the dwarf. "Maybe we can at least get them into terrain that's gonna favor us more and be away from the crowds?" he posed, not sure where this favorable terrain might be.


... And It's Only Lunch-Time:
The Lord Reeve nods to the Professor. "We do, thanks to the smart thinking of Acolyte Ironbrow. It's tainted by the juice, of course, but I'll see you get a sample from what we have left."

Whooo Are You?:

"Not at all," comes the bland reply. "Plenty of prisoners have died in these cells. Some by design. I shall see to your food; Miss Zoraya recommended bland fare, so you have my apologies for offended taste buds in advance."

The food provided (tray through a space at floor level, furthest from the hinges) is indeed bland, but still good - barley bread, water, a bland stew of potatoes and turnips, with a smattering of onions and maybe even a bit of mutton dunked in it a few times. After that, it's nothing but put the tray with its bowl and spoon back through the slot, then hurry up and wait ... and maybe try to rest your pounding head a bit.

A few hours later, a solid metal-on-wood rapping on what is probably the guard's desk in the hall calls for your attention, possibly waking you. "Some more food for you," says the gaoler's mild tone. "Please finish the drink; Miss Zoraya's medication will be inside it, adjusted for your size."

It is some time after that, perhaps an hour during which the throbbing subsides radically, that the knocking comes again to call your attention. "Prisoners. Please settle yourself down in front of the door, and place your hands and wrists through the slot through which your food has been delivered."

Mistaken Identity:

Sure to Brand's word, even after another turn or two the two of you can spot the three thugs - and a bow-carrying spotter who seems to always be on the skyline or in a window somewhere - prowling after you. It's pretty clear by your aches that though they may not want to bash your brains in, they definitely want to give you a nice thorough beating ...


Male middle-aged LN dwarf cleric (forgemaster) of Torag 5/Evangelist 5 | HP: 110/110 | AC: 31 (14 Tch, 29 Fl) [+4 vs. giants, +4 vs. crits] | CMB: +10, CMD: 24* | F: +12*, R: +8*, W: +13* | Init: +5 | Perc: +17, SM +17 | Speed 20ft | Spells: 5th: 2/2, 4th: 4/4, 3rd: 5/5,2nd: 6/6, 1st: 6/6 | Active conditions: freedom of movement

Mistaken Identity:

Baltor heard the sound of a blunt arrow against his stone armor. "We are in a tight spot, Brand... but one thing I know for sure: in the long run, they will outrun me..."

In the wilds or back in the mountains we would have no difficulties in losing these men, but in the barren rock forest is another matter... His thoughts were interrupted by another arrow that missed his head for an inch or two.

Baltor looked behind and saw no sign of their land pursuers. "Come, lets turn here and lose them..." his phrase was interrupted as he saw the three men ahead of them, somehow maneuvering in their well known city, standing on a kitchen garden filled with cucumbers and pumpkins. Baltor smiled and gestured his arms again, making vines grow and grab those men's ankles. He soon turned around and resumed running.

"That was lucky... better not count on it again..."

After a minute running in heavy armor, Baltor could feel his energies leaving him, but he could not rest... not yet. He looked behind once more and could see the men closing by, finally free from his pumpkin trap. He looked ahead at the end of the street and saw the familiar signs of his friend's forge.

"We are almost there, Bra..." another arrow, once more almost hitting him. "Argh! Blasted men." He looked around.

Not a single guard... are the completely absent in this city, or were they told to turn their eyes on the other way?

Finally arriving at the forge, Baltor turned around and drew his greatsword, standing in position to fight. "I thought that by now one of the city guards would have come to our assistance... the did not and I won't bring danger to such honored family... if they come closer I'll fight them." With his powerful voice, he them challenged his pursuers. "Come now, I won't run anymore! If I, a stonewarden from the Tor, am your enemy, I shall face you like a true mountain and break your bones like an avalanche!"


Female Human (Aryind) Magus (Bladebound, Kensai) 3 l AC: 15 (18)/T: 14 (17)/F:11 l HP: 30/30 l F: +5, R: +5, W: +3 l Init: +6; Per: +9 l AP 4

And It's Only Lunchtime:

Nissa nods her agreement. Mother needs to be informed. Of the prophecy and of the danger. Perhaps she will know.

The Exchange

Human Ranger 3; HP 36/36; AC 18, touch 14, FF 14; CMD 20; Fort +5, Ref +7, Will +3 Init +5, Perception +7, speed 30 ft
skills:
Handle animal +5, Heal +5, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (geography) +4, Knowledge (local) +4, Knowledge (nature) +4, Survival +7, Perception +7, Profession (caravan guard) +4, Sense motive +6

Mistaken Identity:
Seeing his companion come to a stop, Brand holds his axes menacingly and prepares for the fight.

Suddenly, the dwarf beside him issues, not only a challenge, but also a proclamation of his title and affiliation. Clever that.

"If your fancy title gets us out of this without a fight," Brand mutters quietly to his friend, "Your next pint's on me," and continues showing quiet fury in the face of his foes...and keeping an eye out for more flying arrows.


Mistaken Identity:

The guards have been there, have been around - though for ten thousand people, there's really but a handful within the city - but the four thugs trailing you (and in that one case getting ahead of your turned-around self) are at least smart enough to simply be strolling along with their thumbs hooked in their belts when they spot a guardsman, or once their archer lookout sends a piping whistle to warn them that one's coming your way.

As you arrive at the forge, turn at bay, and Baltor shouts his challenge, customers turn and look, and the younger boy, Lars, runs out to see what's going on.

The four pause for a seciond, and then the two largest of the thugs stroll past, looking for all of themselves like prejudiced humans curious as to what the hell this damn stuntie stupid enough to walk around wearing stone plates is doing, shouting at ... at them? They aren't stupid, though, they cross in front of the two of you on the other side of the street, pausing at the corner a couple dozen yards down the way to turn and watch 'what's going on'.

The other two, however, are looking amazingly guilty, drawing all sorts of attention since they, at least, appear to be the ones the dwarf is yelling at. After a moment, the non-archer shakes his head, and the archer nods, reaching up to swirl his fingertips around on the top of his head, as if scratching it; he and the other turn and walk away.

After a moment, so do the two gorillas on the other side.

Wary, from the shadow of the yard gate, Lars asks, "Master Baltor, sir? Is everything all right?"

The Exchange

Human Ranger 3; HP 36/36; AC 18, touch 14, FF 14; CMD 20; Fort +5, Ref +7, Will +3 Init +5, Perception +7, speed 30 ft
skills:
Handle animal +5, Heal +5, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (geography) +4, Knowledge (local) +4, Knowledge (nature) +4, Survival +7, Perception +7, Profession (caravan guard) +4, Sense motive +6

Mistaken Identity:
Brand continues to watch the ruffians until they are out of sight.

This is Baltor's familiar spot. I'm better as a watchful eye than a conversationalist here anyway.


Male middle-aged LN dwarf cleric (forgemaster) of Torag 5/Evangelist 5 | HP: 110/110 | AC: 31 (14 Tch, 29 Fl) [+4 vs. giants, +4 vs. crits] | CMB: +10, CMD: 24* | F: +12*, R: +8*, W: +13* | Init: +5 | Perc: +17, SM +17 | Speed 20ft | Spells: 5th: 2/2, 4th: 4/4, 3rd: 5/5,2nd: 6/6, 1st: 6/6 | Active conditions: freedom of movement

Mistaken Identity:

Baltor points to the four thugs while he looks at Lars. "Look, boy... look at these men so you can help me to describe them to your father when he returns... these men ambushed and attacked us on the streets." He then massages the back of his head. "If we were in the wilds or back in the Tor these men would already be laying on the ground or arrested by competent guardsmen..."

Seeing the thugs leaving the site, Baltor turns to Brand and Lars once more. "Young Lars, your father is still being held by the Provost, but he told us to wait for him here... anyway we can get something to eat and drink? I'm especially thirst after running half the city in stone armor!"


Male Orc Barbarian (Urban) 1/Rogue (Thug, Bandit) 2; HP 36/36; AC 16, T 12, FF 14, Fort +6, Ref +6, Will +2; Init +4; Darkvision 60 ft. Perception +6

Whooo Are You?:
Burhul does as he is asked, albeit begrudgingly. His thoughts are becoming clearer than before, no longer inhibited by that blasted throbbing, which now has been reduced to a dull ache. He's a little wary of being put in cuffs, but he's almost in the clear. Almost. Better to keep an ear and an eye out for treachery.


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

... And It's Only Lunch-Time:
Horst shifts in his seat and nods curtly. "I know a few dealers in high end weaponry who might be helpful for information. Failing that (and given the age and quality of the blade) I know a few merchants who deal in antique or ornamental weapons I can seek out."

He looks the Provost in the eye. "If any of this is going to take us afield for any length of time, I'll need a bit to get my affairs in order at the Cathedral and at my forge." He sits back, a faint smile of pride creeping to his lips. "My boy Njorl is old and skilled enough that he can see to the forge and his brother. A good head on his shoulders, that one, but I just can't not turn up at home and stay gone for weeks or more without warning him."


Mistaken Identity:

The young dwarf looks after the four men, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to spot their differences, but when Baltor makes the crack about being back in the Tor and 'competent guardsmen', he looks up at his father's friend with a certain amount of shock and anger on his face. He does, however, hold his tongue, and after Baltor asks for refreshments, without a word leads the two towards the shop. Once inside, it is upstairs to the family living area. "Kitchen's to the left," he says after unlocking the door and letting the two of them in; he returns afterwards to his duties below.

Whooo Are You?:

Several sets of footsteps clump down the hallway, chains clunking along, followed by the unpleasant feeling of manacles getting locked around your wrists. Not long after that, the door itself is opened. "You can stand," comes the statement of your primary gaoler, and as you do you finally get a good look at him.

Though he is dressed in a uniform unfamiliar to you, it's clearly a uniform; the other two down here are similarly dressed. The difference is that his outfit is all of a far looser cut, or even simply a pull-on sort of thing - tabard-like - without other clothing underneath. The reason for this is, well, obvious now that you've seen him, for he is not skin and muscle and bone like the rest of those you've known, but steel and wood, shifting subtlely and nigh silently in what might be considered either a foul parody or an admirable imitation of life of the flesh. Within the hood of the cowl he wears glow two small circles, their mild inner light glinting slightly off the steel closest to them; you can see the metal orbs shifting as he turns his attention to one of his two assistants, now shortening the links between you and David. Arthur is ahead of the busboy, and is looking mildly disquieted (AKA about as irritated as you've ever seen him) at the sight of the interrogator.

Two things do ruin the apparent humanity of the creature; its - his? let us continue to use 'his', if only for the timbre of its voice - his left forearm and right lower leg are swollen, massive, two or three times the size of an ordinary person's. The foot has only two large toes; the hand, three fingers and a thumb. Despite the distortion, he moves as though their swollen size is a minor inconvenience, but it does explain the uneven sound when he walks. And so he does, coming down the line to double-check the manacles' closure with his normal-sized (and -shaped) hand before settling in behind you. "Bassard, lead them up."

"Yessir." One of the humans steps to the front and says, "All right, gentlemen, let's head upstairs."

... And It's Only Lunch-Time:

"I didn't think you wouldn't still be in town for at least a day or three, even if the clues led elsewhere, Acolyte. And considering your ... status, I'm fairly certain that the Divines will be more than willing to give you leave to go anywhere you need to go to pursue the Father's justice. I'm fairly certain," the Lord Provost adds drily, "that the Father and I would see eye-to-eye on this one."

And within Horst, there is a sudden fiercely cold certainty that this is true. Justice must be done.

A tap on the door follows relatively swiftly on the heels of Milo Hostler's suggestion. "Come!"

"Sir," says Beatrice once she's opened the door and stuck her head in, "the prisoners are on their way."

"Good. See to the security of the outer door. Once they're here, nobody but Master Zooskin, Mistress Farview, and the First are to be allowed in."

"Yessir." She heads back out, leaving the door open behind her; the three of you can see her trotting back down the room, empty save for the scribe Nelson.

"Well. Shall we adjourn to see if we already have the murderer in custody?" The old man climbs to his feet, and heads out into the work chamber.

Red-Handed - Nissa, Horst, Brooks, Burhul:

I'm going to skip the primary room description this time. ;)

One prisoner is carried in on a stretcher; the attractive but unconscious half-elven woman is settled down along the side wall nearest the blunt practice weapons, her porters being escorted back out by the attending provost. The other three are led in by two provosts and trailed by a third; their approach is announced by the rattle of chains and a rhythmically-punctuating thump. The reason for that last is revealed to be the third provost, who stays even as the other two depart; he is ... mechanical.

All of you have heard of the Priest-Dukes of Gondahar; they've been in power, and have held together their Duchy as a full-on political power in and out of the Second Ravennan Empire for four thousand years. While for some reason they have never expanded their borders beyond their Imperial location, they are adamant and vigilant about preserving those borders, and lending their allies aid, even though they may have recently suffered from famine, plague, or other problems.

It is said that several thousand years ago, during the time of the Second Ravennan Empire, a plague swept through Gondahar and the eastern coast of the continent, decimating the former and practically obliterating the settlements of the latter. (This is one reason why the eastern coast was so sparsely settled, and why the colonies could be founded - there wasn't much there to stop them, as people thought of the territory as being cursed, haunted, or both.) According to tales (because the Second Conflagration of Dragons did a number on libraries, Let Me Tell You), the plague was especially fierce among close-knit groups of individuals - or, translated, armed forces. It is said - even history books address this as being questionable, unlikely, fantastical, and probably untrue - that in order to protect itself, the Priest-Dukes of Gondahar studied and prayed and were shown the techniques to actually infuse a construct with more than just the semblance of life a 'standard' golem displays; they were given the ability to give them souls.

Give them souls, new souls the way infants possess souls, unblemished and not taken from the living and shoved into the construct the way spooky stories have it being done by the kolschi'ichanth to power malevolent houses and engines of war.

In any case, the tales say that the Priest-Dukes assembled/gave birth to several thousand of these beings, built to reinforce the soldiers manning the strongpoints of the Duchy, so that they could protect themselves properly and yet still lend aid (using brigades of normal people) as needed to their allies. How true the tales of the birth of these 'warforged' are, amongst the four of you you must concede that at least one element is true: they exist.

Two things do ruin the apparent humanity of the creature; its - his? let us continue to use 'his', if only for the timbre of its voice - his left forearm and right lower leg are swollen, massive, two or three times the size of an ordinary person's. The foot has only two large toes; the hand, three fingers and a thumb. Despite the distortion, he moves as though their swollen size is a minor inconvenience, but it does explain the uneven thump punctuating the rattle of chains as the prisoners approached.

The purple-ember eyes of the cowled, cloaked, and more-or-less dressed mechanical entity shift towards the form on the stretcher as he directs the three prisoners to stand along the near-side wall, by the practice bows and padded-head arrows. "Please stay there," he says in a mild tone, then thumps his way over to the Lord Reeve. "Sir."

"Christopher," replies Milo with a courtesy - familiar but respectful - that's been missing even from his conversation with the wizard. "How have they been?"

"Orderly," replies the mechanical man. "Miss Zoraya delivered her antidote approximately two hours past. We gave it to them with their luncheon, so most of the after-effects should be all but gone."

"I suppose that is a good thing," replies the old man dubiously.

Christopher states firmly, "It is the right thing."

"A man should have a clear head when he's on trial for murder?"

"Even so, sir." The mechanical Christopher appears at ease with this decision - even resolute.

Milo sighs, rubbing at the side of his face as he leans on his cane. "I suppose." He gestures Horst, Nissa, and Brooks over. "Christopher, may I present Acolyte Horst IronBrow, a smith; Lady Nissa Alami, swordmistress and exiled noble of the Aryind Dominion; and Professor Theodore Brooks, classical instructor from Plugh. Lady and gentlemen, Christopher Carolus, Provost First, keeper of the Provost cells downstairs, and the long-time interrogator for Mosval." It would appear that in the mind of the Lord Reeve, Carolus outranks you all. Going by the deference he's shown to the ... Provost First, Hostler might have the view that he himself is outranked by the thing, for all that Carolus calls him 'sir' ...


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

Red-Handed:
Horst gazes at the construct, clearly fascinated. He shifts his head up and down to examine the details of Carolus' mechanics. A joint here, a bundle of metal musculature there. Wonder, confusion, and curiosity play nakedly across his face as he crosses the room to the Warforged and his prisoners. His mouth hangs open in unmasked amazement as he meets Carolus' gaze. He stands there, eyes locked with cunningly crafted ocular sensors for a moment before he takes hold of himself. His mouth snaps shut with an audible clomp, and he clears his throat softly, his eyes averting to the prisoners. His attention settles on the unconscious woman.

"Why... Ahem. Why is this woman still unconscious? If the antidote was strong enough to rouse a big fellow like this (he indicates Burhul with a wave) it surely should have woken her by now."


Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

Red Handed:

Based on the fact that Brooks had met the Lord Provost before...

Professor Brooks is, to be blunt, in awe at the existence of the creature before him. He is a scholar at heart, and the fact that somebody figured out a way to create an autonomous being, and ensoul that being, is a thing of wonder. When Ham suggests laughingly that he should take it apart, the Professor, rather than snapping a retort, finds his hands twitching at the thought, before mentally shaking himself. Murder may be fine with Ham's taste, but not his.

He stands, and if his bow is a little deeper than is strictly necessary, it is not so much so as to be obsequious as he responds to the introduction.

"At your service," is not, perhaps, the best of things to say in the situation, but it suits, and the Professor is somewhat at a loss, at any rate.


Red-Handed:

"You and your family's," returns the smooth, mild voice of the living construct to Professor Brooks. His level, steady gaze shifts to Horst, watching the dwarf watch him back, then considers him as the Acolyte stumps over to the four prisoners. "I am told an idiosyncratic drug reaction, Acolyte IronBrow. Persistent unconsciousness is only the latest of several ... odd reactions she displayed. I am exceedingly unfamiliar with the biology of elven-human crossbreeds, so I cannot say why this has occurred, or how long it may persist. Miss Zoraya did what she could, though she has said that she has had an idea, and will be ... experimenting was not the word she used, but it is closest, I believe, to what she meant."

"Hmph," opinions Ham from behind the Professor's eyes, watching the mechanical man move. "It isn't murder if it doesn't die. We'd just be ... examining it by taking it apart. Like you take apart a clockwork. Possibly with a very high level of rapidity. And you could see if you could put it back together again, unlike your other vivisections, Teddy." Ham isn't a nice person - not necessarily evil, but he does have those tendencies - and while resting inside Brooks' head all he can do is watch, he can also comment - and his nasty streak gets taken out on his alter-ego. "I imagine there'd be a lot less blood than with those others. And a lot less squealing, wouldn't there??"


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

Red-Handed:
Horst looks from ths unconscious woman to the prisoners, squaring his shoulders and furrowing his bushy brow. "And what of them? What do they know about what happened to Lydia?"


"Silence, IronBrow," comes the voice of the Lord Provost, a cold steel that you haven't heard up until now. "They are not here to answer your questions - or to hear you ask them. They are here to be subjects of Kiron's spell."


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

Red-Handed:
The Provost's tone strikes Horst. The old man had heretofore not overtly asserted the weight of his authority into his voice, instead allowing it to loom silently over the proceedings. "Strange..." He muses internally. "What has changed?"

The dwarf turns to face the Provost and, after a moment, he bows deferentially and steps back.


Male middle-aged LN dwarf cleric (forgemaster) of Torag 5/Evangelist 5 | HP: 110/110 | AC: 31 (14 Tch, 29 Fl) [+4 vs. giants, +4 vs. crits] | CMB: +10, CMD: 24* | F: +12*, R: +8*, W: +13* | Init: +5 | Perc: +17, SM +17 | Speed 20ft | Spells: 5th: 2/2, 4th: 4/4, 3rd: 5/5,2nd: 6/6, 1st: 6/6 | Active conditions: freedom of movement

Mistaken Identity:

Baltor notices the subtle change in Lars mood. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder and speaks, calm and gentle.

"Sorry if I upset or offended you, it was not my intention. Unlike you that live among men, I'm more used to a dwarven city, where a situation like this would hardly happen... my community is sacred to me as well and I should think more before saying unpleasant words about yours."

Having that settled, Baltor followed Lars to the kitchen where he looks for bread, a couple sausages and a strong dwarven ale that, if his mind was not tricking him, Horst was also fond of.

"Here, Brand, smell this place... this is the smell of a dwarven kitchen... a smell close to the heavens!"


Mistaken Identity:

The boy's anger boils to the surface. "No, in a dwarven city they turn a decision to choose the lesser of two evils into treason, and destroy an honorable dwarf's work, life, and family for it." He doesn't debate further, instead leading Baltor to the home and leaving without saying - or hearing - another word than the abrupt directions to the kitchen.


Female Human (Aryind) Magus (Bladebound, Kensai) 3 l AC: 15 (18)/T: 14 (17)/F:11 l HP: 30/30 l F: +5, R: +5, W: +3 l Init: +6; Per: +9 l AP 4

Red Handed:

Nissa did not like being described as exiled from a place she had only been in the womb, but it did have its perks. Being a noble woman from elsewhere meant that she was not completely under the rule of local authority. Alas, 'exiled' robbed noblewoman of much of its cache.

कम से कम तुम एक लापता ड्यूक नहीं हैं।

She did her best not to smirk at her sword's comment. She practiced stillness and watchfulness; let other people fall over themselves in haste. Nissa didn't have much of an opinion on the wonders of the 'warforged.' There are all types of people and things in this world. Why get worked up over a man of metal? Aren't dwarves made of stone? She thought she may have heard that once.

Nevertheless, she gave it a respectful bow. Yet, her attention remains on the Lord Provost. Watch the man in power. Everything else would reveal itself in time.

Translation:
At least you aren't a missing duke.


Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

Red Handed:

The professor pauses at the Lord Reeve's sudden anger, but says nothing. The Lord Reeve clearly has a deep respect for the First Provost, and Ironbrow's attitude could possibly be considered rude. It is a stretch, in Brooks' mind, but if the Lord Reeve respects the man deeply enough, he may be jumping the gun in his defense. Brooks is vaguely confused by the statement, though. If the three of them are to be hired as investigators regarding the case, why are they not permitted to question the prime suspects and only known possible witnesses? Even if the four are determined to be innocent, they may know something, and while the Provosts have doubtlessly questioned the four extensively, an outside view is always helpful, especially when bringing in a specialist such as himself or the Acolyte.

The Exchange

Human Ranger 3; HP 36/36; AC 18, touch 14, FF 14; CMD 20; Fort +5, Ref +7, Will +3 Init +5, Perception +7, speed 30 ft
skills:
Handle animal +5, Heal +5, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (geography) +4, Knowledge (local) +4, Knowledge (nature) +4, Survival +7, Perception +7, Profession (caravan guard) +4, Sense motive +6

Mistaken Identity:
After hearing the boy's outburst and seeing him storm out, Brand stand for a moment in awkward silence before saying, "...You're right. It does smell quite nice." And then looks around awkwardly.


Male Orc Barbarian (Urban) 1/Rogue (Thug, Bandit) 2; HP 36/36; AC 16, T 12, FF 14, Fort +6, Ref +6, Will +2; Init +4; Darkvision 60 ft. Perception +6

Red-handed:
Murder. Well it wasn't the first time he'd been accused of such a thing. Though, to be fair, this was among a few of times where Burhul was entirely innocent. At least he was fairly certain. He wasn't usually a mean drunk anyhow, and all the ceremony and poisonings indicated this was a rather serious murder. But the name 'Lydia' seemed somewhat familiar? It wasn't the bar maid's name was it?

The Orc had initially believed the nickname 'Tin Man' was merely said as a joke about 'Christopher's' demeanor. To his surprise, it was a bit more literal than that. He thought idly, despite the Warforged's apparent stature he likely could have taken him down a notch in a fair fight. Not that it would have ever come to that.

Burhul huffs, "Which will prove me and my manservant innocent, no doubt."

Assuming that's what Kiron's spell was for. Burhul had desperately wished he were better dressed for this. He felt very wronged at being forced to meet the presence of a Lord improperly dressed.


Male middle-aged LN dwarf cleric (forgemaster) of Torag 5/Evangelist 5 | HP: 110/110 | AC: 31 (14 Tch, 29 Fl) [+4 vs. giants, +4 vs. crits] | CMB: +10, CMD: 24* | F: +12*, R: +8*, W: +13* | Init: +5 | Perc: +17, SM +17 | Speed 20ft | Spells: 5th: 2/2, 4th: 4/4, 3rd: 5/5,2nd: 6/6, 1st: 6/6 | Active conditions: freedom of movement

Mistaken Identity:

Baltor sighs. "The boy speaks with his heart without thinking clearly... a trait shared among many of us in the same age." Baltor grabs the food he was looking for, sits and prepares himself to eat and drink. "So, while we wait for the boy to become wiser and my friend to be rid of his business with the provost, let's drink a bit!"

The Exchange

Human Ranger 3; HP 36/36; AC 18, touch 14, FF 14; CMD 20; Fort +5, Ref +7, Will +3 Init +5, Perception +7, speed 30 ft
skills:
Handle animal +5, Heal +5, Intimidate +5, Knowledge (geography) +4, Knowledge (local) +4, Knowledge (nature) +4, Survival +7, Perception +7, Profession (caravan guard) +4, Sense motive +6

Mistaken Identity:
While he found the interaction between the dwarf and boy was definitely awkward, and still lacks any real understanding of the motive behind it, Brand accepts that the dwarf seems to have made his peace with it and he joins him in drinking and dining.

As they drink, Brand looks at his friend and inquires, "If it is not too bold of me to ask, what prompted you to take up the mantle of a druid? For myself, being a woodland hunter came from my father's influence and being a caravan guard came by chance, but I've always been intrigued by what prompts one into druidic service. If you'll forgive my saying so, druids are an...interesting lot."


Red-Handed:

"Mmmm. No doubt," says the old man drily. Burhul, given the chance to get a long, clear-headed look at the man, can tell (because, you know, Burhul's one of those people who cares about fashion and that sort of thing) that while his clothing is (obviously) of simple design, without all the frou-frou and lace and weird crap, it is elegant, clean, exceedingly well-made, and of quality material. This is someone who would be the single glossy-feathered raven in a colorful rainbow of kingfishers, ruby-throated hummingbirds, blue jays, phoenix ducks, scarlet cardinals, and faerie wrens - and by being the only one there not trying to outdo the others in flamboyancy, becomes the one to catch every eye. Burhul can easily guess that the man knows, or someone he trusts knows, how to use every weapon at hand, social as well as otherwise.

Fortunately, there is not much more time between the orc's stout statement of assurance of innocence and the arrival of the two mages, human male and gnome female, carrying a moderately-sized book; the two of them open it on one of the desks, consulting its arcane directions, then spend a few moments trailing powders and oils onto the floor. Afterwards, they direct the placement of 'the subjects' - aka the prisoners, in order the half-elf female, Arthur, David the busboy, and finally Burhul - in an arc along a portion of the circle.

"Are the chains really required?" Zooskin asks of the Lord Reeve.

The old man replies, "Do you truly trust how fast you can cast a spell in case one of them is the guilty party?"

"Hmmm." Zooskin consults the book's diagrams again, and goes to each of the three places that the wakeful but chained prisoners are at, revising the sigils there. "All right, that should do it."

"Will the spell's reach be limited to the room?" asks the Lord Reeve.

"Probably," replies Larissa Farview, the female gnome. "The walls here are ... what, a foot or so worth of stone?"

Carolus is the one who responds. "Ten inches internal. The floors are, variously, nine inches of stone, or four-inch thickness planks on roughly sixteen-inch joists."

"So probably," says Zooskin, "but not absolutely. The spell works if the guilty party is within thirty feet or so under open-field conditions, but internal walls like this can muck it up. It's definitely reliable within the room."

The Lord Reeve grunts, then gestures permission to get on with it.

The spell doesn't take all that long to perform, once the setup is done; after a moment of thought, Horst is sure that the spell is a blessing that the Father would grant a righteous Justicar, and possibly a saint of His who was in true need of it - though perhaps it's a matter of whether or not you feel comfortable asking for it as well. Nissa, for her part, can't quite see how it'd work with her abilities; the Professor, however, thinks that maybe he could achieve the same effect via an alchemical, maybe a charged alchemical, solution - maybe. It'd take some experimentation.

The blood sample, drawn from the blade itself scant moments before the spell's casting, slowly and deliberately extracts itself from the linen used, to hang suspended in the air. The globule ripples and quivers under the mage's chant, almost seeming to test directions to send itself, little bulges pushing this way and that. The three of you, all being mystics of one sort or another, can feel your skin prickle slightly with the tell-tale vibrancy of real magic at work. Zooskin's chant comes to a climax, but the blood slowly quiets into a sphere, barely more than the size of a thin penny. And then it distorts, and streaks straight towards Burhul.

At the very last second, it dodges around him, close enough to flick his cheek and ear with minute trailing droplets, before diving over his shoulder and splattering across the stone of the floor, a streak of crimson betraying the presence of the girl's murderer in the room - or the rooms - below, with a slight curve to its smear suggests that the person might be moving!!


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

Red-Handed:
Horst jumps to his feet and takes a step of the dais before catching himself. With visible effort, he unclenches his fists as he speaks.

"What lies on the floors below us, Lord Provost?"


Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

Red-Handed:

"Master Zooskin, does the spell find the man who is actually responsible for the victim's death, or simply the person who drove the dagger home? I find it hard to imagine that somebody in the Provosts' employ would be willing to risk their position by doing the deed themselves. Hiring a thug, however, is a more than likely possibility."

The professor is indeed puzzled at the possibility. As he had told the Lord Provost, the girl had likely been raped by multiple assailants. That had various implications, almost all of which made it less likely that somebody directly involved with the Lord Reeve would have actually been present for the event. Hired thugs, though, could be gotten with little trouble and at little risk. A mask over one's face, and possibly changing one's voice, and the thugs would never know that their employer was a Provost, or worked for them.


Male Orc Barbarian (Urban) 1/Rogue (Thug, Bandit) 2; HP 36/36; AC 16, T 12, FF 14, Fort +6, Ref +6, Will +2; Init +4; Darkvision 60 ft. Perception +6

Red-Handed:

The Orc interjects, "Regardless, it looks like your Thug is getting away. You may want to give chase instead of just wondering who he is." After a moment of silence he impatiently sighs, pointing at the red smear on the floor,

Go!

Burhul had already considered running after the guilty party, but the Provosts might misconstrue that for an escape attempt. Also, he had no idea how to navigate the castle. Fort. Whatever the hell they were standing in.

Anyway, It could have been a good way to vindicate himself and prove that he was a sterling citizen, but at the moment it wasn't possible.


Red-Handed:

Definitely wasn't possible - not in manacles and leg irons the way Burhul is. One of the Provosts has already started moving, though, headed out the door at what would be a dead run if he'd had the room to get up to that level of speed before needing to go through and take the corner. The sound of his shoes clattering on the steps echoes back to you.

"A common room, the offices of the City Guard, and the official residence of the Lord Seneschal," replies the mechanical man promptly. He, it should be noted, definitely does not move, though his attention narrows onto Burhul at the orc's slight shift.

"The man who did the deed is the one responsible," says Zoosken, "but this isn't the time for a philosophical argument. It seeks out the one who actually did the deed." Zoosken glances towards the wrapped-up dagger, frowning. "Milo, you'd better make sure you have the fellow next time you want me to use that spell; I don't think there's enough there for more than one more casting."

The Lord Reeve nods, lips pressed thin.


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

Red-Handed:
Horst bristles and fumes, pacing a few steps back and forth.

"This just keeps getting more and more damnably strange! A King's ransom in misappropriated coin! An innocent girl dead! Her killer with the onions to be walking under the very nose of the Provost's office! Father's Tears, (makes the Fivefold Sign) but it's madness!


Skinwalker Vivisectionist/Beastmorph; HP 33/33; AC 15 (11 T, 14 FF); CMD 16; CMB +5; F +4, R +3, W +2; Init +3; Perc +8;

Red-Handed:

"How is this so strange, Acolyte?" The professor's tone indicates some true interest in the man's opinion, but is laced with slight criticism. "Somebody is stealing large amounts of money from the Lord Provost's coffers. That means that they must, of necessity, be in the Provosts' employ. There may be a conspiracy to overthrow the current establishment, or it may simply be a particularly well executed embezzlement. The girl either learned something she shouldn't have, or meant something to somebody, and was killed as a message. It is certainly extremely distasteful, and I should hope that we bring the killer to justice, but strange? I fail to see how it is any more bizarre than any other conspiracy or plot."


Cleric of The Father 3, HP:30/30, AC:20 T:10 FF: 18, CMD:14, Fort:+5 Ref:+1 Will:+6 (+5vsSpells,SLA's,&Poison), Darkvision 60' Per:+3 SM+9, Init: +0

Red-Handed:
The dwarf turns to face Brooks, hooking his thumbs in his belt. "Well, I imagine it is a matter of one's exposure to conspiracies. While this may seem run-of-the-mill to you," he bows in the professor's direction slightly "I have little experience with any criminal enterprises more complex than the odd confidence game or loan-sharking. I suppose this will be an education."

"Still..." he strokes his beard, his eyes wandering to the smear of blood on the stone floor "damned peculiar."

151 to 200 of 201 << first < prev | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | next > last >>
Community / Forums / Online Campaigns / Play-by-Post / Homecoming: Gameplay Thread All Messageboards

Want to post a reply? Sign in.