Shisumo's Skull & Shackles (Inactive)

Game Master Shisumo

Belowdecks, Eleuterio eventually makes his way to the galley. It's on the the middeck, just aft of the hold where he and the others awoke this morning. The cramped and chaotic kitchen holds two wooden worktables, several wooden cupboards, and two small stoves against the port wall, as well as virtually every cooking utensil imaginable and a frightening array of meat cleavers. A score of chickens and three goats wander freely throughout the chamber. The kitchen is a madness of dirt, food, and knives, and finding anything in here requires a a sharp-eyed search and a Perception check. The stoves are perpetually lit, and large cauldrons bubble away atop them all times. A huge array of spices mingle with barrels of rainwater, two tuns of rum, cupboards full of ship’s biscuit and salted beef, barrels of sauerkraut, and a small supply of fresh vegetables picked up in Port Peril.

In the midst of all this culinary insanity is the ship's cook, a short man with a sizable belly and not quite enough teeth. He looks as though his nose has been broken a few times, but it's not clear whether it helped or hurt his looks. A large and particularly fine chicken sits on his shoulder, and a bottle of rum flops limply from his hand. He is leaning over one of the bubbling pots, stirring the contents with one hand and taking pulls from the rum bottle with the other, all the while murmuring quietly to the chicken. It takes him a moment to notice that Eleuterio has arrived, and when he does, he spends a moment blinking in confusion before brightening. "Ash, s'yer m'new cooksh-met, yeh? Bloody-goot t'shee yeh. M'Ambrosh, b't yeh c'n call meh Fishgutsh, everybooty dosh. Whetsh yer n'm?"

Fishguts now has a picture up on the Campaign Info page.

Chum wants to avoid rocking the boat until he knows better what's what, but he does attempt to visit with the Besmaran cleric, especially to thank her for saving him earlier. Influence an NPC, I suppose.

Profession (Sailor) 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (13) + 8 = 21

...let's assume you don't need to waste an action talking to her. (Should have seen that one coming...) You can either pick a different NPC to speak to, if you like, or take another action instead.

Well, then, he will just keep his eyes open as he moves around the ship. Sneak action, please.

Perception 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (10) + 10 = 20

Well, then, he will just keep his eyes open as he moves around the ship. Sneak action, please.

Good roll, but you'll need to pick an area of the ship to explore. Available options include: the foredeck, the main deck, the officer's quarters, the main hold, the galley, the purser's and cook's quarters (one shared room), the main hold and crew berths, and the bilges. I'll work on getting a map of the ship up on the Campaign Info page, hopefully with some basic descriptions, soon.

Eleuterio wrinkles his nose at the fragrant mess before him. His scowl never leaves his face, and his empty stomach turns as he sees how the food is prepared aboard the Wormwood. It takes a moment for him to register that the cook was speaking to him - and when he does, it takes him a few moments longer to translate into Common Fishguts' slurred speech.

"Under protest, aye, I am. The name's Eleuterio. Looks as though we'll be working together for the foreseeable future." He begins picking around the galley, trying to figure out Fishguts' system, assuming there even is one.

Given the level of disorganization, searching the galley is either a "sneak" or a "shirk" action, though in neither case does it actually risk "discovery" for you. (You would still take the "penalty" of either not getting to take another ship's action and not getting the +4 bonus of "work diligently" or the actual -2 to your rolls for the shirk action.)

Fishguts nods sloppily. "Ayep, thash righ, w'will. Yeh, yeh've jus goota help meh oo, mebbe do uh li'l fish'n er hunnin' fer sea tur'les noe 'n thun. Th'resh, I c'n han'le thashtuff mehshelf." The short cook squints at Eleuterio, something apparently having occurred to him. "Eloo... Ello... Ash, Lou, yeh were preshganged, that righ'? Ash, I'm shoory f'r that. Shtill, you make whot yeh c'n with whot yeh got, righ'? Besht to be carefool, tho'. The Wormwood... It'sh poyshon, th'ship, but don’ let enyone heer yeh shay it alood. The hull lish'ns, shee, n'the cap’n heersh it all. Poyshon th'Wormwood ish, tho', rott'n t'th'coor. Yeh’ll no meet a more neshty, soor peesh o'work than Cap’n Harrigan in all yer daysh at shee, and hish crewsh th'shame, ’shpeshally the firsh mate, Mr. Plugg. Vishi'sh li'l shod, he ish. He’d take hish own moth'r'sh liv'r t'thbutcher t'make piesh with, he would. B't they leave meh aloon, mosh'ly. They know I can’t ’arm ’em."

Eleuterio's task = 1d6 ⇒ 2.

Fishguts is functional today, so you don't have to make a roll to help him cook. You can try your influence roll now, though. (See the discussion thread for that part.)

Back abovedecks, Chum and Evril have started working on their tasks when the Besmaran cleric sidles over to them. Clearly a swab like themselves, she steers her mop in their direction, offering a warm smile beneath her tricorne. "Howdy, gents," she says in a low voice, careful not to draw too much attenion. "My name's Sandara Quinn, pirate lass and priestess of Besmara. What's yours, if you don't mind me asking?"

"My name's Sandara Quinn, pirate lass and priestess of Besmara. What's yours, if you don't mind me asking?"

Evril, Miss Quinn. Evril Cooper. My apologies for causing you to expend some part of your energy today looking after us...

I do not take my eyes off of my work, save to offer a brief bow of respect to the woman who brought my fellow new recruits and me back to consciousness.

Normal Swab action (STR): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

I wasn't specific before, but one of the individuals who beat Evril and Eleuterio up was a half-orc.

Two of the faces Evril remembers from the morning's beating are riggers: a Taldan-looking woman and a big Rahadoumi man. The other four are swabs: a yellowish skinned half-orc man, a fat human man with a shaved head, a big-heared Varisian woman with too much makeup on, and a tall Mwangi woman with a variety of exotic-looking jewelry hanging from her ears and brow.

Evril, Miss Quinn. Evril Cooper. My apologies for causing you to expend some part of your energy today looking after us...

Sandara waves it off. "You pissed off Scourge this morning, and that makes you my new best friend. That and your pal here," and she swats Chum lightly on the rear, "got a good word from the Pirate Queen Herself. So no thanks needed, this time." She pauses, considering the two of you for a moment. "Truth be told, I saw you two last night. All four of you, actually, I think. You were at a tavern, the Formidably Maid, right? So was I. Think they got me first, because I woke up around midnight, when you were still under from the drugs."

Artevious' assignment = 1d6.

Plugg cracks the cat in his hand once more, pointing it up at a set of small tears in the mainsail and fore topsail. "Get up there and see to't that those tears are sewn shut. Move, Pussyfoot, or I'll see you sewn into the tears instead!"

Since it appears that taking 10 will guarantee success, I see no reason to court disaster with the dice roller. Artevious has a +1 to his climb and a +4 to his dexterity. (And +3 to Profession: (sailor) checks.)

What a thoroughly unpleasant person, I thought. Still, he seemed very willing to use that cat that he'd been flailing about. Despite the fact that crew morale would suffer terribly if this continued, I bit back a lecture on proper motivation techniques.

Certainly, sir. Can't be a proper rigger and leave tears in the rigging. No, sir.

"Everyone just calls me Chum now. What my name was, when I was on land, doesn't matter. I belong at sea. I can hear the Wind and the Waves better away from the shore."

He pauses before realizing his manners are lacking.

"Evril. Sandara. Pleased to meet you both. Sorry I didn't help earlier, but confrontation rarely works out well for me." This accompanied by a gesture indicating his slight frame.

He's trying to stay under the radar still, so he will check out the main deck since that's where I believe he's supposed to be at the moment.

Eleuterio spends a good portion of his time sorting through the odds and ends that lie around the galley, throwing obviously spoiled or moldy food to the goat, and keeping an eye out for anything useful to his current situation. As he does, he keeps Fishguts talking.

"Seems you've no more love for the bosun than I, Fishguts," the paladin said conspiratorially. "Tell me, how did you come to find yourself aboard the ship? Were you waylaid, such as I?"

The only way you can get two ship actions, such as making a search and an influence roll at the same time, is by rolling the "Bull Session" task, Eleu. Fishguts being sober means you don't have to roll, not that you don't have to help. We'll stick with the influence action, then, and you can decide if you want to try snooping again later.

Fishguts shrugs noncommittally. "No preshganged, noshir, jush shigned on, like mosh everybooty heer," he replies, seeming uneasy. He looks as though he's trying to summon up some means to change the subject.

Fishguts' current attitude is "indifferent," meaning the DC to change his attitude is 15 + his Charisma modifier. Eleuterio notes that he seems extremely fond of his chickens, and speculates that he might gain a bit of advantage in dealing with Fishguts if he brought the hens or the cockerel on the cook's shoulder into the conversation.

"Evril. Sandara. Pleased to meet you both. Sorry I didn't help earlier, but confrontation rarely works out well for me." This accompanied by a gesture indicating his slight frame.

"The size of a man has no bearing on his right to his own freedom or his duty to defend those whose freedom has been taken from them," I respond, in a voice that is just as much a growl as it is a whisper. "Tell me, Miss Quinn, are you familiar with a man by the name of Prender Hamstead? He was supposed to meet me at that gods-forsaken piss-trap last night, but I wonder now if it weren't some sort of ruse..."

"You pick your battles, or you wind up at the bottom before you know it," Sandara agrees, nodding at Chum. "That's a lesson you and your Iomedean friend could both learn, Evril. I well understand how unhappy you are with your situation, but you'll need to bide your time if you want to accomplish more than just making me burn prayers. There'll be a chance, you'll see. When it comes, I'll be there with you too. But for now... follow your friend's advice, and keep your head down."

"Tell me, Miss Quinn, are you familiar with a man by the name of Prender Hamstead? He was supposed to meet me at that gods-forsaken piss-trap last night, but I wonder now if it weren't some sort of ruse..."

Sandara frowns. "Hmmm... no, doesn't ring a bell. You're right, though - sounds like it might have been a setup, that's for sure."

Shaking her head, she reaches into a pouch and begins fishing through it. "Because I woke up before you, I had a chance to visit the ship's purser, Cut-Throat Grok. I told her my things were blessed by Besmara, and she'd be cursed if she kept 'em, so I got everything the pirates stole from me back." She grins as she pulls out a pistol and a holy symbol of Iomedae. "I also got these from her. This one belongs to your friend down in the galley, I think, and this is for your rigger buddy. Grok's got the rest of your gear down in the stores as well; you might see if you can work something out for the rest of it." She smiles, handing over the pistol and holy symbol. "Best of luck to the both of you, then. I'll be around tonight, after dinner, if you want to talk more." She saunters off again, adjusting her tricorne as she goes.

As I gathered the necessary supplies to haul up the rigging, I whistled a bit and smiled to the crew going about their own duties. After lashing together the bundle of canvas and tools, I carefully climbed up the rigging with the end of the rope. Once near the tear, I looped the rope over the beam and hoisted the package up to me. I looked around at the sea, the wide expanse of blue and breathed deep the salty air.

As I set to work, I thought I'd exchange some pleasantries with the others up in the rigging. I assume there's others up here working. If not, I'll just shout out to the crew below on the main deck. Ho there! A fine and pleasant morning to you! Quite the beautiful start to our grand adventure, yes?

There are indeed others up in the rigging with Artevious; these include a man and a woman you remember seeing from the group who got you out of bed this morning (and thank heavens they did, or else you'd've been late!), as well as dwarf with a broken-looking nose, a rather stylish-looking gnome, a rat-faced halfling, a human man with a Varisian scarf on his head, and a human woman clambering around without shoes. Of these, the former three offer a rather nasty glare to Artevious' words, the gnome and the human man essentially ignore him, but the barefoot woman and the halfling offer nods and call back returned greetings. At the words "grand adventure," the halfling snorts derisively (though with a smirk of a smile as well) and the woman actually laughs before calling back, "I suppose it is, at that!"

Is Artevious planning an influence roll, then? Would you care to choose a target?

As he watches the lady cleric walk away, Chum says quietly, "I know that name. I bought a map from a man at the Maid last night; said his name was Prender Hamstead."

"The door over there, to the officers', has a trap on it. So does that one to the captain's. I'm with you when the time comes, but we need to be as quiet ripples on the seashore for now - easily ignored. The time to be the hurricane will present itself."

He returns to his work, watching the activity on the ship as he does. "I think those three must have come on board with Miss Quinn. They don't look any more comfortable here than you do."

He verbally points out the halfling (a shockingly-muscled woman with a tight scowl and a sharp-looking axe), one of the gnomes (a foppish-looking fellow with a keenly-waxed mustache and an entirely ridiculous hat), and one of the humans (an angry-seeming, skinny man with a blue Varisian scarf over his head).

Addendum - the latter two are riggers, while the halfling woman is, like you two and Sandara, a swabbie.

My apologies, I misread how the ship actions worked. Yes, I'll stick with influencing for now.

Sensing the cook's unease, Eleuterio changes the subject for him, at least for the time being. "Well, it seems we'll have no shortage of eggs with such a fine coop here. Would you mind if I made myself a quick egg breakfast? I've not had anything since last evening." Despite the state of the kitchen, Eleuterio's stomach growls in protest of its current empty state. He regards the rooster perched on Fishguts' shoulder. "That's a right good trick you've taught that one - most chickens I've seen are loathe to be picked up, let alone so docile as to perch like a parrot upon a pirate," Eleuterio alliterates.

Another Diplomacy, or would this just modify my original roll?

It just modifies it.

Fishguts brightens visibly when the talk turns to his chickens, and he launches into a lengthy (if not entirely comprehensible) sermon on the virtues of the birds. The rooster perched on Fishguts' shoulder, Eleuterio learns, is called "Black-'earted Bezhebel", and Fishguts confides (in low, slurred, secretive tones) that Bezebel sometimes talks back to him when no one else is around to listen. Bezebel, for his part, cocks his head dismissively at the suggestion. As he talks, Fishguts scrambles some truly excellent eggs, shocking Eleuterio with the recognition that Fishguts really can cook, and quite well.

Congratulations, you've made Fishguts friendly.

As he watches the lady cleric walk away, Chum says quietly, "I know that name. I bought a map from a man at the Maid last night; said his name was Prender Hamstead."

"It's like watching the Sun set," I say under my breath and to no one in particular as the Besmaran woman retreats. Shaken out of my revery by the other half-elf's admission, I grab his sleeve. "A map? I don't suppose you still have it?"

I make a mental note to follow up with some of the others as the opportunity presents itself.

Chum's map is presumably with the rest of his taken gear, in the ship's stores.

"I got it just before the taggit knocked me out, but I think got it into my pack before I fell. I'm hoping the purser has it with my other gear." Chum looks at his fellow swab, "Was this fellow supposed to sell you a map, too?"

Chum looks at his fellow swab, "Was this fellow supposed to sell you a map, too?"

"I was supposed to be employed by Hamstead as part of an expedition into the ruins of Ghol-Gan. That adventure appears to be delayed, if it ever really existed."

Chum nods, "Mmm. What's this Ghol-Gan?"

There are indeed others up in the rigging with Artevious; these include a man and a woman you remember seeing from the group who got you out of bed this morning (and thank heavens they did, or else you'd've been late!), as well as dwarf with a broken-looking nose, a rather stylish-looking gnome, a rat-faced halfling, a human man with a Varisian scarf on his head, and a human woman clambering around without shoes. Of these, the former three offer a rather nasty glare to Artevious' words, the gnome and the human man essentially ignore him, but the barefoot woman and the halfling offer nods and call back returned greetings. At the words "grand adventure," the halfling snorts derisively (though with a smirk of a smile as well) and the woman actually laughs before calling back, "I suppose it is, at that!"

Is Artevious planning an influence roll, then? Would you care to choose a target?

Considering the best response came from the barefoot woman, she'll be my choice.

Evril: Knowledge (history) roll please.

Evril and Chum: Knowledge (geography) roll, DC 18:

Evril: Knowledge (history) roll please.

Evril and Chum: Knowledge (geography) roll, DC 18:

Bardic Knowledge (History): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7

"To be honest, I don't much about the ruins, which is part of why I was excited to be hired on by the expedition," I admit, trying to hide me embarrassment by wiping the sweat from my face with my sleeve.

Knowledge (Geography) 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (18) + 6 = 24 Did not see that coming...

"Oh, wait, I think one of the old salts said something once. That's the name of the giants that they say used to live here, right? But I thought all that's left is huge stone ruins. You were going to go poking around those, then?"

The barefoot woman laughs again at Artevious' words, but her amusement gives way to first incredulity and then a kind of pitying admiration as she realizes he is entirely in earnest. "My names's Samms Toppins," she introduces herself, "but everyone calls me 'Barefoot Samms,' since I never wear shoes. Don't see the point in 'em, up here." She and Artevious spend much of the day swapping stories amidst the rigging, and as the afternoon turns toward sunset Artevious has learned much of Samms' history and she has heard nearly all of the plots of the various Pirate de Possoin novels. (She too had never heard of them before Artevious began his tales, but it was to be expected: a fisherman's wife from the Sodden Lands would hardly be likely to have a refined literary sensibility.)

And with that amazing Diplomacy roll, Samms has gone all the way past friendly to helpful, earning you all 50 XP in the process! Excellent work, sir!

Down in the galley, Fishguts and Eleuterio have managed to put together most of an evening's meal for the crew, though it is basically just a large, watery stew. Fishguts has been drinking steadily all day, but as the afternoon comes to a close, the door on the far side of the galley opens and a tall, unusually skinny half-orc woman steps out, carrying a small barrel of rum. The woman has a vicious scar across her throat and an array of sharp axes around her belt. She grins toothily at Fishguts, with what seems like genuine affection, and expression that the cook returns. "Who's this?" the woman asks in a scratchy voice, eyeing Eleuterio with curiosity, but no animoisty that he can see.

"Shmy new cooksh-met, Lou," slurs Fishguts in reply. "Lou, thishish Cut-Throat Grok, th'shipsh pursher." He beams, adding, "Shesh meh besht fren... beshies Black-'earted Bezhebel, o'coursh..."

Grok turns her toothy grin on Eleuterio. "Well then, like as not we'll be seeing a lot of each other. Stop by some time if you need anything. I've generally got something for just about any itch you might need scratched." She winks overly broadly, then roars with hacking laughter, that Fishguts smilingly joins in on.

Grok's picture - the last of the crew with artwork - has been added to the Campaign Info page...

What a day! I thought as the sun sank towards the western horizon, signaling the end of work. I grinned at my new friend as we stowed the last of the equipment for the day. It had been hard work, but the pleasant company and conversation lightened the burden.

I wondered if the day improved for the other chaps who signed on with me. I also needed to find out where I stowed my gear last night, since my memories never improved. They might know. I decided to seek them out once they completed their own tasks.

Eleuterio suppresses a bit of a shudder from Grok's wink, and gives her a simple nod. "Aye, Eleuterio is the name. And while I'd hoped for the excitement of a life at sea, this wasn't exactly how I'd imagined things would go. I'm sure we'll speak later, Grok."

You were going to go poking around those, then?"

I understood that to be the case, yes, but now I am not so sure.

By the time the day's work is done and the sun making its way toward the western horizon, Scourge and Plugg have looked over most of your work with nothing more than sour grunts, but Scourge looks at the areas of the deck where Evril has been mopping and scraping with his holystone and grins nastily. "Piss-poor work here, ye foul layabout! That's three more lashes fer ye, top the two I owe ye from this mornin'! Best ye learn right quick ta work yer best, laddie, or I might have to get... nasty..." He laughs, in clear anticipation of that moment.

At dusk, the crew gathers on deck for what you all quickly learn is a nightly tradition: the "Bloody Hour," where the day's punishments are administered. Though Eleuterio and especially Evril are also due for lashings tonight, the centerpiece of the event occurs first. A relatively skinny man wearing thick manacles on his wrists is brought up by a pair of sailors from the bilges, which double as the Wormwood's brig. The human scowls around at the crew members who have gathered as Captain Harrigan crosses the deck to stand in front of him. "You, Jakes Magpie," shouts the captain, his voice carrying through the sea air, "have been caught stealing from an officer of this ship, and have confessed to your crime. As such, I now pronounce your sentence: you are to be keelhauled slow, and I expect we'll just toss whatever's left to the sharks. Mr. Plugg! Carry out the sentence!" With the help of Mr. Scourge, Plugg ties Magpie, still manacled, to a rope that loops under the ship's keel. Scourge throws Magpie overboard, and Scourge begins slowly pulling on the rope's other end, dragging Magpie's body across the razor-sharp barnacles that encrust the Wormwood's hull.

It takes more than a minute for the body to appear in the water on the far side of the hull, and what is left is only barely recognizable as having once been a human being - it is a bloody mass of flensed flesh, and you can only hope he drowned sometime fairly quickly. True to his word, Harrigan orders the ragged remnants of Jakes Magpie thrown to the sharks.

Chum swallows visibly as they watch the punishment, but he says nothing. He seems to be biting his lip a bit.

After what was left of Jakes Magpie is returned to the deck, Eleuterio bows his head in silent prayer. Another soul to be avenged aboard this accursed ship, he thought. Your name will not be forgotten, Jakes.

That's horrible! You don't do that to your crew! Not to anybody! What kind of captain are you?

I'd honestly never quite understood what a keelhauling was. I had figured it was some heavy, unpleasant work when the ship needed to be drydocked or something. But this wasn't anything like that. This was unnecessary and cruel. I had meant to talk with the captain in private about his leadership, but I couldn't hold my tongue.

[spoiler=Mechanics]Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (18) + 6 = 24
Heal: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20

Ahh, Mr. Plugg... Thank you for confirming my opinion of you. This 'Wormwood' is rotten from stem to stern.

I steel myself against the impending lashes, determined to make sure Scourge and his masters pay handsomely for each stripe they place on my back.

That's horrible! You don't do that to your crew! Not to anybody! What kind of captain are you?

While several faces turn toward Artevious in the wake of his outburst, the reaction from almost all of them is the came: mocking laughter. Harrigan roars as though Artevious had just delivered the bunniest of jokes, waving his hand as though asking the would-be pirate to have mercy on his poor lungs.

Once the spectacle of Magpie's death is done, Scourge orders two sailors - a broken-nosed dwarf and a massive Rahadoumi - to lash Eleuterio to the mainmast again, where he suffers another blow from the bosun's whip dealing 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 2 = 5 nonlethal. Note that your nonlethal damage from this morning is entirely healed.

That done, the same two men roughly manhandle Evril up to the mast and tie him to it.

** spoiler omitted **

Chum winces as the others are lashed even as he does his best to put the image of Magpie's torn body out of his mind.

After his lashing, Eleuterio lays a hand upon Evril's shoulder. "Be strong, Master Cooper. Tomorrow shall come soon enough." He awaits Mr. Plugg to finish his gruesome work, so he might attend to the swabbie's wounds.

I suppose talking to the captain would be as effective as talking to the figurehead, I considered after the laughter subsided. On precisely what kind ship had I signed? I simply couldn't believe my lapse in judgment.

I looked at Mr. Cooper, and decided what should be done. The Captain may not be what I'd hoped, but I was.

Mister Scourge! I'll take his lashes. I owe him a debt for not helping in his fight this morning. So some of those lashes belong to me. Then, louder for the whole ship to listen, He's a crewmate! Would we sail together and fight together, against all the threats in the Shackles? I will! 'Together for one, and each for the other!'

With that, I stepped up and offered Scourge my back.

Here I was thinking that maybe he was recovering from that blow to the head. Now I'm not so sure...

Mister Scourge! I'll take his lashes. I owe him a debt for not helping in his fight this morning. So some of those lashes belong to me.

With that, I stepped up and offered Scourge my back.

Deluded fool may have earned a few lashes of his own, but I doubt I'll be spared a one...

Evril's private doubts turn out to be all too correct. With a vicious laugh, Scourge lets fly with the whip, slicing open Artevious' back and dealing 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 2 = 5 nonlethal. As soon as the pain burns over his spine, though, the bosun gestures to the two sailors who tied up Evril and they drag Artevious aside as Scourge snarls, "Move, ye foppish whoreson! I'll not be told who ta lash by the likes o' ye!" as the blows begin to fall on Evril's back once more.

The whip cuts into Evril's back like the lashes of Hell itself: Scourge seems disinclined to measure his blows as carefully as he did in the morning, now that there's no more work to be done for the day. First strike: 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3 nonlethal. Second strike: 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4 nonlethal. Third strike: 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3 nonlethal, which becomes 2 nonlethal and 1 lethal, knocking Evril unconscious. Fourth strike: 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3 lethal. Fifth strike: 1d3 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 2 = 5 lethal. Beaten bloody and to almost literally within an inch of his life, Evril passes out from the pain, but Scourge continues to lash him til all five lashes are finished, and raw muscle has been exposed on the half-elf's back.

Evril passes out

urk.