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 Recent Posts
Then he makes a thorough search of Mordecai's room, studying the man who is offering him a new passion. To Angvar Spoiler:
Mordecai has left a backpack in the center of the floor, surrounded by a pentacle drawn in some black powder laid down on the floor very precisely, with burned out candles placed at the five 'corners.' Being trained in Spellcraft and / or Knowledge (arcana) professionally, Angvar needs to no roll to determine that this is only for show, apparently to discourage any superstitious thieving hands who might have a fear of magical curses. Inside the pack are rations, a waterskin, a signal whistle and flint & steel. The backpack has a funky smell to it, reminiscent of the funerary oils he used to cremate Thuvalia, but there is no sign of other oils. His shield lays atop the backpack, and appears of mundane craftsmanship, and seems sturdy enough, but, upon a closer look, shows a tracery of repairwork familiar to anyone who has used Mending to repair his own clothing or items.
He also has a bedroll which he's left discarded on the floor against the brickwork of the fireplace (which faces into the adjacent room, so this room has only a section of warm stones, but no roaring hearth of it's own). Apparently, while Angvar lay unconscious on the bed, Mordecai slept on the floor, which seems hardly the typical arrangement one would expect, given their situation...
Mordecai rises when Gierixa enters, seemingly out of instinct, but quickly sits back down without comment. Momentarily side-tracked from his curiosity about this new arrival, Mordecai turns to cast a wary eye on the sailor who just spoke, who seems quite a bit less drunk than in their previous meeting with Saul. "Forgive me, sailor, I appear to have forgotten your name, in the evening's excitement." He notes that the sailor carries a scimitar, and reminds himself that he means to get one at some point, but fails to connect this particular scimitar-wielding fellow with the man at the docks. Despite having entered the contest under a false name, and given Angvar pointers on changing his appearance and garb, the idea that *other* people might be trying to deceive *him* is somewhat slower to occur to him, in his arrogance...
Mordecai looks politely interested, savoring a piece of cheese and some red wine while Meldrak expounds upon his qualities. And how terribly *convenient* that the day after someone attempts to ruin Saul, and all of his employees quit suddenly, a 'local' shows up to join the team. he thinks. Boasting about his skill at conning people is a touch too far, 'though. Perhaps he's genuine...
Mordecai wastes no time taking the invitation to help himself, and samples a bit of each of the foods available, seeming more interested in tasting everything available than eating any significant amount of any one thing. His ears perk up a bit at the comment about the staff quitting, and he shrugs slightly as Saul goes on to say that he doesn't blame them fully for their choice, dismissing any notions of being sent around to encourage them to 'reconsider' or making 'examples' of them for their fickle loyalties. At the mention of roles to fill, Mordecai finally speaks up. "As a result of my priestly training, I believe I would be best suited towards observing for signs of cheating or other problem behavior, either from the cat-walks or down on the floor, although you may, of course, find more productive areas in which I can assist, being more familiar with your operations."
"Mordecai, it might be a good idea for me to stay away from Saul until you can come up with some reason for my being there. That is your problem. Mine is to find my familiar and create a more plausible disguise for myself. Do note, the game isn't over. It's hardly begun. You have honoured your promise to Thuvalia. Your promise to me still stands. Find me passion." Mordecai points to the blot in the sky. "There's my current passion. Finding out who is responsible for that. If they mean to blot out the sun and plunge Riddleport, or, perhaps, the entire world, into endless night, I want to see how they do it..." his face turns to Angvar's and he looks very serious. "There is power there. Power I mean to take." He shrugs. "Who knows, perhaps that fluttering devil-thing of Saul's can replace your missing familiar, if we play our cards right." Mordecai then steps into the Golden Goblin, since he's probably spent most of the morning at the Boneyard, and he has a meeting to attend.
"How appropriate," Mordecai says, upon learning of Thuvalia's diety of choice. How appropriate that she died on the blade of a scimitar, the holy weapon of Sarenrae. his mind adds with gallows humor. "Shining goddess in your golden palace on the sun, cast your all-seeing gaze to this, your daughter, who lies cold before you. Lift her from this dark place to dance eternally in your grace, with all of the unkindnesses of this world burned away in your purifying flame." He coats the stone beneath her in the fragrant ruddy oil, and smears some as well on her limbs and the sides of her face, streaking some through her hair as well, leaving her with the appearance of a Shoanti, painted for war. Moments later, a trace of alchemical fire in the mixture causes the paste to begin to smolder as the tiny grains are exposed to air from the action of Mordecai's hands, and he pulls them away quickly and wipes them on the soil as she aromatic oils begin to burn with a flame hotter than any simple lamp oil could produce. Whether through Osirian alchemy or concealed magic, the flames burn white, generating also a thick white smoke tinged with a powerful scent like incense that mingles with the smell of burning flesh in such a way as to obscure it from the senses.
for Ozbadin
Spoiler:
While Angvar sleeps the sleep of the nigh-mortally-wounded on the previous night, Mordecai will agree that he's perhaps been far too lenient with Angvar, nodding at each suggestion, of taking his name and stripping away his pride, dignity, hope and all else besides, but ruefully concedes that he's truthfully not willing to expend that much effort on this project. "It sounds like a whole lot of work," he admits candidly, "and I'm not sure that I care to get my hands bloody, or risk Saul's ire by eliciting all sorts of screaming and begging."
"In my, admittedly limited, experience," he says, "one way to keep a person bound to you is to convince them that they will be better off with you than they would be under their own stewardship. And the easiest way to convince someone of this, is to make it the truth."
Given his extreme laxitude in getting around to the morning's work, Mordecai goes from quietly resolved to get this duty out of the way to energized and enthusiastic in record time, upon hefting the burial fee that miraculously awaits him. He will give any unknown corpses a burial in accordance to Urgathoan tradition, mouth left open to hasten the souls passage (or the entrance of other spirits, whichever) and hands left open and facing upwards, as if grasping for something or bereft. "Pallid Princess, take these fallen and faithless souls into thy bottomless depths, there to embrace them like a lover. Scare away from them any lesser terror, and replace the cold, empty silence of death with new hungers and dark whispered promises." At last he comes to the body of Thuvalia, and while he's obviously sore, flexing his hands after the exertion of previous burials, he sets to work carrying her body to a fire-blackened stone atop the hill, setting her down gently and arranging her body. He looks to Angvar, "Is there a specific diety to whom she paid the most honor? I am versed in the funerary customs of many faiths." Regardless of the answer, it's clear that he means to commit her body to the pyre (and that she wouldn't be the first person to receive this form of 'burial' here), not this boggy, vermin-infested soil, and he produces a flask of some think oil, almost a paste, which produces an amazingly thick and fragrant scent when opened.
Mordecai smiles at the implicit criticism of his healing skills, but lets Angvar continue. "We've already discussed the 'Master' thing. My name is Mordecai. And I'll be calling you Angvar, not 'slave' or 'wretch' or 'minion.' I want none of those things. A Wizard with a broken will would be less than worthless." Mordecai looks out at the position of the sun to gauge the time, and heads for the door. "Let's go take care of that burial. Without a side-trek to the docks, this time." he turns and meets Angvar's challenging gaze, "I have no intention of raising her, in any sense of the word. Her time in this world is done. She's welcome to whatever peace she's earned." He wordlessly hands over the spellbook, once Angvar stands to come with him, and makes his way for the Boneyard.
Mordecai hands Angvar some gravy-covered bread for breakfast with a sardonic expression. "Eat up, you lost quite a bit of blood last night." "At the docks last night, nothing awaited us save a fish larger than yourself that leapt out of the water, and nearly bit you in half, dragging you into the muck. Gierixa and Ozbadin made short work of it with their blades, and then we carried you back here." "Your previous clothing was torn, water-logged and blood-stained. Magic has mended the tears, but you'll have to deal with the bloodstains yourself, as I have no magic for that, and I suppose I should draw the line at carrying you home, tending your wounds, mending your clothing and fetching your meals." any edge to the comment is softened somewhat by the self-deprecating grin he's wearing, as Mordecai, for all his sarcastic talk, still sometimes yearns for the simplicity of the days when his only ambition in life was to serve the comforts of another. "I'll be heading out to work out a business arrangement with the proprietor here, whom, I might add, is not terribly fond of you, and whom you may wish to avoid antagonizing. Do try to stay out of trouble, as healing is hardly my first specialty..."
Mordecai is a bit jittery after the fish encounter, and shovels random bits of food into his mouth, not tasting much of it. Since Angvar is a mess, he cleans him up (not wanting him to get infected from the mucky water, which he will Purify with a cantrip, just in case) and dresses him in a robe with a cowl (the less people like Saul have to see his face and be flagrantly confronted with the fact that he's not dead, the easier tempers will be, he hopes). He thanks Ozbadin and Gierixa again for their quick swordwork, and may ask Ozbadin a few questions about the whole slave-thing, since he's not familiar with local traditions, but he's clearly somewhat exhausted and just being polite. Once everything is settled, he curls up to sleep against the wall nearest the fireplace in the adjacent room, soaking up the warmth, while Angvar is sprawled out on the bed. He idly pokes at Angvar's spellbook, but lacking the ability to read it, and being unsure what sort of magical traps might lay upon it, he doesn't open it and places it in his backpack. In the morning, praying will occur, following by curative spells. Mordecai will get some breakfast for the both of them and fill Angvar in on the events of the evening that he missed. He suggests to Angvar that they ditch the idea of further pursuit today, as he will not be able to heal him again if anything unfortunate happens. When Mordecai leaves for the noon meeting with Saul, he'll take his pack (containing Angvar's spellbook), but leave his shield behind. He will recommend to Angvar that, if he knows a spell to alter the coloration of cloth (prestidigitation cantrip should be able to do this) that he may wish to alter the color of the robe he's currently wearing, as it's stolen and may be recognizably so... He also has left Angvar's previous clothing, bloody and probably still damp, to dry against the fireplace stone. Mordecai will Mend the outfit's tears, but doesn't have magic to clean them.
Mordecai dismisses the lost dagger (his own having returned to his feet, and which he re-sheathes). "Thanks, again." he says, carefully lifting Angvar for the journey back towards the Goblin, hoping to find some sort of shop on the way back where he can find some clothing, since he doubts that Saul is going to be thrilled to have Angvar's dripping body carried through the front doors. At least if he's dry and in a non-bloodied robe, he could be mistaken for terribly, terribly drunk...
Mordecai also attempts a Heal check to stabilize Angvar, but seems to be a few seconds behind what Ozbadin already did. 10, about all that roll would be likely to do is tell if he's alive or dead... "Thank you, mystery man" he says to Ozbadin, and then, "And for the impressive sword work, thank you both." He makes sure that Angvar's equipment (and particularly spellbook) is on him and then asks Ozbadin, "Would you mind giving me a hand getting him back to the inn? I've already pulled him back from the brink of death once today, and I'm not quite prepared to do so again." "I think I've lost my taste for fish, at the moment, but I'd be glad to buy the both of you dinner this evening."
Ozbadin clearly sees Mordecai spot him, his head turning sharply to look straight at him for an instant, despite the confusion. "Fish for dinner." he says loudly enough to carry, but has already turned back to the fight and it's not obvious that he was saying it to anyone other than Gierixa or the unconscious mage.
Before the encounter; "I would be very much appreciate the company, milady. Hopefully we'll find some ruffian to beat some sense into." During the encounter; "Fires of Hell!" Mordecai shouts, completely losing his composure. Again, his dagger slides smoothly from it's sheath and wobbling in an unseen grasp, slashes wildly at the barracuda. At the same time, he drops to his knees and attempts to reach the unconscious mage, cursing himself for going out after exhausting his day's supply of magic.
To Angvar Spoiler:
"First, don't call me 'master,' particularly not in private. I am not some insecure fool who craves false flattery from those who do not respect him." "Secondly, I do consider it highly likely that you will attempt to kill me. That's because I don't know yet if you are smarter than that. I believe that you have far more to gain from this alliance than I do." "Third, there will be no 'dancing on graves.' It's disrespectful." he looks up with a wry grin, "Also, the ground here is damp, you might slip and hurt yourself." "One last thing. There are people around who would prefer you dead, such as the proprietor of the Golden Goblin. Do try not to antagonize them, as I've already displeased them by keeping you alive."
Spoiler:
Wall of text warning!
“Ah, you are awake.” [reading off of a scroll, which he folds up and places in a scroll tube] “The first recommended technique when breaking a man’s will is to take everything from him, clothing, possessions, familiar surroundings and yes, even his name. When he tries to claim his name, he is to be beaten, savagely, and called by another name created by the one who seeks to master him. He is to be forced to accept this new name, the name his tormentor gives him, as the only name to which he will answer, and told that any reference to his old life will be met with harsh punishment. His surroundings must remain a mystery, with the procedure beginning in the gently rocking hold of a ship at port, giving him the illusion that he is hundreds of miles from any potential friend or ally, in unknown waters, utterly at the mercy of the man who stands before him. He is to be bare and exposed, his clothing taken away and left feeling vulnerable and shamed. He is to be restrained or confined in some way, unable to take control even of his own limbs, made to feel trapped, like an animal, utterly at the mercy and the whim of his captor.” “Do try some of the wine, Angvar.” [Hand of the Acolyte spell-like ability to float it across the room to him.] “It’s an excellent vintage.” “Clearly, I have no intention of playing by the ‘rules.’” “Some counsel that to master a man, you must suspend him very precisely in between fear of you and love of you, to instill in him a desperate craving for any signs of your approval, and a gnawing uncertainty and equally desperate fear of your disapproval. You must grant him things that you have taken from him, such as a name, or an article of clothing, or a meal, only when he takes some action to please you, only when he displays obedience, or, sometimes, only at moments that he cannot anticipate. To keep him from having the faintest sense of control, you should beat him savagely for no apparent reason at all, and then reward him handsomely at other times, again, for no discernable reason, leaving him wondering what he did wrong, or what he did right, but feeling unbalanced and unable to confidently know what it is that you demand of him, or when you might withhold reward, or inflict punishment. Even the sense of control that comes with knowing that he will be punished for acting out must be taken from him, and he can never be spoiled by the notion that he only needs to do something for you to receive a reward, as that puts *him* in control of your actions!” “I do not want your fear, Angvar. I certainly don’t want your love. And if all I wanted was a body servant to fetch my robe or wash my back, I would have let the gendarmes hang your body as a warning to the other unguilded would-be thieves of Riddleport not to get caught and then, at my convenience, animated your fleshless bones to serve me with mindless obedience until the end of days.” “But it is not your flesh or bones or blood I seek. This pathetic town has no shortage of people who are worth nothing more than the meat on their bones.” “It is your mind that I wish to turn to my advantage. And to *your* advantage.” “The situation finds you adrift, in a sea of uncertainty and marked for death by the city authorities, loved by none. Your grand plan has failed, and it is time for a new plan. My plan.” “By the law, you are my property now, as I have exerted by will and my influence to spare you from the blade of those whom you have trespassed against. As a Chelaxian, perhaps you recognize the significance of the contract I hold upon you, but I would never expect chains of paper and ink to hold you.” “Among the many recommendations I have received on how to properly educate you as to your new role, were admonitions to remove several of your fingers and toes, and perhaps a few teeth, or even an eye! At the minimum, I was told to brand your flesh and shave your head, to demonstrate that your body is no longer your own, but indeed mine to change or use as I will.” “Tiresome suggestions, really. Far too much work to expend on a man who has not yet proved his worth to me. I have spent hard-earned gold on preserving your life, and argued with those who would have bled you like a fish, while a blade was pressed against your throat. And I have little doubt that a foolish man would reward me by attempting to ‘escape’ back to whatever empty death awaits him in some filth-strewn alley. I have no doubt that a man who merely thinks himself clever, but is not truly clever, would attempt to slit my throat, abscond with my belongings and flee into the night, to ‘start again.’ I do not know yet if you are a foolish man, or a man who is too clever for his own good. I only know that if you leave, you will be stepping out into a world that bears no love for you, where there are angry men who would have preferred to see your life’s blood leak out upon the floor.” “As far as anyone outside this room knows, I am beating you like a rug at this point, humiliating you or forcing myself upon you to show you your place beneath me. Such things are beneath me, and beneath you. I don’t want a submissive dog, or cringing toadying wretch who averts his eyes when I ask him a question. I want a wizard, who will stand by my side as I wrest the secrets of power from this world, who will enthusiastically bend his will and insights into taking what we will from whatever opportunities present themselves to us. Work with me, and we will drink the finest wines this world has to offer, all in the fullness of time.” “Let others think that you a slave in public, and I will never treat you as such in private. Defy me, and I will not beat you or break you in a fit of childish rage, I will merely be disappointed at the waste of your potential, and the money and influence I wasted to spare your life. If you prove yourself unable, or unwilling, to live as a man, I will use your bones to carry my pack.” “But you have had enough of my words, surely. Come. We have work to do at the Boneyard, where you will see what your grand plans have wrought, and perhaps, just perhaps, come to understand why I think you would find yourself better served to follow my lead, for a time.” “It is time to accept or reject the circumstances that you find yourself in, Angvar. If you would come see what new future awaits you, merely take my hand.” Mordecai extends his right hand (which will be holding the Cure Light Wounds charge). “If you wish to deny this world you have made, and my offer,” he extends his left hand, “that too will be your choice to make.” (if Angvar takes his left hand, or just tries to push past him to exit, he’ll use his Bleeding Touch Spell-like ability from the Death Domain to damage him, and, given his current health, possibly knock him back out).
9 curing or 3 bleed, depending on Angvar’s choice If all goes according to plan, the following should have occured;
Mordecai will completely space asking Angvar what the bracers Bex took off of him do. He's unreliable that way...
Mordecai recognizes that he's pushing his luck and bows his head to Saul, "My thanks. I look forward to meeting with you at noon tomorrow." A bottle of fine wine clutched in one hand, he walks somewhat jauntily over to the unconscious 'Angvar' and grabs him by one arm, dragging him from the room like a sack of potatoes. The weight of his catch arrests the spring in his step, but there's no mistaking the satisfaction in his tone as he begins humming to himself as Angvar's booted feet thump, thump, thump down the stairs... Spoiler:
Other stuff can be handled in the other thread or in spoiler tags, so as not to slow the game down for everyone else. Otherwise Mordecai is ready for the next day's meeting.
"While a most generous offer, and certainly thoughtful of you, if I am to be beating that young fool," he gestures off-handedly to where the mage is slumped, "half to death on a daily basis for a week or so, while I condition him to accept his new station in life, it might be more considerate to the others if I could make use of one of the smaller rooms downstairs. If you would wish to subtract a portion from my weekly wages to offset the inconvenience, that would be acceptable, but I do believe that the matter of privacy will be something of an important negotiating point." As if the thought has just occured to him, he adds, "You mentioned that these 'petty thugs' were known about town? Might I ask his name? The woman was named Thuvalia, I know, but I did not capture his name," again, nodding his head towards the mage, "in all the confusion."
As Saul wraps up the brief tour of the cat-walks and returns to the meeting room, Mordecai measures his reply, "The arrangement sounds agreeable, although it would certainly be preferable if we had the option of residing here, on the premises, perhaps in one of those smallish rooms downstairs, so that we are quickly available for, as you say, special circumstances." He will finish his glass of wine, closing his eyes briefly as he savors the last traces of flavor, and place a hand possessively on the half-empty bottle, to see if Saul has any comment on Mordecai's fairly unsubtle intent to walk away with it at the end of their conversation... Spoiler:
Mordecai will have one parting question for Saul, whether he manages to snake the bottle away brazenly or regretfully leave it behind, just to let ya know.
Mordecai examines the slip of paper and smiles slightly. "Thank you. I may consult your friend for his insights, if my current line of thought proves unsuccessful." He binds the hands of the unconscious mage, and wraps a strip of cloth torn from his own cloak/robe around his mouth as a make-shift gag, and another over his eyes as a blindfold, again, checking to make sure that he can still breathe freely, as he suspects that he'll be regaining consciousness soon, based on the nonlethal bludgeoning he seems to have received at the Hellblood's hand.
Mordecai takes an opportunity to drag the unconscious mage out of the way, so that Saul doesn't have to step over him, propping him against a wall and making sure that he's able to breath. Once Saul finishes his spiel, he speaks up in a raspy voice, "I am Mordecai, and I am a priest bound in service to the Pale Lady, Goddess of Death." Taking a sip of the wine, he closes his eyes briefly, visibly savoring it's taste, and then continues speaking, "Would this job opportunity allow for a few hours during the day to deal with spiritual duties?" he asks, walking over to the table and picking up the bottle of wine, and looking at it closely, to see if it has any label or other identifying markings. He's obviously quite impressed with the vintage. He seems to have zero interest in the dispensation of the physical goods, after his previous flashy diplay of interest in the leather armor.
Mordecai looks at the pile of loot and runs his hand along the Masterwork Leather Armor (which he assumes is the armor the woman was wearing, with the golden traceries), and invokes some nonsense-sounding words as he does so, which causes the marks left behind by Gierixa's scimitar to seal up.
"This armor would probably be worth more then the rest combined, even in resale." he says openly, turning away as the unconscious mage is brought into the room. He smiles and walks away from the masterwork leather armor and puts his hand on the unconscious man's head, "But this is what I'd really like as my 'cut.'" Looking down at Saul's sharpened key-hand, he adds, "But without a cut throat, obviously. He'd be of no use to me dead." "I think that there would be a certain poetic irony to him being forced to survive his failure, his dramatic fall from grace, and work off his debt, rather than escaping the shame of it all." Mordecai says, pointedly looking into the unconscious mage's face, and not at Sauls. Spoiler:
What was the outcome of the search for a spellbook? Did Bel find it, did Mordecai find it or was the mage not carrying one?
"I'll have to be persuasive. I know something of the gentle art of the lash..." he says, with a wistful look, turning to join the others en route to whatever private discussion that Saul has in mind. Spoiler:
GM call obviously, if you want to deal with it, Mordecai will be happy to make the mage his huckleberry. If you don't, the gendarmes drag him away for 'justice.' Too bad, so sad, I won't lose any sleep over it.
If you *do* want to deal with it, Mordecai will come up with some inventive ways of not getting his throat slit, I'm sure. Or maybe he won't be as clever as he thinks, and I'll have to replace him!
Suddenly taken with another thought, Mordecai steps back to speak with Larur for a second. Spoiler:
"Is it possible for that one," he points to the mage that Bexilarius rendered unconscious, "to work off his crime as a thrall, or is that not the custom in these lands?" Looking down at the figure, he smiles an unpleasant smile, "I could certainly find use for such an individual, trained in the arcane arts..."
Mordecai takes the woman's coin-purse, rapier and lt. crossbow, and while he'd love to take her (apparently masterwork) leather armor for resale, he's pretty sure that this won't be an option, at least not yet. Perhaps I'll see her again at the Boneyard later... he ponders, momentarily overcome by greed. He moves to the apparent wizard, and checks only for a spellbook, assuming that the tiefling has already taken anything else of value. Mordecai wonders idly if the town has a slave market, as a Wizard, even a jumped-up apprentice, would be worth a few coins on the flesh market. Once he's quite brazenly taken what he wants, he then proceeds to accompany Saul for the promised drink, idly cleaning Gierixa's blood off of the purloined rapier with a scrap of cloth taken off of one of the bodies.
Mordecai's second dagger returns across the room to his hand, and he sheathes it, after wiping off the blood from the thug it wounded. He walks across the room to where his first dagger ended up, after he horribly botched the initial attack, and picks it up, similarly sheathing it. Once his daggers are secure, he turns back to the two guards whose throats were cut and says to either Saul or Larur, whomever is closer, "These two are dead. The other two are stabilized, but will require several days to recover, unless someone is willing to pay for magical healing." He will then cross to the woman who seemed to be working with the thugs, and check if she is alive, and stabilize her if she is. Unless someone else has already done so before he gets there (which is distinctly possible, as he's taking time to get his dagger first, so this will occur at least one round later), he'll also help himself to her belongings.
Mordecai steps to the Ghoulette wheel (S9) and directs his Hand of the Acolyte-powered dagger to attack one of the Thugs (in O9) threatening Gierixa.
With some experience at maneuvering around in lightless chambers, Mordecai steps out of the darkness and his second dagger rises up from his belt, as he attempts to repeat his action of last round, hopefully a bit more successfully... Spoiler:
Seeing the guards fall, Mordecai winces, not looking foward to the busy day he's going to have tomorrow. He sees a figure dash out of the darkness him and believes this may be the spellcaster who blinded the room. He raises his hand towards the wizard, and a dagger flings itself up from his belt, but spins erratically... Spoiler:
If the figure in Q19 is the robed caster, having just fled the globe of darkness, Mordecai takes a five-foot step to R17 and attempts to strike him with a Hand of the Acolyte-wielded dagger. The SLA does not expend his held Inflict Light Wounds, which remains ready to 'go off.'
Adjust as necessary if the robed caster moves into a new position before Mordecai goes on 12. He has a 30 ft. range and will attempt to remain within 1 square of R16. Attack roll 1d20+3, Damage 1d4+3. Spectacular miss, natural 1 on the attack roll! Feel free to describe what happens to the botched dagger attack, if you do the critical fumble thing.
On 12; Mordecai continues weaving towards the door, accelerating his pace, finally stopping just before the doorway, and turning to face the glob of darkness now enveloping the stage, one arm still raised above his face as if shielding it from glare and cowering slightly. Spoiler:
Taking a double move action, and skirting the globe of darkness, Mordecai moves to R16, so that anyone leaving has to move past him within melee range. He intends to use his Inflict Light Wounds on the first bad-guy to attempt a retreat past him using an Attack of Opportunity (spell charge means that he counts as armed). He is holding the charge in the hand he's keeping raised, because he doesn't want to accidentally discharge it into some blind patron stumbling past him into the door (which isn't really an option, it has to be willfully discharged, but he's uncertain, as he hasn't cast the spell that often).
Once in position, he takes a split-second to scan for clusters of golden tokens that could be scooped up with his Mage Hand SLA (25 ft. range). (Using the SLA will not discharge his touch spell, and he can move items up to 5 lbs a total of 15 ft. in a round.) He intends to make the tokens slide off of tables (or along the ground, for those already dropped for whatever reason) to his feet, and then float up into his pockets, while keeping his own hands free for that Opportunity Attack. This action will only occur on a round in which he doesn't choose to take another action, such as using Hand of the Acolyte to attack someone, I just wanted to warn you in advance.)
On 12; Spoiler:
"Agh!" Mordecai says, raising an arm as if to shield his eyes, far too late to matter. He moves in a beeline for the front doors, and while he makes a faint pretense of stumbling blindly and flailing an arm around (the other still raised to 'shield his eyes'), it won't take a savant to note that he's avoiding other blinded patrons (and tables and pillars) and cutting an otherwise direct trail straight to the door, and anyone who is specifically paying attention will note that he's not just gesticulating wildly, but is actually casting a spell. While he has a pair of daggers at his belt, he has drawn no weapon or spell components.
Part of him is tempted to just grab at loose chips, but he is gambling for a much bigger stake tonight...
Spoiler:
Was there any resolution to those Spot / Sense Motive checks we made earlier, or did Mordecai roll too low to notice anything? With the sudden flash of light, Mordecai realizes that he should probably head for the exit, assuming that he can still see it, but perhaps not before snatching up something handy...
Mordecai quietly places two golden eyes on the next bet. He's got a thoughtful look on his face. He does not double down. Spoiler:
[/url=http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/1759406/] Seven. [/url] He nods, as if he's just confirmed something, but says nothing and immediately places two golden eyes on the table for the next bet. Again, he does not double down. Spoiler:
This dealer vexes me by pointing out my winnings! Mordecai thinks, but fishes out a golden eye for another larger bet. A bit outside of his comfort range, Mordecai does not double down.
He smirks at the dealer, "That sounds fine." and smacks down another Silver Tooth, which he's already written off in his mind. He doubles down and adds another Silver Tooth, forgetting that he was expecting to lose and kicking himself for not dropping gold! Spoiler:
At this point, Mordecai is beginning to feel that he's drawing too much attention with the big wins. He's not a big fish in this pond, and there are all too many sharks in these waters to be splashing around quite so enticingly... He drops a silver tooth on his next roll and puts the gold away, since he doesn't want it to draw any further notice. He doubles down and places another silver on the table. Spoiler:
[/url=http://invisiblecastle.com/roller/view/1758288/] 13. A possible win, but not spectacular. [/url] The taste of victories has turned sour, for the moment, as the mere accumulation of golden coins in no way brings him closer to his true goals in this town, and, indeed, may only paint him as target to men far more dangerous than himself...
Mordecai will return to the Bounder table. He doesn't really understand Golem at all, the Ghoulette wheel still irks him and he's no sure about that boat-tossing game. It looks too easy to cheat at that one and he's not interested in being at the *receiving* end of a riot... Feeling flush after his prior winning, he plops down another golden eye and rolls the dice confidently. 18. 'I must make a nice sacrifice to Urgathoa tonight,' he thinks. He doubles down, a win already assured in his mind.
Mordecai is somewhat paralyzed by how well he did in that last Bounder bet. A part of him is screaming 'quit while you're ahead!' while another is speculating if he could actually *win* some money, rather than steal it, tonight. He orders a drink, still only water, and takes a short break from gambling, leaning against a wall while he steadies his nerves. He really, really wants to celebrate with some wine, but he knows how foolish that would be. A drunken 'celebration' while flush with cash in this town is a good way to wake up naked and bleeding in an alley with a headache, no possessions and a scorching case of codrash. And while that sort of thing can certainly be memorable, he thinks with a rueful grin, he has other plans for tonight.
Sitting at 4 gold eyes and 5 silver teeth, Mordecai plants a gold eye down on his next Bounder roll, having decided to play big. Roll 19! Mordecai doubles down and drops another gold eye in a fit of bravado! Spoiler:
Over at the Bounder table, Mordecai winces in sympathy for the guy who just lost most of his winnings next to him, and then places another silver and takes another roll. Mordecai doubles down and risks another silver. He glances sideways across the room, attempting to steal the quickest and least obtrusive glance at the lucky Halfling and her pile of chips, to see if perhaps she has stacked her gold chips in such a way that they could be picked up quickly in a single action if some unfortunate thing were to happen to her during, say, perhaps, a brawl... Spoiler:
For the briefest of instants he considers the fellow that lost, whether or not to toss him a silver tooth, but then remembers his teachings. Fortune is not mere random chance. All things are the will of the gods and this world but a proving ground to test the worthy. Perhaps his Desna meant for him to learn a lesson of some sort? Perhaps Calistria felt spurned that he called out to her rival in this town? And what lesson does that logic hold for his thoughts of stealing this lucky Halflings winnings? Would he be defying the will of whomever has blessed her, or are her winnings a prize for him to take, a gift from Urgathoa that he can only claim with bold action and not the half-hearted tactics he had made thus far, tactics which had gotten him no closer to his goals in this wretched place? A quandary. A cautious and precise nature beaten into him over years wars with ambition and greed, with the tenents of his faith whispering justification to see all the world as a banquet and to drink deeply from it.
Bounder seems to be agreeing with him much more than Ghoulette, so Mordecai's mood has improved. He drops his original silver tooth stake and the silver tooth he just won as the stake for his next roll. He is not emboldened by this number and does not 'double down.' Spoiler:
Eight That's a loss, no matter what the dealer rolls, since he's pretty sure the dealer can't roll a number between seven and eight! He's still feeling a bit confident at this game, not yet noticing that he's just lost the winnings from both of his previous victories.
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