Beware The Snow (aka Do You Wanna Build A Snowman?) (Inactive)

Game Master Twilightrose

As you make your way to the other side of the path, you notice that a pair of frozen legs and feet are jutting from a snowbank.

I don't have time for this, Machaera thinks, the adrenaline from fighting the elementals still encouraging her to move quickly even as her focus turns to finding some form of shelter. She gives the legs a quick glance, checking for obvious traps or any indication that it might be another zombie. Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (14) + 1 = 15

She throws a glance the smallfolks' way, and the shivering, sodden human woman behind them. Annalísa. She has a name. She's a person, Machaera reminds herself. After a cautious moment, she approaches the frozen body on the path carefully. If no one intervenes, she'll continue as follows:

Keeping her sword pointed at where the heart would be of any body under the snow, on the off chance that there's some badly-chilled person barely clinging to life under there, but expecting the worst, she gently, but firmly, taps one leg with the toe of her boot and says, a chill creeping into her voice, "If you can hear me, get up slowly. We've already run into a couple of traps on this path, and we're not in the mood for any more tricks."

Even so, she tenses herself in preparation for unpleasantness, ready to lunge forward if it is a zombie, to turn her sword up along the throat if the chest is armoured. I swore I wouldn't let this happen, Machaera thinks unhappily. I said I wouldn't let pure calculation, merciless expediency, take my life over again. And here I am, a bit of trouble in the woods, and I'm already falling into doing 'whatever is necessary' ...

If there's no response, Machaera will use her free hand to start clearing the snow from the rest of the body.

The man is frozen solid, and no doubt of this can be left in Machera's mind as she taps the man with her boot. It doesn't take her very long to uncover the rest of the corpse. Those from Heldren recognize him as Old Man Dansby, a local farmer and retired solider of Talador. Along with his body, his possessions are easily found: composite longbow (+1 Str) with 12 arrows; a dagger; a masterwork handaxe; and a pouch containing 14 gp, 25 sp, and 18 cp.

"Yet more evidence that the Cold Fey are capricious, and evil..."

Withe chattering teeth, Annalísa moves towards the corpse and says, "Dansby? Oh damn it, what did they do to you?" After a quiet moment she says, "Take his bow, we will use it to put an arrow through the heart of those responsible. Take whatever else you will, too. He has no family, no one to inherit his belongings. He would want us to use whatever we could."

"All right, but we gather what we can and keep moving. You are not freezing to death on my watch." the shaman says in a tone that brooks no argument.

Machaera relaxes just slightly as she realizes that there's no immediate threat here, and bows her head for a moment when Annalísa recognizes the man. Poor beggar, she thinks, dying alone in this unnatural weather, to be buried only by snow. Incidentally, can Machaera tell if he just succumbed to hypothermia and froze where he fell, or are there signs of violence?

She quietly takes up the man's bow and adds his arrows into her own quiver. Testing the weapon's draw, she guesses it would be comfortable if her muscles weren't so stiff with cold, so she slings it over her shoulder and gets ready to move on again, nodding at Aðvinr's brusque pronouncement and glad that she need not bear the burden of keeping everyone moving alone.

Annalísa raises and eyebrow to Aðvinr and says with a smile, "If I weren't so cold, I'd put you on your ass for that."

There are bruises and scrapes, and with the nearness to the creek and the elementals that hid there if Machera had to guess she would say that he was not as lucky facing off against the two elementals as what the group working together was.

Gathering what you will from Dansby's corpse, the group moves on with Fizzlewhisk who is currently without internet and will be posting less frequently from work when he can and Mervyn in the lead. Mervyn is soon able to find a small grotto that appears to have been man made, most likely by hunters as a spot to rest or clean their kills. There is plenty of room for the group and there is a small stack of dry wood in the corner. It's not enough to sustain a fire, but enough to get one started.

"W-we w-will need m-more wood, b-but we sh-should start a fire n-now. We need its heat, an' creatures of ice sh-shouldn't want to come n-near."

Mervyn looked at the others "I believe some of the uvvers 'ad gathered wood from the bleedin' carriages. Let us cop a fire gahn"

With that Mervyn begins assembling what wood is available into a pile for lighting.

"You're welcome to try....when you're feeling better." Aðvinr replies to Annalísa with a grin.

When they find the grotto, the shaman breathes a sigh of relief, getting to work on getting a fire started and adding the wood salvaged earlier. He sets up camp in a way that would best protect them from the elements, making the optimal use of their resources.

Survival: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (19) + 8 = 27

"Okay, you need to be out of those wet clothes and bundles up in furs as close to the fire as possible. If you want I can get Machaera over here to help you."

He studies the Ulfen woman as he speaks, trying to see how well she is actually doing past her bravado

Heal: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (18) + 8 = 26

Taking the opportunity to look at the others, he focuses on the shivering Fizzlewhisk, who was also showing signs of succumbing to the cold.

Heal: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (1) + 8 = 9 D'oh guess he's a tad bit distracted

Annalísa chuckles at Aðvinr's banter, grateful for the distraction. Once under cover, she wastes no time heeding the shaman's words first handing him back his fur that he draped over her and then beginning to strip, "Modesty, especially in these circumstances, is for little girls and proper ladies. I am neither."

Her skin has blanched from the cold, indicating to Aðvinr that her blood has pulled out of her extremities and moved to the warmth of her inner core, keeping her vitals alive. Her lips and eyelids have taken on a slightly blue color, but her fingertips, toes, and nose show no blackening of frostbite just yet. She'll need many hours in front of the fire before she will be fit to travel again.

Aðvinr is able to set up a fairly secure camp, protected from the elements and in such a way that it will be easy to watch for enemies. He isn't able to glean any helpful information about Fizzlewhisk's condition, perhaps it is due to not being as familiar with gnomes, or perhaps it is that the smaller man is mostly hidden beneath his clothes... of course it isn't the woman taking her clothes off a few feet away. :P

Grinning while trying not to enjoy the view too much and clearly failing, the shaman puts together a makeshift rack using a few sticks, and hangs Annalísa's wet clothing where it will receive the heat of the flames, glad that at the very least no one else had gotten wet. Grabbing a heavy fur blanket from his gear he hands it to her. "This still isn't all that cold to me, and you need to be as warm as possible."

Annalísa accepts the blanket, "Thank you, Aðvinr," she says with a smile noting the way his eyes linger as she wraps her body up in the blanket. Warmer now, but still shivering, Annalísa moves closer to the fire where she empties out her pack so that her belongings can dry out as well.

Hey! Machaera thinks, catching the remark about proper ladies, but mercifully her thoughts outpace her tongue, and she keeps quiet. She reflects rather wistfully that it has been some time, after all, since she's been able to enjoy the finer points of cultivated civility for their own sake.

She shrugs off her own backpack as the others get comfortable, looking forward to warming up, thankful that she's at least dry. "Do you think we have enough wood for now, or should I gather some more before settling down?" she asks from where she stoops, fiddling abstractedly with the chaotic contents. As an afterthought, as she tries to arrange things more neatly, Machaera extracts a change of clothing with a flourish, before realizing that the long robe is exactly what the human woman meant. Fortunately, the undertunic in her other hand is less fussy, and she offers it to Annalísa with a self-deprecating smile of her own. "If you'd like another layer under that blanket while you're warming up, you're welcome to try this. I hope it's not too..."

She avoids the temptation to complete the thought with ladylike, realizing that it would be rather tactless, given that the clothing is tailored for her long-limbed elven frame. "... tight," she decides, for now, trying to remember what she was taught about polite ways to refer to humans' build. Solid? Robust? Simply, 'strong?' Hardy? This is where guidance in comportment is useful.

:) If there's no immediate need to collect more wood, Machaera will grab a seat by the fire and try to improvise a pair of snowshoes or two out of the smaller bits and pieces she salvaged from the wrecked carriages.

"I think we've probably got enough wood with what we salvaged from the broken cart and what was already here. We've got decent wind cover, so it shouldn't make the fire burn through the wood too fast."

When Machera offers her the tunic, Annalísa eyes it for a moment before looking down at her own chest wrapped up in the blanket, "I uh... I don't think that will work well. I'm afraid I might rip it or something, and before this is over you'll need the extra layers more than I do, even right now." Poor skinny elf, no padding to keep her warm. Straight as a board, and nearly as flat. Those hips, barely a curve at all... how do they even manage to carry babies let alone feed them? Still, she knows what she's doing I'll give her that. The woman has definitely seen battle, good to have at my side. She's cute, too... in a mousy sort of way.

The hours tick by faster than expected, as the dread of leaving the warmth of the fire sets in to everyone's mind. Those with the skills to do so are able to set some snares and catch a couple of rabbits to skin and cook over the fire. On occasion, you hear a rustle nearby but it is just woodland creatures attracted to the warmer area amidst the sudden cold.

I'll move forward when everyone is ready, by all means, take your time and engage in some inter-character roleplay!

Machaera sets to work trying to cobble together some snowshoes from what she has on hand; not really her idea of a good time, but part of her enjoys the challenge of trying to figure out how best to improvise. She cuts the traces she rescued from the ruined carriages into long lacing, and keeps a pot of water over the fire to steam scraps of wood so they're easier to bend. After a while, she has enough materials prepared that she starts asking the others for a hand, holding those pieces together, or keeping that bit of leather in place as she ties the lacing tight.

I'm not entirely sure how we're handling this; I've made a few rolls in the hope that at least one of them works out, if that's appropriate. Since it's an untrained check for Machaera, with improvised tools, anyone who wants to make "Aid another" checks would be greatly appreciated - remarks about elves and shoes, less so. ;) (Generally speaking, one of the "Three Golden Shoemakers of the Isle of Britain" she is not.)

Mervyn sets up his area by Machaera, watching closely as she works on crafting the shoes. Intrigued by how she was lacing the weave of the bottoms. It really never hurt to try and learn something new. Not wanting to bother the elf he sat quietly and just watched for the time being as he took out a ration and begin to eat.

As dawn comes, whoever was on the last watch begins waking everyone else. Annalísa's clothing is dry once more, and everyone is as well rested as can be expected.

As he goes around waking everyone, Aðvinr checks on the status of his companions. Leaving the most affected member for last, the shaman runs his hand through the large wolfhound's fur as he looks up when he approaches his mistress. Making it clear he means no harm he gently nudges Annalísa. "Looks like everyone's made it through the night."

Annalísa, having let her hair down the night before to dry out rolls over and winces when her hair gets caught beneath her. She looks up at Aðvinr, "Morning? Already? Ughh. OK, OK, Hundur stop licking my face! I'm getting up." The dog yips softly and wags his tail in excitement. The naked woman sits up and wipes the dog slobber from her face before yawning and stretching her arms out over her head. It is clear that she truly is as comfortable in her bare skin as she is in her clothes. Standing she shakes out Aðvinr's blanket before folding it up and handing it back to him. "Thanks again."

She begins the arduous task of re-braiding her hair as she walks across the enclosure to where her clothes hand. Her fingers move swiftly, and without thought, clearly it is something of muscle memory to her at this point. She pauses when she gets to her clothes, and checks them over to be sure they are dry before dressing. Once dressed she continues to braid her hair as she moves about collecting her things and then snagging whatever she remains from last night's meal to fill her stomach with, feeding Hundur scraps as she eats herself.

"We need to try to cover as much ground as possible today. I know that it was necessary for us to stop, for me to stop, last night but they've got far more of a head start than I'm comfortable with."

With fire and coneys, the young gnome finally chases away the chatter of his teeth. He awakes wish a fresh start and a positive outlook. "If they've any un-fey with them, then they'll 'ave stopped too, at least for the Lady's sake if'n she's to be hostaged. We can catch 'em."

Glad to see the color having returned to Annalísa's skin, and almost as glad for the extended view, Aðvinr takes the blanket with a smile, nodding at her thanks. "Anytime. I agree with you on the eed to cover ground. Them needing to stop if they want her alive is a good point though, we just need to pick up the trail."

Stretching to work the last bit of tension from her muscles after a night in austere quarters, Machaera glances at the results of her efforts of the preceding evening. A tidy stack of scraps marks the beginnings she could not complete before exhaustion caught up with her, and another pair has not survived the night, its improvised bindings having loosened quietly in the dark; she glares at the one pair of snowshoes that is usable, though she is only annoyed with herself, really. She silently tucks them under her arm once she gets the rest of her things together, thinking, Better than none at all.

She nods in response to the half-heard conversation around her, adding, somewhat vaguely as her thoughts wander, "I wonder where they might be headed - but then I'm very far from local. There's one sure way to find out, I suppose."

The group gather's together and leaves behind the shelter, it doesn't take long to pick the trail back up. It isn't as clear as it was the day before, as snow continued to fall filling in some of the holes a little but it is still easy enough to follow. After a short while, the tail begins to climb a ridgeline to the south beneath snow-laden trees. The prints of boots and horses mar the freshly fallen snow on the trail. The sound of men bickering begins to drift to you on the breeze, you can't quite make out what they're saying but you believe you hear three distinct voices. Stealth rolls, please.

Stealth? What is this thing of which you speak?

Stealth: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (15) + 0 = 15.

Huh.

Surprising even himself, Snjorrin carefully glides across the surface of the snow, barely making a sound.

Accustomed to long stretches on the open tundra away from any living thing, Aðvinr finds stealth to be severely lacking from his skillset.

Stealth: 1d20 ⇒ 1

Machaera advances slowly, still getting used to the adjustment to her gait that the snowshoes require. She proceeds as carefully as she can, even as she reaches over her shoulder to take bow in hand, straining to hear what the men are saying. Stealth: 1d20 + 3 - 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 - 3 = 13 Why not? Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18

Rotten luck, Aðvinr. I hope you're either going on ahead, or safe in the back while the rest of us try to get into position! :)

Aðvinr has the unfortunate luck of finding twigs buried just under the surface of the snow, the snapping sounds seem to echo in the near silence. The arguing voices grow quiet. Annalísa appears to have the same unfortunate luck as immediately after, she too, finds a way to make far more noise than the situation warrants.

Mervyn Stealth 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (20) + 11 = 31
Fizzlewhisk Stealth 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (19) + 6 = 25
Annalísa Stealth 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

SR
Fizzlewhisk, Mervyn, Machaera, Snjórinn

Map

Fizzlewhisk looses a bolt, hoping that the men blocking the path are foes.

Crossbow vs Blue: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (19) + 5 = 24
Crit Confirm: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21
Damage: 2d6 ⇒ (5, 1) = 6

I shoot them....and hope they're the bad guys. lmao

Fizzlewhisk's arrow flies through the air and buries itself deeply into one of the men's abdomen. The man looks down at the arrow protruding from his guts, his hand raises to grab at the wound as blood begins to soak through his clothing. Shock is evident on his face as it drains of all color.

With nothing better to do, Snjorrin strides forward, and adopts a defensive position (Total Defense).

A frown passes quickly over Machaera's face as she thinks quickly about how the situation might be salvaged with a minimum of violence, if possible. "That was our warning shot!" she calls out, "And it wasn't lucky! Throw down your weapons now, and you might leave here upright!"

Here's hoping they don't call her bluff. :)

Even as she speaks, Machaera pushes ahead as quickly as she can, nocking an arrow and letting it fly from the position she takes up on the far side of the path. Attack, against yellow: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (16) + 3 = 19 Damage?: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4

She braces for a charge, and it occurs to her that she'll have to open up her fighting style, given her footgear. Stupid shoes for a fight, she thinks.

The arrow sinks into the man's thigh, he screams out in agony as his leg tries to crumple beneath him. He recovers quickly, though, and moves in to engage Snjórinn.
Shortsword 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 = 21
Damage 1d6 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5

R1
Raider Y, Fizzlewhisk, Mervyn, Annalísa, Raider R, Machaera, Aðvinr, Raider B, Snjórinn

Fizzlewhisk reloads, firing at the man Machaera just feathered. "Um... do ya understan' us?" the gnome inquires in the Common tongue, hoping there isn't just a language barrier.

Light Crossbow: 1d20 + 5 - 4 ⇒ (3) + 5 - 4 = 4

Annalísa closes some distance between herself and the bandit, readying an attack should he step in closer to her but otherwise holding her ground until she can get closer.

Longsword 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (14) + 3 = 17
Damage 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5

Hundur stays close on her heels, growling and snarling at the raiders.

"Piss off, half-pint!" The man snarls at Fizzlewhisk. "You an' that crazy b!tch come in arrows flying and tell us to lay down our weapons?!"

The raider that Fizzlewhisk shot in the abdomen seems to have come to terms with the arrow sticking out of his body and moves forward, sword drawn, taking up a place behind his comrade.

R1
Raider Y, Fizzlewhisk, Annalísa, Raider R, Machaera, Aðvinr, Raider B, Snjórinn

Crazy? You would be so lucky, Machaera thinks coolly. Seeing Snjórinn reached and Annalísa closing, Machaera reluctantly drops her bow and prepares to follow into the melee herself.

Acid splash, ranged touch, at Yellow: 1d20 + 3 - 4 ⇒ (1) + 3 - 4 = 0 She tries to conjure another ball of acid with her free hand in the same motion with which she draws her sword, but her thoughts are all over the place and the splash goes ludicrously wide of anything approaching a target.

Darting a look at Fizzlewhisk, Machaera decides he's the one that got her into this. Still, it occurs to her, and it bursts from her in the next moment, "Right, because innocent travelers stop their conversation the moment a twig snaps. Pull the other one." Or, as Bikini Kill would say, "Suck my left one," but Machaera's far too polite. :) Despite the situation, Machaera bursts into an unearthly laugh, her ludicrous shot and risible threats overcoming her with the absurdity of it all. Maybe they are lucky, after all. I suppose I am mad.

Striding forward purposefully, Aðvinr locks his eyes on one of the men Red, his baleful glare invoking the primal terror of the small creatures of the wilds in the presenece of one of the world's great beasts.

Cause Fear. DC 12 Wil

So, I've been introduced to this critical hit/fumble generator and will now be using it from time to time, including for magical critical hits/fumbles. I'm not necessarily going to go with the first thing that comes up, but your DM might have just shifted closer to the evil spectrum.

Machera, for rolling a 1 on your ranged touch attack: Backblast: The spell hits you and it is a critical threat. You must roll to confirm the critical hit.

"Right, because innocent travelers attack people they come across on the road," the man bites back mimicking Machera's statement.

Red's Will 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (4) - 1 = 3
Rounds 1d4 ⇒ 4

Aðvinr's eyes bore into the man, his eyes take on the startled look of a deer and he begins to turn tale to run. Will flee on his turn.

The last man moves forward, leveling his bow at Annalísa before loosing and arrow.
Shortbow 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 2 = 13
Damage 1d6 ⇒ 5

R1
Raider Y, Fizzlewhisk, Annalísa, Raider R, Machaera, Aðvinr, Raider B, Snjórinn

Snjorrin calmly takes a swing at the man in front of him.

greataxe: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2, for 1d12 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6 damage.

An impertinent one, this, Machaera thinks. It would be fun, if we weren't trying to kill each other.

Ouch!: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7 Damage: 1d3 ⇒ 3 +(if crit): 1d3 ⇒ 1
She winces in pain as she realizes there's still some acid clinging to her fingers, which she brushes off quick as she can.
Phew! At least the crit didn't succeed. I suppose it would only be fair warning, under the circumstances, to remind everyone that Machaera will eventually start dabbling fairly seriously in firearms, as if magic wasn't enough...

Not wanting to risk hitting one of his allies, and not wanting to make a bad situation worse, Fizzlewhisk lowers his crossbow.

Annalísa closes the distance and swings her sword at the man in front of her.

Longsword 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (7) + 3 = 10
Damage 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5

Hundur wove through the trees and snapped his teeth at the man his mistress was attacking.
Bite 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7
Damage 1d4 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

Snjórinn, Annalísa, and Hundur all managed to miss the bandit with their strikes.

The man swings back at Snjórinn.
Shortsword 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6
Damage 1d6 + 1 ⇒ (2) + 1 = 3

Another steps in to take a swing at Hundur.
Shortsword 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9
Damage 1d6 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5

R2
Raider Y, Fizzlewhisk, Annalísa, Raider R, Machaera, Aðvinr, Raider B, Snjórinn

Snjorrin calmly continues to attack the bandit in front of him.

Greataxe: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (14) + 1 = 15, for 1d12 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6 damage.