GM Knight's Giantslayer

Game Master Deevor

Uh...yeah...seems useful. How is that any different from the magic words?

Grok looks around at the town as they walk out the tower, following Cromwin to the Clamor. Indeed, there are some inside the walls, ready to help an attack, but there can't be enough to mount an assault on their own. There need to be serious preparations.

While saying this, Grok's eyes are caught by a small steel shield, a series of straps of odd length across it. He walks to it and begins to play about with the straps, trying to figure out what they're meant to do. After a while, he is able to hold it in his left hand, then rapidly shift it back and forth up to his shoulder and back down into his hand. How much for this? He asks, gesturing at Sara, finding it moderately uncomfortable to extend his arm straight with the shield on. And have you got one that's more my size?

Apologies, yesterday was much busier and included ale induced tiredness.

Zove leaves her friends and heads to off into town, whilst the others head to The Plague House once more.

Maurie finally opens her eyes, the light shining within them.

"Well... I have to say, I was not expecting that troll to be so quick... or to awaken again after I passed out." The monk slowly rises. "Thank you for saving my life. I will endeveor to repay what I owe you for it. Sadly I do not have much gold currently, but I will give you what I can. Abadar would expect no less, after all." Taking two of her four gold pieces, she hands them to the cleric. "Half of my worldly wealth. It isn't much, but perhaps I can do some work around the temple to help offset for that fact?"

"It's good to have you back Maurie. We were worried there for a bit." Cromwin smiles at her, happy to see her recover. "You've got quite a bit more than just the four gold, as it turns out. We managed to find a good haul of treasure from the plague house, and you have a good share."

--------------------

Later in the day, Cromwin visits Clamor with Grok to negotiate for a new suit of more protective armor, then helps Grok search through the plague house, turning up not too much of interest.

Cromwin's been hit twice by the Haunt. He's had enough of that to last him a lifetime, and will go down the stairs instead of the trap door, giving that room a wide berth.

Cromwin will take his time helping Grok move the bear traps and set them up in new locations about the basement.

Take 10 on the survival DC for hiding them, 15

"I wonder...do you think they might have been digging for whatever this Skreed's special thing might have been? I thought you might have been right about a tunnel under the walls, but now that we've got a chance to look at it, it kind of looks like maybe they were just excavating to look for something?"

3 hours? Guess no harm in trying a last minute gather info on 'Skreed'

Diplo, Gather Info: 1d20 + 1 - 2 ⇒ (15) + 1 - 2 = 14
Hours: 1d4 ⇒ 2

Given a youthful rage from her parents' lack of understanding, Zove moves through the city, appealing to just about anyone she can about a possible attack and information related to Skreed.

Regardless of what she uncovers, she will then climb the tallest tower and scout the horizon.

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16

...Little retcon back to the prison encounter with Daktani
Just as you are about to leave the prison, one of the guards calls back after you, "Halgra told me to let you have Daktani's possessions, as reward for bringing him to justice. They are on the table inside the guards post, take all but the thieves tools, we don't want them circulating. We took them from him when we chained him."

Maurie smiles at Cromwin. "That is good to hear. I would hate to be the cause of debt to folks I was trying to assist." Maurie winces as she stands, though she waves off attempts to aid her further. "I am not at full mobility yet, but I should be able to heal on my own with enough time. In the meantime it will serve as a lesson in humility."

Earlier

Grok smiles as Maurie wakes. Damn troll proved tough, though not too fast on its feet. I'd hoped we could flank it, didn't expect you to charge in like that...must admit I didn't know you'd survive for a bit. We took the half-orc prisoner, come on, we're about to go interrogate him.

Daktani's Things

Grok picks up the crowbar and inspects it, examines the sharpness of the teeth, then tries to bend it over his knee. He finds it of suitable strength. Wonder what these keys are for? Maybe we should ask him? Grok turns to Brin as he says this.

This mace is nice, good weight and length, almost begging to be let loose. Too small and short for me, anyone else want it? Must be worth lots. And what's all this? Grok asks, pointing at the strange coals, the potions, the smoke pellets, and the tangleburn bag. I think lots of them burn, Grok says, vaguely, scraping the other weapons and armor together into a pile.

Might decide to use the morningstar if nobody else wants it, probably only very slightly better than the falchion, but I think Cromwin would make better use of it. Good to sell everything else. Where are we on free actions and quickdraw shields?

Later

Grok pours the coins out onto the floor, shuffling them around into piles. Color on these is odd, like...oh. They're not gold. Grok cracks his knuckles, lots of these. Maybe I can afford a decent bow, or some good armor, or something. They'll fear me now.

Grok looks around at the ground where Maurie died, still thick with gore; a blackened scorch mark where Zove poured acid on the troll. He briefly holds a hand out at the others, keeping them back, while he searches the earth for footmarks. After only a moment he stands up. No way there's anything useful here, days ago and pouring rain and fights and pools of blood. Better search the other rooms more thoroughly.

Grok looks through every room as carefully as he can, helping others where it's useful and leaving no stone unturned. Wish we had some paper, could draw a picture of those runes, show someone in town. Brin, did you happen to bring any you were sleeping on?

So that's aid another on search (I think Maurie has the highest perception), if we all pitch in that's 20+2+2+5+7=36, in case that matters.

You don't have time to sell any of Daktani's items before the funeral. You may do other thing though.

The secrets of the Plague House have all been given up to the party, as they return to Trunau with barely 15 minutes before the funeral for Rodrik Grath is due to start at the Flame of the Fallen.

Any last minute interactions before the funeral?

Well why not...

She finds Kurst near the funeral proceedings "Kurst...listen to me. You've got to postpone the ceremony until we can sort this out. Agents have already infiltrated our town and we are playing into their hand! We've got to change course or there will be many more funerals tomorrow...send the men back to the walls!"

Diplo: 1d20 + 1 - 2 ⇒ (19) + 1 - 2 = 18

At the Clamor

"Thank you for your help earlier, Sara. We managed to uncover a solid lead, with some very troubling implications yesterday. I fear that there may be more fighting ahead in our near future. Which brings us to why we stopped by. I have always admired the larger suit of banded mail on display. I have into some coin and into the possession of a number of intriguing weapons while we explored the plauge house, and I was hoping we could strike a deal for the suit."

If everyone is ok with it, I would like to sell the hand crossbow+bolts. It is expensive, and not terribly useful. Total gold should be ((400+1+2+21)/2)/4 = 53 gold each for the sell price on the bolts+crossbow. If Cromwin exchanges his share in the crossbow, his scale mail and almost all of his money, he will be able to afford the banded mail.

If its alright, I'd like to go back and add to that 3 hours the ID of some of our unknown stuff.

Scroll - cast read magic
Others I case detect magic and
Potion 1 - Spellcraft: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (3) + 8 = 11
Potion 2 (2x) - Spellcraft: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (13) + 8 = 21
Potion 3 - Spellcraft: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (6) + 8 = 14
Leather Belt - Spellcraft: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (13) + 8 = 21

After bargaining for his new armor, Cromwin will go help search the plauge house, then return to attend Rodrick's funeral. Ready to move to the funeral when everyone else is, I think.

After finding Daktani's things.

Brin takes the keys from Grok and walks right back down to Daktani, standing as before. Listen, Daktani, we need to know what you do with these keys. What they unlock, why you have them, that sort of thing. Brin's words are moderately excited, and he drinks in the power his magic gives him.

After leaving the Clamour

Grok walks to Anvil, digging through the saddlebags intently. After a moment, he pulls out a large suit of linked chains, climbing into it and removing his the thick hides. It is large, reaching down below his waist, though not so far as to restrict his mobility, and covering his arms to the elbows. He stretches and takes a few experimental hops, heavier. Odd feeling, have to get some straps to distribute the weight more evenly. He then adjusts his new shield, and, finding its weight comforting in his hand, carries it with him to the Plague House.

Ready to proceed.

Kurst greets the other members of the group that investigated his brother's death as he continues to talk with Zove. He looks at Zove, his eyes resolved to stay strong for the ceremony honoring his fallen brother. Despite the sibling jealously during their lives, it was just this rivalry that masked a deep seated love. In a voice full of concern for Zove, he says gently, "Why come to me now, whatever needs to be said can wait til after the funeral. It is time for my brother to be given a final tribute for his life's deeds. If what I have heard is true, you have disrupted the communication between the the traitors here and their master's who will attack us. We have time to prepare, they will not attack so soon. It is very unlikely the attack will take place until the half-orcs signal for it and as long as the militia keeps guards stationed at the beacons and around the city walls, Trunau has little to fear. Even
if the saboteurs signal the attack from outside the town’s walls without being detected, the militia should have time to sound the alarm and close the gates." his voice soft, hoping to alleviate Zove's concerns.

It seems the dignitaries of Trunau, have gathered to say their farewells to Rodrik Grath. Already at the front of the mourners, Kurst and his father Jagrin dressed in solemn clothes prepare for the last of the rituals to take place. Behind a couple of half-orcs sit quietly, not bring attention to themselves, the older male comforting the younger female, Brinya and Katreza acknowledge you when you enter the congregation at the Fire of the Fallen. Omast, wearing his militaria, that shines golden in the last rays of the sun, his uniform smart and his look full of sadness. The crowd quieten as High Priestess Tyari Varvatos starts the ceremony, calling to the gods and consecrating the Flame of the Fallen with sacred herbs. The sweet smell of rosemary and thyme fills the air as the smoke rises from the ceremonial fires. Once this part of the ritual is complete and the voices of the temples acolytes drift slowly and beautifully across the fires, Tyari continues. She performs the traditional re-quenching of Rodrik's’s hopeknife, taking the knife by its hilt, passing the shining blade through the rising smoke and flames. With each pass the alchemical flames dull and blacken the blade, Tyrani speaking the dignified words of the ritual. As the words end, the blade is completely blackened, eating the light that once make it sparkle. Tyrani moves in her purple robes, flowing across the ground, to present Briyana with her love's blade, to remember her affection for the deseased protector of Trunau, the half-orc smiles sympathetically as tear trickles down her cheek. She mouths "Thank you, you brought back his knife from the Plague House." to Zove, Cromwin, Grok and the others.

More herbs and spices are presented to the flame, the fragrance filling the noses of those assembled for the ceremony. The voices sing a monotonous throbbing tone, as Tyrani starts the final part. The burning of Rodrik Grath's dead body in the holy flame. The final passing of his body and soul, sent on their final journey to live in the presence of the gods after Pharesma's judgement. This final hour of the ceremony, is the last hour that Rodrik is still in Trunau's embrace. The flames steadily and slowly consume his body until Tyrani closes the ceremony, a complete eerie silence hangs in the fragrant atmosphere, amongst the gathering gloom of the day, as the darkness of night starts to command the cities activities.

As the gathering silently disperses, deep in their own thoughts, Jagrin Grath moves towards you. His eyes red, glinting in the lanterns burning light. "I cannot thank you enough, that your investigation showed that my son was not a coward and took his own life. He was murdered in the pursuit of Trunau's survival against the treacherous activities of the half-bloods. Please, return to my house and accept my hospitality, a drink and some fine foods I have ready for friends." He eyes Grok, obvious distrust despite his role in finding the truth's, but let's it pass. "Follow us, when we are finished here." Trunau descends into night, as various townspeople shake Jagrin's hand and they speak in soft and quiet of condolences and sympathy.

The company thins a little as everyone invited to the wake, looks to Jagrin Grath. Omast and Kunst talk, others just look to the holy flames.

Cromwin watches the ceremony in silence, lost in brooding thought, remembering an earlier funeral three years ago, with his sister's body laid out as Rodrik's was now. As the ceremony progresses, Cromwin looks up and nods at Brinya, smiling sadly as she mouths words of thanks for their part in recovering Rodrick's Hopeknife. At least we were able to get Rodrick's hopeknife back. Poor Brinya, losing someone like this is never easy, but all too common. May she find some measure of solace in the days ahead.

As the ceremony wraps up, Cromwin listens to Jagrin Grath before speaking. "Thank you Jagrin, we would be honored. Rodrik was a good man, and I am glad we were able to able to discover some of what happened to him, despite the troubling implications." Cromwin shakes his hand, before letting him go to accept the condolences of the rest of the townsfolk.

"I'm glad you're here with us, Grok. " Cromwin says quietly after Jagrin moves out of earshot. "Jagrin might not trust you yet, but you've fought for Trunau, and I'm proud to call you friend. I just hope he's able to come around and see past your skin eventually. Come on, lets offer our condolences to Kurst before we leave."

Cromwin walks over to Kurst and Omast, and puts his hand on Kurst's shoulder. "He was a good man, Rodrik. I am sorry for your loss."

Zove has an angry look throughout the proceedings, it is quite obvious she is crying despite numerous attempts at hiding it. Rodrick was one of the few in town who gave Zove a chance, she feared with Kurst now in charge her place in Trunau would become more obscure. This is why the invitation to Jagrin's residence was most shocking.

She didn't own any formal funeral wear but decided to wear black bands about her biceps at the last moment. Her arcane mark glistened across the scar tissue of her face with a dull emanation.

Hmm... Grok looks around at the festivities, purses his lips, then looks to the sky. Just so long as the gates can close...but what if the militia are killed quietly? I guess there are too many of them for that, huh?

Grok falls quiet as the ceremony begins, folding his arms and standing off to the side, he looks on impassively. I've seen enough death for this world, enough and more and the good ones still die. And all they can do is blacken the knife, what can I hope to accomplish? Grok appears moderately more guarded than usual, but for the most part it seems simply apparent that he has enough experience with death that he is no longer moved by it. Perhaps a little moved by the red eyes of the spectators, but not enough to redden his own. The sights and the smells alien, yet the mood familiar, he watches Tyrani as she passes the knife. You're welcome, he mutters, perhaps a little too casually.

Will they mourn for me? The thought pierces his mind and shatters his demeanor, bringing with it a flood of unfamiliarity. Grok looks around him and sees the villagers, together in their mourning and strong, ready to live for the memory of Rodrik. Ready to die to become a memory themselves. He is still smiling faintly when he spots Jagrin approaching, and looks around at the others to make sure that is acceptable. Finding that it is not, he blinks several times at the ground and then scowls, looking up as Jagrin begins to speak.

Implications indeed, our prey eludes us. Grok looks like he wants to say more, but looks down again instead, finding that his eyes rest on Naurgost. Strange animal, still following me. Death follows us both, or runs before us, we shall see which.

[smaller]Fought for Trunau, as we all must. But you, you fight for yourself, and for your family, and every family in the village. You live because you struggle. My life is to struggle, what else could I do? It is my skin, and my fate, and what else is there for him to see?

Grok walks after Cromwin to Kurst, but keeps a moderate distance. Good indeed, ya, Grok looks back at the pyre a moment, then turns back, his voice firm. Unfortunate.

The peaceful evening is shattered by the brazen calls of signal horns. Shouts and screams from the town’s lower quarter join the clamor, followed by a crash as an airborne boulder smashes into one of the guard towers. Trunau is under attack!

Around you those gathered at the Flames of the fallen seem to drop their quiet reflections and either run in panic for shelter or momentarily stand, shocked as they draw breath before reacting. Jagrim Grath becomes the captain, his rank denotes, Omast Frumm a defender of Trunau, both start to bark orders to the guards and militia around them, taking command of the defence and to start repelling the invaders. You see strong armed residents dropping their current activities, retrieving weapons and start to make their way to the walls. Those no active in the defences are actively hurried towards the Longhouse for safety.

You look around, to see Kurst Grath stepping quickly towards you, he shouts above the raising noise, "Zove, the rest of you. Your skills in getting to the truth of Rodrik's death, prove to me you are capable to aid the defence of Trunau. You are as much part of the militia as I am. Please help against this attack? I have a something very important that you need to do to help save Trunau?"

He looks earnestly into your faces to see how you receive his request.

There is more to come, but I'm late to get going to my RL game tonight. Must leave work now! Have a reaction, but please don't suddenly go off on a wild goose chase, there will be something specific for you to do.

Even as Kurst opens his mouth to speak again, i a large orange ball of flame rises in the distance, like a comet, leaving a trail of flames as it races through the darkened sky towards Trunau's defenses. Jagrim's son continues, "Go, makes sure the beacons held in readiness for such an attack are lit. You know where they are, in the Commons, at the inner gates and Hopespring Beacon. My brother at least gave one last sacrifice to us, even in his death the beacon in the Flames of the Fallen lights this area." He looks back momentarily at the flames and smiles, "Be as quick as you can, but remember to secure any areas as you go, if it won't delay your passage for long. The more that fight alongside us, the more folks are rescued and taken to safety, the better our chances." He wipes his hand across his brow, the concentration and nearness of command making his heart beat and his temperature rise. The orange and yellow light flickers strongly around them from the flames in the black darkness of the skies, the light quivering across Kurst's concerned face.

"I myself must help rally the townsfolk and guard, to set up defenses and push back the attacks. Light the beacons, they will provide light for us to attack the green skinned enemy, these treacherous half-orcs." he almost spits out the last words. As cries are heard from the lower town, the cries of battle, the cries of death and fighting. "Will you do that?" one last question, that feels more like an order, than giving you an option to join the battle on the walls.

During this battle/siege, you will be rewarded Resolve points for heroic acts of bravery and heroism, for carrying out important tasks, over and above lighting the 3 beacons. I will not be telling you when and why you get these points, but just want you to be aware that this game mechanic is now active.

You should all be on full hit points or only off by 1 or 2.

"Oh bloody hells. Its happening now. Of course Kurst, we'll do it. We'll defend Trunau no matter what's coming. Come on Grok, Zove, Maurie, follow me. We need to get those beacons lit fast and get down to the main fighting. They're going to need us."

Cromwin whistles sharply, and Anvil perks up his ears and comes trotting around the corner of a nearby building, where Cromwin had left him during the funeral. Cromwin mounts up in a flourish, the flickering firelight reflecting off his new armor as he gets out his shield and warhammer, preparing for battle. "To the commons first! Let's go!"

Grok jumps slightly at the crash of the boulder, landing in a low ready stance, and instinctively raising his new shield. No arrows in range. Grok straightens up and looks around, finding Kurst to be calm and capable. The beacons...where... okay now. Acid...you might need some, for the trolls. Grok's focus is disjointed, his head swiveling from place to place as he reorients himself, stance lowering once again. There might be trolls. Grok adds this over his shoulder, already following after Cromwin.

Grok jogs along as fast as he can beside the tall warhorse, feet landing heavily on the packed earth beneath him. A wind arises from the north and blows on his face, cool and gentle; the scent of smoke and herbs departs. For a moment Grok forgets the funeral, and does not perceive the battle unfolding before them, images of things not present flashing before his eyes. A burning tent. An orc full of arrows. Blood on the snow, no breath. Falling...alive.

Grok draws his bow and knocks an arrow, the sounds of the present suddenly deafening. Right behind you.

Zove frowns, almost looking through Kurst. She had enciphered a directory for her scrolls that enabled her to quickly prepare and get into motion. "Let's stick together!" she shouted. Oh no...it could happen again...not going to let them take me.

The horse snorts ready to break into a charge at his master's command, as Cromwin rides steadily around the corner of the commons. Following, comes a wheezing half-orc as he keeps pace with the knight on the horse. Brin looks over at his friend and smiles, "We'll have you in fine shape soon." he laughs, despite the crashing sound of a boulder smashing against the walls of the town. Just moments behind young girl is running the final paces around the bend, her face reddened by the exercise.

Before them to the left is the beacon, wood from broken furniture, the boughs of trees thrown together in a 10-foot-wide pyramid of wood and kindling. Surely it won't take much to set this alight and provide the defenders with much needed illumination to defend the town.

To the right, you can make out Brinya Kelver, surrounded by a mob, her arms held roughly by what looks like some sort of cleric. Shouts of "Aye, tis the half-bloods again, none can be trusted, hang her!" The man holding her smiles at the shouts coming from the lynch mob, it must be around around 30 townspeople surrounding her. The man shouts, "Follow me, the beacon will burn and so will she!" his voice is hard and unforgiving. The townspeople cheer, some waving wooden clubs and garden knives in the air, implements they found to defend themselves if the worst happened.

The man in the robes, tugs at Brinya as she does her best to resist and plead her innocence of involvement in the raid, her allegiance to the town and its people. They start to move slowly to the beacon.

k(local): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13

Zove becomes so enraged she completely forgets about the beacons. She points her finger directly at Baseil shouting in a surprisingly powerful voice "Hands off, Sabask! You touch her again you won't see tomorrow!" taking a casting stance.

mechanically, ready to cast a spell if he doesn't stop

Grok sets his pack down beside the beacon and begins to withdraw some of his lamp oil, rolling his shoulders. Thing's heavy, and the chainmail's not easy to wear. Then his eyes snap up to the right, Brinya's red hair illuminated by torchlight.

Grok stands and, without hesitating, looses an arrow at the feet of the cleric, sending it quivering into the earth.

Attack: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (18) + 4 = 22

Figure if it's a 1 it might hit someone in the foot, which wouldn't end well.

Perhaps you should wait until the ashes of Rodrik Grath have been properly dealt with before you end the lives of those he holds dearest. Grok's voice rises with each word, his eyes afire and shadowed by his furrowed brow. He nocks another arrow, drawing it halfway and pointing it at the priest. Perhaps you should look to the walls of the town, where no end of real foes doubtless stand, before directing your aggressions at each other! Grok is shouting now, fury apparent in his every word, and perhaps, some of you, want to keep your arms!

Intimidate: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18

Knowledge: Local: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 2 = 11

Cromwin doesn't know who that is, but he knows trouble when he sees it, especially when Grok shoots a warning shot. Bloody hells, we don't have time for this! Grok, don't get us in a fight now!

Cromwin heels Anvil forward, pulling to a stop just in front of the crowd, looming over them on horseback. "You! You!" Cromwin points at two of the people near the edge of the crowd with torches. "Light that fire now. The rest of you, form ranks! Trunau's under attack, we've got an actual battle to fight. We'll move forward to the inner gate as a group until we get to a guard post where we can get you some real weapons. Follow me! And let go of the woman, you're embarassing yourselves. You make me, or gods forbid him Cromwin jerks his thumb back towards Grok, waste time coming in there to get her out, there's going to be hell to pay.

Command the Troops! Diplomacy: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24
Aid Another: Intimidate, DC 10: 1d20 ⇒ 6

Possibly a +4 bonus on the intimidate check for being large size due to being mounted? I believe I'm treated as taking up the whole space Anvil is during combat, but I don't know how that interacts with the size bonus to intimidate people.

Sorry misread Grok's post, and wrote up a big post with the outcome ... having to reconsider ...

Might as well roll for initiative ...

If you want me to roll your initiative to speed combat let me know in the discussion thread, majority rule.

Cromwin, in his shiny banded mail armor, sat astride a mighty charger is an imposing figure of authority as he surges forward in front of the two new protagonists that followed him round the corner. The townsfolk, mainly women, old men and children turn hearing his commanding words, immediately dropping their arms by their side and listen. Their gaze taken wholly by the knight, the shouts of the lynching mob subside to nothing, until an arrow flies over the heads of the townfolk towards the cleric. Panic fear and self preservation kick in to the assembled throng, there is safety in numbers, there is the green-skin firing arrows. "Traitor! death to the green-skin! See he tried to kill us! Infiltrator, you and your traitorous friends best run now!" The cleric looks down at the arrow, then at Grok, with venom in his voice he shouts, "See all who are not true Trunaurians are traitors!"

Grok's words towards the cleric are drowned in the screams of anger from the crowd, waving whatever they could pick up at their homes to act as cudgels. Anything to defend themselves. Baseil Sabask the cleric, let's Brinya's arms free as he concentrates his hate on the half-orc newcomer. The infiltrator with his evil allies. The cleric runs straight towards Grok, the crowd parts as the sea letting him pass through. He pulls a morningstar from his belt and strikes at the half-orc.

Charge 1d20 - 1 + 2 ⇒ (13) - 1 + 2 = 14 damage 1d8 - 1 ⇒ (6) - 1 = 5

Grok goes next ... then the DM has a turn ...

Nonlethal Attack: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19

Crit Confirmation: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18

Guessing that's a hit.

Damage: 2d4 + 4 ⇒ (4, 2) + 4 = 10

Extra Crit Damage: 2d4 + 4 ⇒ (2, 4) + 4 = 10

Grok takes a step forward, into the man's charge, catching him off guard and pushing past the dangerous part of his weapon. His bow already on the ground Grok flicks his wrist rapidly, sending his shield off to his back. With a lightning motion he grabs his sword in both hands and rams the pommel into the man's solar plexus, putting the full weight of his body into the blow. He takes a half step back, drawing his sword fully, ready to catch the man should he fall.

Grok only just manages to knock the wind out of the charging man letting him crumple to the ground at his feet. This has the effect of further enraging some in the crowd that shout "Murderer, He's killed Sabask the priest." Others shout at Cromwin, "Arrest him, arrest the green-skin!" Others can be seen running from the riot, taking their youngsters with them. Confusion reigns, temperatures rise as the crowd start to surge towards the companions, yet slow as they get closer. Those at the front wary of the power of those who challenge them, stop leaving space between the two sides. The women at the front, pull their children behind their skirts to better protect their offspring.

From out of the crowd several of the larger, braver or more stupid townsfolk, their blood boiling approach Grok and his companions. Men and women that would better serve Trunau on the walls against the enemy currently besieging the city, if they are properly equipped with armor and shield. Now their smocks and shirts show the strength in their muscled arms. They wave clubs of wood, made from old furniture, some look like they've been taken from the beacon. The six men surround Grok, trying to beat him to a pulp, as they shout "Justice for Sabask!"

As Grok tries to dodge and defend against the rain of blows, one gets though his defenses and leaves him with a blackening eye.

Brinya takes the opportunity to run from the scene, her face shocked that Trunaurian fights Trunaurian, tearing themselves apart, when an even greater danger awaits. She runs to ready herself for the real battle.

Grok gets as many attacks of opportunity as he is allowed. P.S. the crit did not confirm.

Grok takes 3 HPs of damage

Everybody up, including Grok ...

Can we get a battle map on slides?

Grok wheels backwards, frantically parrying and threatening with the lethal part of his blade as he stumbles backwards. He tries to counterattack with the flat of his blade, but finds his feet slipping from underneath him, failing to propel himself forward his swing falls short.

Nonlethal Attack of Opportunity: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (6) + 1 = 7

Damage: 2d4 + 4 ⇒ (2, 4) + 4 = 10

Immediately Grok is punished for the mistake, are hard blow sending spots dancing across half his field of vision. Grok locks eyes with the man who hit him for just a moment, one half second out of distance, then lunges forward, the back of his sword catching the man in the elbow and shattering it, a second blow follows, landing on the man's skull and dropping him to the ground.

Nonlethal Attack: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (19) + 1 = 20

Crit Confirmation: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18

Damage: 2d4 + 4 ⇒ (3, 4) + 4 = 11

Damage: 2d4 + 4 ⇒ (2, 3) + 4 = 9

Your man's not dead, just having trouble breathing. Can't say that I can keep the rest of you safe if you keep trying to kill me. Grok says, his voice lower now, his breathing fast. As he speaks he shrugs ever so gently, letting go of his sword with his left hand and grabbing his shield with it, he holds it ahead of him, stepping back a few feet as the crowd before him slows. Back off, he growls.

That's a five foot step away from the thick of things.

"I said stop it! No more!"

Using primal magic ability...

Concentration check, DC 22: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13
Primal Event: 1d100 ⇒ 28

27–32 A rain of small objects (anything from flowers to rotten fruit) pelts an area with a radius equal to 5 × CR for CR rounds. This strange hail is not harmful, but during this time all creatures in the area gain concealment and must make concentration checks (DC 15 + the spell’s level) to cast spells.

...her hand quivering with fury, the cast of energy loses its grip on the local ley line, spiraling into chaos. The sound of an avalanche screams from a small pocket vortex spilling forth from Zove's arms...like a tall stack of papers the formulae collapse. As if every child's memento box was spilled forth at once, a thick pelting of obscure objects pounds the area.

I'm losing them, they're not...Grok, NO! Chaos descends as Cromwin fails to gain control of the situation, a screaming brawl starting around his companion. "NO! Stop, all of you, this is madness!" Cromwin kicks Anvil into a tight circle, galloping back towards the group as Zove covers the area in thick hail of strange objects. Cromwin rides right into the midst of the magically conjured storm of trinkets, seeking to find and aid his friend. "Grok, get on Anvil! We need to get out of here before anyone else gets hurt!"

Shouting, the crowd urge encouragement to their fellow townsfolk, as the six men vent their anger. Zove's magic fills the area with a mass of feathers, straw and assorted softer part of a bedroom, adding to the confusion of the riot, her shouts adding to the cacophony. Many in the crowd look round, expecting to see a building crumble under the assault from without, at the sight of the snow like flurry around their heroes. There are shouts from further down in the lower town, a crash from boulder missiles hitting another building.

Cromwin does his best to gain control of the situation, but in the madness of the sudden riot, rational decisions give way to the crowds emotions. He steers his horse around the circle of club wielding rioters that surround Grok, where he can, he bends over and offers his hand down to the half-orc. A couple of the armed men, turn to the cavalier and shout, "Leave it, justice will be done!" Their eyes bloodshot from the rush of blood to their head.

Meanwhile Grok ignoring Cromwin's efforts to remove him from the fight, uses his undoubted skills to smash his adversary's elbow, the man cries is anguish dropping the wooden table leg in his hand, fainting with the pain. Grok, do you continue and inflict the critical hit? Grok moves back, trying to find a way out into a defensive position.

Seeing their friend drop, in a flurry of feathers, the other five men continue their frenzied attacks. Even Grok cannot stop all the blows from getting through his defenses, as he stops a blow to his head, a lump of wood smacks into his stomach. He uses his strength of will to not double up, only for another strike his shoulder, a stinging pain shoots down his arm. As he tries to raise his arm to stop the next bow, the remains of a child's pink nightshirt blows into the face of the green shirted assailant. In his moment of blindness, his cudgel takes a different arc and knocks another blow off course. The second townsman shouts obscenities at his companion for making him miss.

The fight seems to be entering a far more deadly stage when there is a sudden explosion of sound, almost deafening, far louder than the sounds of combat in the lower town. The crowd is immediately silenced, standing in shock they look to the source of the sound, even Grok's antagonist's arms drop to their side in alarm, their minds suddenly cleared of the bloodlust.

The sound is followed by the appearance of Defender Halgra, her voice booms out over the Commons. "Stop this at once! Those who fight down to the walls. The rest of you to the Longhouse." Her command immediately takes effect, as the crowd disperses sheepishly, heads down in embarrassment at the way they were easily led into riot. Grok's attackers pick up their fallen allies, dragging them way from the half-orc, though behind their eyes animosity still burns, but the orders of Halgra cannot be disobeyed.

Halgra looks over to where a vortex of clothes and feathers swirls and the group Kurst had recommended as defenders of the town. The look of disappointment and dismay is visible across her face as she continues, looking straight at you. "Your orders were to set the beacons alight. I don't see you've done it. Get to it now, time is of the essence or Trunau is endangered. Do it!"

Grok takes 7 HPs of damage.

No map for this one ... Grok circled by 5 armed and aggressive townsfolk, Cromwin on his horse circles, Zove behind being ignored by the crowd, not in the immediate fight.

Concealment 1-20 Miss, 21-100 hit - I will roll this sort of thing as standard to move things on. If you have special circumstances then put them in an ooc and I will make the adjustment. It should keep us moving on more swiftly.

Is there an option to choose not to? Grok's not a bit interested in killing anyone, so he'd try to keep the man safe. He might also overestimate how tough the fellow is, but not that much. No crit, if possible, but not sure that it is? Would be fun to deal with the consequences... Probably going to look for the man tomorrow, either way.

Int: 1d20 ⇒ 1

Grok looks over that Halgra, immediately taking several steps back and sheathing his sword. At least they listened to her. That man's arm's going to need a sling, he'll be out of work. Many more will be dead soon. Grok nods at Halgra, meeting her gaze, thank you.

Grok makes his way to the beacon then, fishing the lamp oil out of his pack and pouring about a fifth of it over the wood. He reaches into his pack and digs around for a while, checking each pocket thoroughly. After a while he stands back up, [/b]odd. Not carrying anything to ignite the fire with, no sparks or anything. Anyone got something?[/b]

Your description of the crowd did not mention torches or pitchforks, I just assumed there were torches for some of my descriptive text. Regardless, it seems that the townsfolk would take fire with them, so uh...out of luck there.

int: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (12) + 1 = 13

"We won't fail you Halgra. This won't happen again. Grok...are you alright?" Cromwin looks down at his bruised companion. "I keep a flint and steel in Anvil's saddlebags, I can light it." Cromwin dismounts and lights the fire, then remounts. "Come on, we've got two more fires to light."

Int: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16

The crashing sound snaps Zove back to her senses. "A thunderstick! That means..."

Er, Zove recognizes it but her player doesn't. Can't seem to find this item on internet or in my books. Did you mean thunderstone?

If I read it correctly, I think its a thunderstone thrown by Halga to catch everyone's attention to break up the mob.

Not feeling great, but I don't think any bones are badly broken, Grok says, rolling his shoulders. He lifts his hands to head height and tries drawing and sheathing his sword, certainly painful. I can fight, but more hits will knock me down easy. Maybe the wand? Grok says, looking at Zove.

Grok is actually the only person capable of using a CLW wand right now, but I don't think there's an organic way for that to happen. Might prove an interesting moment.

As Cromwin says ... thunderstone.

"Grok, you mean this? It's holy magic...only those touched by the gods can channel the positive energy inside, its like there's a masonry wall and I'm on one side and the bank of energy is on the other. Look, its not that I'm not trying...its just even if I say the right command word it just wont work for me...I'm not blessed. Watch: Elberith, Elberith."

Hmm, since I id'ed it earlier I should know the command word, right? I just can't use it.

Those touched by the gods? Hmm... Grok pauses for a moment, considering. I knew some shamans, a long time ago, they called on the gods. Seems like Cromwin and I are more suited for the destruction of real masonry, no idea how magic works. Maybe we'll meet someone who can help.

Shadows dance across Grok's face as the fire begins to burn, reaching far up into the sky. Grok looks after, at the smoke and the dark which bends around the flames. [i]We shall turn the whole night red before the dawn.[/b] You lead the way, Grok says, looking at Cromiwn.

Zove nods after carefully considering Grok's words "Maybe you should hang onto it, if you fall maybe someone who can use it will help you." she forces it into the front of his armor.

The group quickly make their way down to the inner gates beacon, the sounds of violence get louder. Eventually reaching the southern gate, the guards at the portcullis open the heavy metal gate letting the companions into the inner quarter. The difference between the easy stole down to the lower quarter from the upper town is devastating, when you arrive you are shellshocked by the destruction wrought by the town assailants in the short time the attack has been lasting. To your left, where there should be the pile of wood for the beacon, it has been wrecked and strewn across the floor. The smell of acrid smoke drifts over a hastily created barricade, that separates the you from the rest of the inner quarter and even further to the lower town, where the Hopespring Beacon is found.

As you enter you see several of the townsfolk to your right, tending to the injured, staving off death as best they can. To the left the remains of the beacon and straight ahead the barricade. As your start to look around, there is a loud grating sound behind you. The portcullis rises, Kurst Grath appears, leading a squad of stalwart Trunauan militia members. He stops when he ses you, "Cromwin, Grok, Zove good to see you. I don't have long. Secure the inner quarter as you make your way to the Hopespring Beacon. Act now or the inner quarters must fall to the raiders. Save who you can, push back the orcs and their allies. You have your orders, carry them out. I'm leading this platon in a sortie to drive “that thing” that’s throwing boulders at the town closer to the walls so Trunauan archers can hit it. Good Luck, we must all do what we can to save Trunau." With that Kurst leads the men way at double time.

You look once more over the barricade, you notice, already many Trunanans have given their lives fighting against the orcs, their lifeless bodies hanging like rag dolls on the barrier. The flames the other side of the barricade grow higher and the cries of the orcs sound ever more triumphant. From your right, you hear the groans of the injured and a shout, "Bring the injured here, we'll do what we can to keep them alive." The words came from a worn out cleric, as he tends a young woman, with her arms smashed and blood around her abdomen, a bloodied spear lies at her side.

Slides updated with a couple of things, hopefully you see the comments that explain what they are.

Sorry it took a while, a cold over the weekend didn't help.

No worries. Fell better soon, GM.

Right, we'll kill what we can. Luck. Grok absently brings his hands together, finding that he still carries his shield. He lets go, cracking his knuckles before reaching for it again. Oh, Kurst, Grok shouts, jogging after the man, we have reason to believe there may be trolls. Fought one earlier, had to crack its skull open before it stopped trying to kill us, but it didn't really die until we poured acid on it. Zove knows how to do that. Grok looks around again, at his feet, then up at the flames, they made a mistake coming here.

With that Grok strides off, puling out the wand Zove gave him earlier. He squats down next to the injured woman, holding the wand out to the cleric, who he looks in the eyes. Those touched by the gods can keep people from dying with this. I need you to heal me before I go out there, otherwise I'll die too quickly to be any good. Grok stands up and takes a step back. Use it sparingly, if we come back we'll be near death.

The cleric takes the wand from Grok and utters, "Elberith." The wand quivers with a magical pulse and glows a weak golden colour, which seems to be stronger where the wand touches Grok and is held by the cleric. "Strange" says the healer, "It only does that when it touches a life force touched by the gods. Are you sure you can't use it?" the question is put to Grok, "Just us the key, Elberith." He hands the wand to Grok and watches.

1 charge CLW wand 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6 HPs to Grok

Grok feels the light wash over him and lets out a breath, reaching behind him to poke at his back and shoulder. He winces, evidently still quite sore. Thank you. He says, looking at the cleric.

What? Me? Grok stares for a moment, then checks behind him. The gods? Did they save me before? Did they bring me here? Have they been watching me this whole time? And I can... Grok reaches out and takes the wand with his right hand, the fingers not closing quite correctly. He closes his eyes for a moment, his mouth opening slightly. The chanting of the orcs looms loud, and for a moment it is all that Grok can hear. What was the command? Elberth? Elbereth? No, that's not right...

An eye opens within him. Like a second heartbeat he feels the rush of magic, a soft pulsing in his hands. Grok's hand rises upwards, his eyes opening. Will she live? He asks, softly.

The clerics kindly eyes look upon Grok, as the woman's wound closes and the blood stops flowing from her body. "You are very kind stranger, to have used the love of the gods to give life to Haren, her husband and children would give thanks too!" The woman's pale eye lids flutter and she smiles weakly at you. The cleric continues, "Keep the holy wand and use it to keep yourselves alive. You will save more lives by living yourself and beating back the orcs, then using its powers to heal the injured here. We can look after them. You can bring any townsfolk in need of shelter, sustenance and care. We should be safe enough here for a while."

2 used charges from the wand of CLW

Odd...I still can't remember the command word. Grok furrows his brow, looking at the wand for a moment, before noticing the woman's smile. His face lights up, split by a broad smile, laughing faintly. Amazing... he says softly, half to himself, this bauble is not mine. It belongs only to those who need it. Grok holds the wand at arms length, considering it, and the living woman.

Very well, very well indeed. Over the wall now. Grok walks to Cromwin, nodding at him and at Zove. He closes his eyes for a moment, his mouth opening slightly, Elberith. A wave of light washes gently over him, and he straightens himself out for a moment.

Healing: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6

He places the wand in his pack, within easy reach but safe from breaking, then turns once again to the others. We must hurry.