Motteditor's Reign of Winter PBP (Inactive)

Game Master motteditor

The map responds to each of your wishes, Mal, showing each person as you ask.

Tsin, as you wait on your companions, you realize the cracked clay bowl and brown hen’s egg seem to be missing.

Quinn climbs up into the loft, where he finds the center portion of the floor is open, crossed by wooden rafters and overlooking the bubbling cauldron in the room below. Numerous barrels, boxes, and crates are arrayed around the room’s walls. The south wall holds a large window.

"So, we're taking trophies, are we? The egg and bowl was so appealing, you just had to take it, then? Put it back, so you don't run the risk of actually cracking the egg, whoever pilfered it."

Tsin cocks her head back, and looks to Pems and Quinn, expecting one of the two to don a guilty face. She forgets that Quinn climbed, so looks upwards, half expecting the egg and bowl to be dropped down to them, out of embarrassment for having been caught.

"Scrambled" After answering Tsin muffled question from below, Quinn investigates the barrels, boxes and crates, looks out the window, looks down at the boiling cauldron, then finds a good spot for his nap.

Unless there aren't any good napping spots, then he'll go back to the secret door by the bookcase and start poking around again, taking his time to find a hidden latch or sneaky mechanism. take 20 for Perception 33 on finding way to open secret door

Pems shakes his head and moves to the secret door, taking 20 to open it!

Malavarius tries thinking of Heldren, just to see if the mists will work on a thing so distant from Irrisen, then scratches his beard and turns his mind to the witch they'd vanquished just prior to freeing the hut. "This is quite fascinating, Zeno. Don't you go using it to spy on that airy birdkeeper, though! It's rude, don't you know."
"Wha- wha? I- I would never!
Zeno rubs the top of his head with one of his wings sheepishly, as Malavarius shoots him a knowing look.

Tall bookcases stretch from floor to ceiling in the chamber behind the secret door, flanking a row of tables standing in the center aisle. Numerous books are strewn upon the tables, along with spectacles, blotters, vials of ink, sheets of vellum, and abundant quills. A fire burns merrily in a fireplace built into the eastern wall.

"Hey, look at this, a real library!" The secret door still open, Quinn pulls a chair from the tables and slides it near the fire, "and a warm fire is burning, it's the perfect place for my nap."

Hektir goes into the library, taking out his bottle of 'shine. He takes a swig and offers it to Quinn.

He looks for a place to lounge and sleep.

"Yeah, this is just right. We can make a nice bed on these books...even a fire if we need to cook food."

Hektir takes a chair, gets comfortable.

Pems stares hard at Hektir. "If you burn any of these books, Hektir..." He shakes his head. "So, who has the egg and bowl?"

Malavarius' voice calls out from the other side of the hut, "Books are not for burning! Or for napping! Dash it all, this isn't your house!"

Did the mists work with my last series of attempts, mott? Testing something beyond the borders of the map on the floor and testing it for looking for a dead person.

Sorry, Mal, missed that. No and no.

Malavarius, feeling like he has a grasp of how this map functions, rolls up his sleeves for the true task at hand. He had crossed the whole of the Inner Sea via a continent-spanning portal, fought numberless fey, trolls, and witches, and nearly died a handful of times, but still he pressed on undeterred. All for this.
"Zeno? Zeno! I've got it now, I think. Perhaps after this I can lay aside the frosty power that Umber Twilight fellow bestowed on us and go back to our warm, Taldan cottage? Ha! Are you ready?"
"Of course! Where's Baba Yaga already?"
Malavarius nods, turning to the map with a weighty look in his eye.
"Ok, map! Time to do your thing. Where is-"
Zeno leans forward eagerly, watching the mists intently.
"-my good hat?!" Malavarius scrunches his face in confusion as soon as he finishes the question and looks at Zeno, "Wait. Did you say 'Baba Yaga'?! What's the matter with you, Zeno? Why would I want the Old Crone here?!"

"So, who has the egg and bowl?"

Tsin looks languidly at the table where once wobbled the egg. Seeing nothing new appear, shakes her head. "Why don't you toss the items into the cauldron now? I would feel more comfortable if the Hut carried us to a different corner of Irrisen, instead of remaining in Whitethrone."

Pems shrugs. "If you're ready." He moves to the cauldron and tosses in the hair and the plague mask. Then he picks up a nearby spoon and stirs the cauldron. "What do we do now?"

Hektir takes another swig of 'shine and decides he needs a footrest. He stacks a few books together until it's just the right height. He builds a 'shine stand out of another stack of books, placing his bottle there.

"I don't have your egg, Tsin. Nor, actually, do I know what you're talking about." I don't think Hektir was around for that part.

"I'm going to rest. Why don't you guys wake me up when it's my turn to keep watch?"

Hektir takes another swig, and gets more comfortable (doing the Al Bundy couch thing with his hand).

Admiring the ingenuity, Quinn builds his own book stack foot rest after positioning his chair where he can share in the book stack moonshine. "This is so much better than chasing witches in the frosty snow and their icy towers! Tsin, did you find that egg yet? There's some flour and other baking goods in the loft, maybe you could whip up a pie for us?"

Tsin motions in the direction of Hektir, more accurately Hektir's backpack. "The egg is gone, but I believe Hektir still has a cookie if you're hungry."

The mists start to form an image of where the wizard's favorite hat might be but moments before Mal can make it out, the room around him -- and everyone else -- shimmers and he finds himself, along with Quinn and Hektir, rudely dumped on their derrieres in the cauldron room.

More disturbingly, the cauldron room itself appears different: The sturdy black cauldron now sits in the middle of a rustic room with timber floors, log walls, and a high ceiling framed by long beams cut from whole trunks. A grand cobblestone hearth fills one corner, its dying embers feeding the room with a dull red glow. Various barrels, farm tools, crates, and other miscellaneous items clutter the remainder of the space. In the corner opposite the fireplace, a rickety wooden staircase climbs to a small wooden landing. A shallow alcove off the landing holds two thick oaken doors.

Map coming when I'm at home. Also, everyone can level up.

Hektir looks around for this drink before swearing noisily...after all, he just got comfortable.

"MAL!! Where's my drink!? What did you do?"

Hektir stands and dusts himself off, taking in the room.

1d20 + 14 ⇒ (15) + 14 = 29 Perception

Did we have time to rest? I guess not, but wondering if we were still going after that looong day.

You didn't rest before Pems put the items in the cauldron. You could rest now if you want as there are no obvious threats. Though you'll be sleeping on the floor.

"-the devil?! Ooooof! Now suddenly amidst the others, Malavarius looks up from the floor, startled and disoriented. "What was that? What the blazes happened?!" Groaning, the old wizard struggles to his feet and looks around in alarm. He turns to Hektir, his bushy eyebrows knit in confusion. "What did I do? Why, I lost my only real chance to find my blasted good hat! Which of you oafs activated the blasted cauldron?" He turns to regard the group and catches Pemsworth slipping the long spoon behind his back.

"Pemsworth Smith! What in the name of all that's good and proper possessed you to fiddle with that cauldron?! Of all the blundering, impatient, senseless-" The wizard's rant continues as he alternates between tugging on his beard in exasperation and waving his hands animatedly in the air, all while stomping around the altered room.

Map is updated.

"Well this is an interesting turn..." Tsin brings herself to her feet, and takes a look around. "I'm only glad the Hut doesn't consider us intruders. If the very structure of the building can collapse on itself, we'd be in sorry shape."

Content that something grand has happened, and that the Hut has likely traveled as the Black Rider promised, Tsin finds a spot to finally rest. Her last thoughts turn to winter, her skin turning cold as the grave, while she slips into sweet sleep.

Hektir opens up a new bottle, offering to take the first watch.

Hektir drinks and watches until it is someone else's turn to stand guard, then he sleeps too.

* * *

In the morning, after his manly meditations, Hektir is ready to explore the new thick oaken doors.

Quinn drops into an exhausted sleep even before the cork is out of the latest bottle in Hektir's hand. Taking the last watch, he wakes with a sense of new found power and responsibility from his deity.

After his morning prayers, he joins Hektir at the base of the stairs leading to the oaken doors. Quinn flashes a mischievous grin at his companions and then sneaks up the stairs to place his hands against the thick oak boards and use his sight.

Stealth: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5

*creak, creak*

Door Sight on the oaken doors

You see what looks like a hallway that runs parallel to the doors, Quinn. i.e. you can basically just see the wall opposite the doorway.

Let me know if you would like to get left or right when/if you go out.

"It's just a hallway." Quinn looks to his companions to join him before proceeding through the door. "Should we go right or left?"

Hektir takes out a rod from his pouch and casts a spell whilst holding it. Longstrider, 14 hours. He practices quickly walking from side to side before motioning Quinn to the left.

Hektir stows his shield and draws his club, holding it in two hands.

A long corridor stretches out to both sides, the aged plank floors seeming to continue forever. Solid logs form the passage walls, intricately carved with knotted designs and images of lances, and centaurs, ravens, and female figures. Pale-winged moths and tiny fireflies flutter through the hallway, their flickering glows filling the corridor with dim light.

After about 100 feet, you reach a set of double doors, each carved with a symbol resembling an upward facing half-circle resting on a horizontal line. Several arrows point outward from the circle. At the center of the half-circle, a single extended arrow points upward.

"Mal? Pems? Do either of you know where we are? Are we still in the hut?" Hektir asks.

What kind of knowledge roll might help? Have we seen any windows?

Pems scratches his head. "I know this symbol, though honestly, I'm not sure why I know it. It's the Iobarian symbol for dawn."

"Dawn, huh? I wonder if there is breakfast inside," Hektir replies. "So...no idea where we are, huh?"

Hektir opens the doors when others are ready.

You think you're still in the hut.

Knowledge (Geography): 1d20 + 16 ⇒ (17) + 16 = 33
"Pemsworth, did you say Iobaria?" Malavarius spins in a circle tugging on his beard. "Good heavens! Why the blazes are we in Iobaria?! The spindly old wizard is obviously flabbergasted; both by the distance they've spanned and the country in which they've wound up. "Iobaria, indeed!"

Knowledge (history): 1d20 + 16 ⇒ (10) + 16 = 26 anything I might know about Iobaria that Malavarius can wig out about, oh illustrious and magnanimous GM?

The dining table was long and lavish. The guests resplendent. Father held nothing back for this evening's dinner, in celebration of his youngest daughter's engagement. Nevermind that Orwyne was marrying her senile dance instructor. Both she and Father seemed not to notice his wrinkles for all his real estate holdings. It was almost enough to ruin one's appetite. Fortunately, the table was host to a number of good vintage wines, and Tsin was partial towards the new import, as it made Father's eye twitch, seeing his greatest expense being consumed so liberally.

"Soooo, Humphreeeeey. Have you already mounted my sssister, or will you require the ti-time between now and your wedding night to find the inspiration for your arousal? Or do you favor the boys, and... only require her hand to keep up appearances...?"

For her, at least, the evening came to an abrupt end. She had ripped her sleeve trying to wrest her arm from the guard's grip, and managed to bust his lip in the process. Two guards more, and she had her proper 'escort'. Gazing across the courtyard, she watched as the guests finally departed, regretting a little that she wasn't a son, what, with the full bladder and decent trajectory from her balcony.

It was the last night she spoke with Orwyne. She managed to remember most of the previous night, the next morning. It was easy enough to raid the pantry, and secure a horse, leaving Oppara behind, likely for good.
...

Upon waking, Tsin spends several minutes reorienting herself, her dream lucid enough to make her question whether her current observations are the real world, or only another phase of dream. The smell of unwashed companions is enough to convince her. She takes a sip from her tepid canteen water to swish about. Finding nowhere acceptable to spit, she swallows the water, and gets ready to follow the others through the only door in the room.

Knowledge(Arcana) Check, DC 20: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22

"Iobaria?" Tsin waits for Mal to grasp for the appropriate straws.

Quinn uses his door sight again to see through the new portal. If nothing interesting is in view, he stands back and allows Hektir to open the door.

I can see why Painlord said he hates you sometimes, Tsin! Wasn't expecting that bit of background...

Iobaria lies in the continent of Casmaron, beyond the bounds of the Inner Sea region. But Iobaria’s not that far away, and it still retains cultural connections to the realms of Avistan. Ulfen explorers from the Lands of Linnorm Kings were the first to “discover” Iobaria, Mendev was
settled by Iobarian exiles, and Iobaria lies just to the east of the nation of Brevoy.

Inside, first Quinn and then the rest of you see flowering vines drape the walls of this chamber. Winding, pebble-strewn pathways weave through a magnificent garden of honeysuckle and lilac. A pale, warm light fills the room, emanating from a stone-lined pool of water in the center. The purple and orange reflection of the early morning sky glitters upon the pool’s surface.

As you enter, a raven flutters down from a nearby shrub and perches at the pool’s edge on the opposite side from you.

"Sometimes", Motte? Please...it's not just sometimes.

1d20 + 12 ⇒ (10) + 12 = 22 Know (Local)

Hektir spits, putting his hand on Quinn, looking at the raven.

"Don't worry, I got this..." Hektir says confidently. "I have a way with animals. Especially stupid ones like ravens."

Hektir will inch forward and begin a vulcan mind meld to try to connect to the bird on a primal level.

Wild Empathy: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 6 = 26 (takes one minute)

"What ARE you trying to do?" the raven caws in nigh-perfect Common after a few moments.

Blushes Still trying to keep up, you guys.

Knowledge(Arcana) v DC 20: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (16) + 7 = 23

Tsin looks to Hektir, and believes him when he suggests he has the situation under control, until he insults the bird within earshot. Do birds have ears, though? Zeno hears well enough, but through his feathers, or possibly the beak...?

"Hektir, really? Insults at a time like this? Zeno, perhaps you can speak with them, wing them with your charm...? Oh, it speaks... very clearly..." Tsin doesn't like the odds in either case, but does not choose to speak directly to the raven, uncomfortable in its presence.

"What ARE you trying to do?"

Hektir's head snaps back as the raven responds.

"Hey! That worked quicker than I thought it would," Hektir remarks proudly. "Must be a female raven," he asides to Quinn.

Hektir turns to address the raven. He speaks slowly so the dim bird will understand him...as is necessary with many animals.

"We. Are. Trying. To. Find. Baby. Yagi."

The bird blinks a couple times as it stares at Hektir.

"I know not why such a simpleton has been sent to help Dear Grandmother, but I find I believe you," it caws.

“But before I aid you, you must first convince me you have the resolve to fulfill your desire. To prove your mental fortitude, you must face what I, the herald of the coming day, cannot.
"Each night it visits—
"Sometimes horror,
"Sometimes wonder,
"Sometimes prophet,
"When dawn wakes, it flees.
“When you face this thing, you shall know its desire. In its desire, you shall find your own. Only by sharing this desire with me can I bind your fates. Once they are bound, I will be able to see your destiny.”

"I know not why such a simpleton has been sent to help Dear Grandmother, but I find I believe you."

Tsin's lips press together, the corners turning down, as she supresses a burst of laughter.

Her recent dream in Baba Yaga's Hut still fresh in her mind, Tsin smirks as the riddle unties so quickly. As the raven continues, she loses her smirk, as confusion sets in. Desire? I suppose I desired for Humphrey to croak quickly. A dream has no desire other than my own, because the dream is my restless mind playing, unsupervised.

Tsin waits for the others to speak up.

Malavarius glances up and scratches his beard in confusion, as if just realizing a talking raven was in their midst. "What's this? What what? Why is there a raven making eyes at Hektir and going on about the moon? Is that where my good hat's gone?! Egad, but that'd be horrible!"

"Ha! When you're crosseyed on Moonshine you don't Dream, who's the simpleton now, Raven?" Quinn beams with satisfaction at besting an avian for once.

Hektir glares at Mal and Quinn, but gives Quinn a look as if that's right.

"Ms. Raven is talking to me...and she's talking about dreams, isn't she?" Hektir asks the ravenness.

"Da," the crow responds, nodding. It hops to its left, turning toward the other doors in the room. "And you must face this thing and know its desire."

Pems peers at the raven. "How does a dream have desires? It's a function of the dreamer, it has no life on its own."

Hektir takes a note from the raven and moves to the other doors. Unless Quinn wants to do his thing, he opens to see what sweet dreams are made of.

Knowledge (arcana): 1d20 + 16 ⇒ (20) + 16 = 36
Malavarius huffs quietly to Zeno, "Hmpf. Pemsworth makes a good point. That was a rather poorly phrased riddle, wouldn't you say, Zeno? You'd think one of Baba Yaga's Liar Seers would have a more clever tongue."
Zeno shakes his head and hops over to perch beside the raven. Looking up at the larger bird, he titters and tweets in what could only be described as a rather conversational tone.
"Zeno? Zeno what are you doing? Are you speaking bird to that raven? You didnt tell me you knew how to speak bird, you silly stork!"
Zeno holds one wing up and turns back to Malavarius, "Well of course I can speak bird! I am a bird after all, you wrinkled old walrus!" He then shakes his head and turns back to the raven, chittering and chirping once more.
"Old walrus??! Well I never! That was uncalled for, Zeno. And besides that, you're being quite rude speaking in bird like that when you know quite well no one can understand you!"