Motteditor's Reign of Winter PBP (Inactive)

Game Master motteditor

The field looms in front of you, the fence and buildings beyond that.

Zephtyr spits as he looks upon the field.

Edited with clarity.

"I say we go around. But these craters...these craters seem to be the same things that Mal and Pems and Quinn were dancing on in the last last fight. Can't be good to step on them. Can't be good at all."

Zephtyr begins tracking along the side of the forest, avoiding the open field while trying to find where the Hut wanted to go.

Sorry, may not have been clear. The hut has stopped here, at the edge of the field.

"Zeno? Zeno! Go take a look, won't you?"
"For what?"
"What do you mean 'for what'? For anything! Someplace safe for us to land, perhaps? Signs that that thrice-blasted hut isn't surrounded or that that Rasputin fellow isn't about. Anything noteworthy!"
Zeno huffs before winging off into the bleak sky, muttering to himself about the differences between what superior avians find noteworthy and what land-bound idiots think is important. "The Venn Diagram of what that bearded buffoon thinks is noteworthy and what's important is two circles!"

Zeno will fly out past the fences and over the strange domes, circle around the hut, and otherwise look for anything glaringly obvious. Malavarius can scry on him when needed, as well as teleport us past the cratered field if we'd rather not risk more explosions.

Quinn glares at the blasted landscape, looking for more of those sneaky troops waiting to ambush them from the ruined terrain.

Perception: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (19) + 31 = 50

As Quinn and Co. wait for Zeno's return, the young cleric scans the field. He doesn't notice any more mines, but does count six strange machines running caterpillar-like through the snow, patrolling the grounds outside the fence.

After a tense few minutes, Zeno returns, describing a number of buildings in the camp see the overall map. He notes a number of men, strangely garbed and armed like the ones you fought previously, in the trenches and watchtowers. A yellow fog covers one area, blocking it from Zeno's sight. Several horsemen stand and wait among tents to the east, others patrolling the camp.

"Good work, Zeno. Thank you very much." The old wizard sighs and strokes his beard, his eyes glazing over in a thousand-yard-stare as he ponders the strange village.

Without breaking his distant gaze, he speaks offhandedly, "I suppose we could walk up to the gate. We do still look like them, after all. Likely don't understand them, but I've got a pair of spells that would allow one person to know what they're saying. Couldn't speak it ourselves, but we'd understand at least."

His words then falter into unintelligible mutterings for a bit, before he suddenly shakes his head and the sharp brightness returns to his eyes. "So! How should we go about getting into that dreadful place, hmm?"

I don't like the look of that fog cage or those corner towers one bit!

Zephtyr spits after hearing Zeno's (very detailed) description of the camp.

"That's great and all, but now that we found the Hut, we don't need to go in there. Or do we? Or what? Why do we want to go in there, Mal? WHY?" Zephtyr crosses his arms and spits.

"The hut won't do us any good without the blasted key to activate it and near as I can tell so far, that's got something to do with that Rasputin fellow."

"Augh. It's like Ivoryglass all over again." Tsin watches Quinn watching the encampment, letting the priest's keen eyes speak on any small detail that will allow them to decide how best to begin the murder.

"Suppose we're dressed up enough to march straight to gate, then? Shall we?" She understands full well that should she begin any verbal engagement herself, their effort here will be greatly hampered, so she walks just behind Pems and Quinn, expecting the songbirds to do most of the singing. She strokes her beard, and contemplates life.

Pems nods, absently studying the small cannon he grabbed. He keeps turning it over and over in his hands, amazed that such a small thing could be so destructive.

"Provided they don't expect us to speak, I image that yes, we could walk straight through the front door, my dear."

Zephtyr looks over at the Hut.

"HEY HUT!?" Zephtyr wonders if it can think or hear and from what he's seen, it can probably do both. "Are we supposed to kill the cousin? Is that it? Baby Yucky wants him dead? Is that it?"

The hut seems to continue to shift back and forth on its chicken legs, giving no indication it heard Hektir.

Just waiting for consensus on if you're going to approach on foot, under the veil.

Is there not an option to approach from the side, or woods, or back? What is the bigger map look like? Can we avoid the caterpillars on patrol?

Zephtyr gives the Hut the finger.

"Piddlespotting Hut is playing games with us." Zephtyr offers with a spit.

There's a 1,000-square-foot clearing all around the camp, though you can approach from any direction you want. You can try to avoid the things on patrol, though with six of them, it may be hard using nothing but your wiles -- magic would likely make it easier.

Malavarius waves the group nearer together, then, glancing to the end of the clearing that lies south of the main gate, nods his head. "Right. Here we go then. Zeno? Come along, you get in here too. Flash? Are you with us? Ah, there you are. Excellent. Now then. And a one and a two and-" with a quiet pop the wizard teleports the group just south of the clearing to the south, affording them a straight approach toward the gate.

"There. And now it won't look as if we just popped out of thin air if anyone in those towers is watching."

Once everyone indicates their readiness, Malavarius casts comprehend languages on Quinn and Pemsworth, unless there are arguments to the contrary.

If that still seems like a bad location, I'll pop us to the south east so it looks like we come strolling up the road walking in a westerly direction.

You can move through the woods to that point, I think (if I'm understanding right -- you're still 1,000 feet from the gate, just to the south?).

Yes - does that put us clear of the patrolly things or are they distributed around the perimeter for equal coverage?

"Sure, we can approach the gates, we just wave their weapons as a sign of mutual destruction and then we're friends with them, right? I mean, it's illogical and defies any conventional wisdom, but metal wagons defy wisdom as well, so maybe that is the right approach." Quinn cheerily follows along with the group, heck even leads the group, and has some moonshine ready to share with their new comrades.

They're moving around the 1,000-ft. no-man's-land, patrolling for any Golarionians ... er, anyone approaching. You can move safely anywhere outside that 1,000 feet perimeter, but entering it will probably mean you'll be spotted (though magic might help you there).

Zephtyr spits, looks at Quinn, then at Mal.

"You trust your magics enough, Mal? You sure about things?"

OK, not sure I'm quite figuring out your plan. You're going to move through the woods to the southern side of the camp, then using your veil to walk across the 1,000-foot cleared area and approach the camp?

Unless someone else has a better idea or would prefer I teleport us directly into the middle of the camp somewhere - yeah, that about sums it up. With the addedumn that 2 people get comprehend languages cast on them upon our approach.

Oh! One of us who's good at bluffing could feign a bad limp, and hobble along between two of us.

+1 to the plan, Mal. Let's end the dithering and get to more spitting and groin scratching.

Zephtyr spits.

Under cover of Mal's magic, you cautiously approach the camp from the south. Ahead of you, a muddy road snakes through the barbed-wire field of the no-man’s-land, winding between a wooden gate that serves as the only entrance into the prison yard beyond.

Covered watchtowers loom over the prison camp, standing stilt-like on high metal legs. A ladder climbs up to a trap door in the tower’s floor, and the barrels of machine guns protrude from behind low walls of sandbags. A couple searchlights scan over the field, focusing on you -- even in the morning daylight -- as you approach.

You get about 75 feet from the gate when you hear a harsh voice call out in a tongue only two of you understand: "Стой!"

assuming Quinn is the second to receive comprehend languages

Quinn halts at the command and holds out an arm to warn the others. He looks to bearded Pems, the undying, witch from another world, breaker of chains and mother of dragons to speak for the party. Quinn will try to gesture appropriately with his moonshne to add emphasis to halfling's honeyed words.

aid another diplomacy: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (6) + 7 = 13

Pemsworth seems to have the tongues hex (whew!) so Quinn and Malavarius will get the comprehend languages

Malavarius comes to an abrupt stop at the shouted order then waits expectantly. He whispers, primarily to Hektir and Tsin, "We've been instructed to halt. Now let's hope the talents of Master Smith can get us futher."

Through it all, the wizard remains tense, like a tightly wound spring.

If there's any indication at any point that things are about to turn south, I'd like to keep a casting of teleport readied.

Zephtyr halts, spits. He hopes someone can do some good talking. He fiddle-faddles with his new gun, still trying to figure out how it works.

Pems stops and activates his Tongues hex.

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 14 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 14 + 2 = 25

"We've been instructed to halt. Now let's hope the talents of Master Smith can get us futher."

"Pemsworth becomes Wordsworth." Tsin turns to watch the encounter, and holds her tongue, listening to the strange words, and wondering only a little what will be discussed. She waits for translation when it's deemed appropriate.

"Пароль, товарищ!" the soldier shouts back.

'Babooshka?' 'Vodka'? 'Putin'sLoveSlave'?

Zephtyr continues to tiggle-taggle with his weapon.

Bluff: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (3) + 7 = 10

Tsin looks back and forth between the guard and Pemsworth, an odd familiarity with the garbled language. It's much like Hektir and Quinn arguing with each other when they've reached the bottom of their respective bottles. She's not optimistic, as the guard is obviously in a position of authority over the entrance.

Quinn is pretty sure that name dropping the guy who sends rolling balls of promiscuous undead at people is not going to work out well and he takes a long pull from the moonshine in anticipation of the bad things about to happen.

"Нет! Это не пароль! Сообщите нам пароль или мы откроем огонь!" the soldier yells back.

Pems mutters to the others. "They want a password! What do I tell them?"

"Tell them we've been fighting goblins on the east side and just got back, sheesh. Or that we were praying at the temple for healing and just got healed and don't know the new password, I dunno," Zepthyr responds with a spit.

Quinn takes another pull from the bottle and passes it to Pems. "Show them the password."

"I always liked 'Rosebud', myself, Pemsworth. Who could know what word they've chosen, though? Maybe try telling them we've got wounded and our captain had the password but he's dead in a smoking crater. Get angry and desperate, lad!" The old wizard gives Pemsworth's shoulder an encouraging squeeze, but the mage remains ready to whisk the group safely away from any gunfire that the men in the tower might respond with.

Pems clears his throat.

Bluff: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (4) + 7 = 11

Tsin takes the remaining time, however little that may be, to look for the strange weaponry that cut her down once before. She eyes the perimeter, hoping they'll depart shortly by magical means, and possibly return, better prepared the next time.

Perception: 1d20 + 20 ⇒ (4) + 20 = 24

1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

There's some hesitancy among the Russians on the far side of the barrier and you can see several of those with guns aimed on you begin to focus and hunch down, clearly ready for the order to open fire.

After a tense couple moments, though, the voice rings out again.

"Хорошо, подходим. Медленно!"

Can't believe that worked. Something must've gotten lost in translation.

Tsin, as you study the camp, you notice soldiers in the trenches on all sides, helping stand guard along with those in the watchtowers.

"Well done, Master Pemsworth! Well done!" Malavarius turns to the others, "We've been told to approach, but slowly. Keep what wits you've all got about you and let Pemsworth do the talking!" He then follows slowly along behind the new-bodied halfling and hopes softly to himself, "I do hope these magics hold up. Oh! Quickly, Pemsworth. What's 'yes' and 'idiot' in this language of theirs?"

"Move forward, slowly. No sudden or threatening movements, right? I think we may have talked our way past this.." Pems mutters to the others.

Zephtyr nods and is prepared to act accordingly, but really trusts that Mal's magic will handle the movements and detail of Zephtyr's compliance.

"Yes, sir gnome," Zephtyr spits and moves slowly in 5' step increments.

Tsin takes in what she can, gathering numbers in the encampment. For all she cares, the soldiers supporting Rasputin here are all dead men as of yet unaware.

She nods as Pems and Mal give them the skinny on their new diplomatic dynamic with anyone they meet immediately. She only wants to start isolating, and killing, until they reach Rasputin. She limits her thoughts to avoid disappointment, as the boys will likely continue to talk as far as they can get.

As they approach, Quinn looks around for a good defensible location for dimensional hopping to in the event they need to hole up quickly.

Perception: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (9) + 31 = 40

As you approach, a soldier descends from one of the watchtowers and removed a padlock from the bolt on the camp’s reinforced wooden gates, swinging them open to let you enter.

"Where are you coming from? What are your orders?" he asks in Russian.

Two long, narrow buildings stand to your left. One seems to have burned down at some point and is no longer being used, though smoke from several stoves clouds the air above the other.

To your right, the roof of a wooden barn threatens to collapse under the heavy weight of snow, while several other smaller buildings look unused.

Ahead of you, the muddy road continues through a wooden gate in a barbed wire fence and into the prison camp’s inner courtyard.