Motteditor's Reign of Winter PBP (Inactive)

Game Master motteditor

Zephtyr sniffs at the corpse, then indicates that Quinn should do the same. ”Does that smell...smell like a shoe without any tread?” Zephtyr waits for Quinn to confirm. ”Yeah, I would swear that’s the scent of a shoe without any bottom: soleless.”

Zephtyr shakes his head, sad that this avenue of investigation might already be over.

Groan.

Malavarius suddenly collapses, his hand clutching at his chest. He rasps, "Hektir, you- you PUNk. Tsin? Pemsworth? Some- someone PUNish him after I'm PUNfortunately gone."

He then sighs lightly, his eyes close, and his head drops to rest on his outstretched arm.

Zeno fluffs his wings for a moment then scoffs, "That's what did you in? That? If I'd know that's what it would take I'd have started rehearsing crap like that ages ago!"

Quinn scowls at Hektir. "I'm not falling for that one again. This is like the time you asked me to smell the 'curious mole hill' in the cow pasture, or the 'strange looking fruit' at the butcher's shop, or the 'knothole in the tree' of that sleeping dryad. That almost got us killed if you remember properly."

"Focus, will you please. What does that mean, its soul is missing? Did the man die, and simply fails to return to speak to us, or did someone strip the soul, and place it in a jar somewhere? If we're intent on speaking with the one-legged man, Viktor, was it? what must we do, now?"

Zephtyr doesn’t have any good answers to Tsin’s good questions. If left to his own devices, he would follow his mannish (and animalistic) impulses and probably go hunt the vampire jerks instead.

He doesn’t have a good avenue of thought to reach Viktor.

"I would guess the latter is nearer to the mark, Tsin. Though it's possible too that daemon we founding gnawing upon his leg might have devoured the soul." He shrugs and shakes his head, unable to offer anything further. "Frankly, I'm not sure if meladaemons are able to devour souls or not, they aren't a creature I've seen mentioned very often. Just that they tend to embody hunger and rot. Hunger enough to devour and trap a soul? Who knows?"

OK, I'm back, though still getting over jet lag. What's the plan?

"Well, no sense fussing over lost souls here. Come on, then, the lot of you. In you go." The wizard gestures to a shimmering portal the size of a typical door set near the back of the gutted building's interior.

Stepping through, the party finds a wide, well furnished chamber with a crackling fire, comfortable furniture arrayed before it, and a sweeping staircase climbing upward along the perimeter of the room. Half translucent figures appear as if out of the ether, taking shed cloaks and garments and whisking them off through a simple wooden door to the right to be laundered.

"Ah! Good, the servants recognize you then. Wasn't sure how they'd take to guests. Splendid! Anyway, welcome to my tower. If any of you are hungry, the dining room is the next floor up, then it's the guest rooms above that. Make yourselves at home."

As Malavarius says this, the door behind him, the one back to the ruined building within Rasputin's camp, shuts of its own accord and vanishes utterly from view on the other side.

If no one has any ideas about how to interrogate the stick-legged man's soul now, then next on the docket was resting until tomorrow. We can still ambush the vampires tonight though if anyone feels strongly about it. Malavarius' Magnificent Mansion will still be here if we pop out for a bit.

"Umm, Mister Malavarius? When in the time when we were slogging around the wilderness, sleeping in dank caves, trying to avoid being murdered by plants and generally getting MURDERED DID YOU GET A F*#KING TOWER FULL OF THRICE-D@MNED SERVANTS?!?" Pems explodes as he looks around and see the opulence.

Zephtyr follows Mal's plan for the most part. He rests and does the things as he does...making a mess of the bathroom and trying to grope the spectral servants.

In the morning he will rest and prepare for the fights ahead, thinking about the undead and the headless generals.

Changing spell list a bit.

Quinn nods sagely at the wise and eloquent words of Pemsworth, then enjoys the gluttony and lavishness afforded by the mansion. "So, what are we doing tomorrow?" Quinn questions with a mouth full of roast chicken. "Going after the demons or the undead things?"

I'll set Quinn's prayer list for tomorrow by this evening, based on what we decide about facing demons or undead tomorrow

"What? Pemsworth, of course not! I can hardly believe you'd think so little of me after all we've been through together. Goodness. Why, I've had this tower before I ever even moved to Heldren." The old wizard puffs his chest out proudly at this, then stammers a moment later, "But, but with all the excitement with the kidnapping and then getting whisked off to Irrisen of all places, and all the other madness that followed along after, well it rather slipped my mind."

Tsin looks back on the body of Viktor, sighing. One sigh is enough. She turns back to follow the others into whatever Malavarius has brought into existence. She is unprepared for what she finds when she steps through the doorway.

"You can't be serious..."

She walks wordlessly through the various chambers, up stairs, then up again, then back down, taking it all in. She returns to find Malavarius and Pemsworth engaged in conversation.

"Malavarius, this display of magic... it parallels the Hut's, does it not? Is this structure predetermined, or can you reorganize it any which way you like? Can you host various antagonists to greet the unwelcome?" Her voice trails off a moment, before returning full strength.

"I've underestimated you, master Malavarius. Your age and faculties belie your mastery of magic. I only hope Baba Yaga has underestimated you, as well."

Tsin finds food, and quarters, and falls fast asleep, the speed courtesy of her deep trust in Malavarius's polar opposite nature of the old Witch, and the very unlikely chance that something untowards comes forward from the Mansion's bowels.

In the morning, Hektir will make ample uses of the cleaning facilities, cleaning every many crevice and crevasse.

"Yeah, Mal, you've really outdone yourself this time," Hektir squeeges his ears with a pinkie finger before one nostril blowing a bunch of bugger into the bidet. "You've been holding out on us if you could have been doing this all this time instead of just protecting us from arrows."

Hektir looks to get a bunch of bacon (rolled in a tortilla with butter) for first breakfast, then a slew of scones for second breakfast. He seems delighted with the feast.

"Oh man, I needed a night like this," Hektir says, feeling really good. "I'm ready to go punch the neck of some undead, I am."

Before changing his form into that of breathing, living air, he will prepare with a extended barkskin, extended resinous skin, and a bag of fire seeds.

"Yeah, let's go punch some necks."

OK, sounds like everyone's ready to move on. It's morning, so I'm assuming you don't want to go just wait for the vampires now. Exploring more of the camp then?

"Well, I also needed Zilvazaraat to grab this for me as well." The wizard holds up a small ivory sculpture of a stately door. "But, as I said, in all the hurry to leave Heldren and what not, I'd left it back home."

"You know, Tsin, I thought about what you asked. I've never tried changing the layout of the tower as I'm rather fond of it. But no, there aren't any guards or the like. I'm not sure how anything could get in without my permission, though."

Pems & Tsin, you both get a protection from arrows in case y'all get shot! =P

Motte, I've been examining the map trying to decide where to go next. Are the numbers the places we've been? And can you number the rest so we can describe better where to go next?

Ready to go, Zephtyr awaits Mal's illusionary magics before scouting and deciding where to go.

Once everyone is fed and satisfied with breakfast, Malavarius himself enjoys a steaming cup of tea with milk and sugar along with some slices of buttered toast and sausage links, the wizard weaves another glamer over the group to disguise them as soldiers. He adds a puffy, dandelion-esque beard to Hektir to hide the acne this time.

"You know, Tsin, I thought about what you asked. I've never tried changing the layout of the tower as I'm rather fond of it. But no, there aren't any guards or the like. I'm not sure how anything could get in without my permission, though."

Tsin savors the moment, a mundane conversation about an old man's proclivities, with a stomach full of meal, no longer in distress. Only when the others are ready to depart the confines of this wholly-out-of-place oasis does she firm herself. "Well, thank you for the reminder of what awaits us when we can put our oath to rest, Mal. If your magic were powerful enough to pause Time, perhaps we could stay longer next time."

The swordswoman stands over the prostheticked body. "Do we need to guard it from being dragged off, or can we rest assured it will be here when we need it?" She moves to an entrance, and waits to exit.

"I suggest we continue to circle the dullahan camp at a distance. There are other buildings that can be secured, before we risk their ill attentions."

Suggesting we move from our current long building, past 3, towards 4, on the map.

Sounds good to me, Tsin. The tower will remain for a total of 28 hours. At which point anything still inside that didn't originate within the tower is expelled. So, we should be able to leave it here, unless we're expecting to be considerably delayed.

OK, I've updated the overall map, with a legend in the campaign info tab. (Note that the numbers changed, so 3 and 4 from Tsin's post are different numbers now.) Note that the legend doesn't include any of the trenches or towers, which are also places you could look into -- the trenches are all full of guards, but the corner towers are each topped with a curiously levitating torus dancing with sparks of arcane energy.

You move out through the camp, which seems to be on much higher alert now, with at least one troop of soldiers patrolling, along with the dullahans. You suspect if you cause a ruckus now, you may find reinforcements coming quickly.

Circling around the stone house where you encountered Rasputin's image, you make your way around the camp, coming to a tall fence surrounding a prison yard filled with a brownish-yellow fog. Ill-defined shapes shuffle slowly through the murk.

Quinn starts the morning with a hearty breakfast of stout beer and rum cake. "Right, let's show those demons and undead how we feel about having our summers stolen from us."

When they approach the fence, Quinn places his hands against it and forces his vision through to the other side. Door Sight

You can see through the fence -- it's filled with a brownish-yellow fog with ill-defined shapes shuffling slowly through the murk.

Oh, that's a helpful map, Motte. Thank you.

Zephtyr breezes along, waiting to see what Quinn sees with the doors and wonders if the party needs to go in there.

He examines the fog while he waits.

Motte, does Zephtyr feel like a strong winds or a air elemental's whirlwind might disperse the fog or would it remain?

After a bit of thought, Zephtyr will cast Echolocation and look within the fog, describing what he may see to Mal & Pems.

Tsin continues to move along the fence, uninterested in the yellow fog at present. She angles for Building 11. "Quinn, best try your Sight at the door here."

Tsin keeps her eyes constantly returning to the dullahan camp, while they push forward.

Perception: 1d20 + 20 ⇒ (16) + 20 = 36

Malavarius balks at Hektir's description and loudly whispers to Zeno, "Good heavens! Is there nothing he won't take for a wife?"

Quinn moves to the door and pushes his sight through to the other side.

door sight again

Hektir, considering the mist is staying in the area despite any signs of confinement, you're not sure if a strong breeze would work.

Inside, you see 10 humanoid figures shuffling around in a zombie-like fashion.

The next building, Quinn sees, is dominated by a cold stove overturned among scattered cauldrons and smashed casks. Several frozen corpses hang from the rafters above a large copper kettle in the center of the room, surrounded by makeshift beds of piled furs.

Inside, four creatures about one and a half times the size of a man and covered with a coat of thick white fur, gnaw on what you assume were once human remains.

Quinn relates the horrible image to his companions. "...and if the smashed casks weren't terrible enough, they totally ruined the brewing kettle, it was awful! Oh, and the shaggy things are eating dead people."

Is Pems still playing? Can anyone reach out?

Zephtyr listens to Quinn's description of the moaners, figuring that with all their grousing that the foes within might be old men with missing hats.

"Not sure we need to go in there. Not what we're looking for. We should move on."

Tsin nods vigorously, as a chance to avoid conflict arises. "Perhaps the next door then?" She points to the next building over, though she eyes the long building as something more likely to yield fruit. She moves in an easterly direction, hoping to avoid lazy gazes of headless horsemen. Building 12, then 13?

I'm here. Just got a little caught up and didn't have much to add to the discussion.

"Hektir's right. If we can't help the dead, there's no sense in kicking over anthills we don't have to disturb."

The next building is an old stone structure buried in snow, its wooden door hanging ajar. An old tree, lightning-scarred and twisted, juts through the roof, its drooping branches hanging like a curtain over the entrance.

As Quill starts to approach, he notices the branches seem to quiver slightly.

Assuming Quinn mentions the branches, Zephtyr will take a good long, echolocated stare and listen into that area.

1d20 + 28 ⇒ (16) + 28 = 44 Perception

Might be one of them angry trees like we saw before the mother maiden crone dungeon. Be careful.

Zephtyr has his fire seeds ready.

Quinn does mention the branches and takes a few moments to study the situation.

Perception: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (5) + 31 = 36

Hektir realizes the tree is in fact a treant -- but it seems bigger than the usual treant advanced, and he suspects the lightning-scarring might indicate even more than beyond the norm, as if it might have some electrical-related abilities.

"Gadzooks, that tree just wiggled at you, Quinn!" The old wizard shoots the tree a look then offers cautiously, "Careful you lot. Wiggling trees aren't to be trusted."

Zephtyr will try to pin down the details of this variety of treant.

1d20 + 20 ⇒ (18) + 20 = 38 Know (Nature) Vulnerabilities and resistances and DRs, if possible.

"Might not be a bad tree, but probably is one. Let's be careful," Zeph says with a spit.

Tsin keeps her distance, hoping for a speedy assessment that will allow them to proceed. "Even it was once a good tree, for its roots to be sown on these grounds, it's likely drank from the evil of it all."

Once given a chance to ready themselves, likely with a quick casting of protections against electricity, Tsin is ready to approach the single thing, rather than a room of ten.

Tsin's getting twitchy, being out in the open, and will take through the doorway, given the all-clear or the be-wary.

Quinn hesitates at the words from his companions. "Maybe it doesn't like being here any more than us? It could be an ally if we treat it properly?"

"Hey there, pal." Quinn calls to the treant, "We're going out on a limb here, and we can leave you alone if you prefer, but maybe you're tired of these soldiers barking orders all the time and you'd prefer this whole camp was uprooted?"

Diplomacy check: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (11) + 8 = 19

Hektir isn't sure exactly what such a treant in this strange world might be capable of, but suspects electricity would likely do little against it. He suspects it might be similarly unconcerned about fire considering the scars already covering it. If it's like other treants, non-bladed weapons will do little against it (DR/slashing).

Quinn, the treant shudders and seems to turn its attention toward you at your words, but doesn't otherwise respond to them. If it's like most of the other things you've encountered here, it's not smart enough to know Common.

Holding off on Tsin's actions to see if there are in fact any preparations to be made.

When others are ready, Zephtyr will begin a short ritual...beating his chest and howling to the moon(s), stomping in a circle and chanting up a storm.

When he is finished, he will summon 1d3 ⇒ 2 dire bear(s) as close as he can to the tree. SNA VII.

Malavarius is about to pop the group past the tree and into the building beyond, but he cuts the spell off as Hektir's ursine relatives answer his call and appear suddenly. "Oh! Those bears are monstrously large, Hektir! Good heavens!"

Given as it looks like we're gearing for a fight, I can open with haste if you all'd like. Though if Quinn is planning to cast blessing of fervor I'll go another route.

When it appears that Hektir is engaging in hostile actions regarding the building's botanical inhabitant, Tsin carries through with her desire to be prepared against the treant's electrical-related abilities. Cast Resist Energy 10, Electricity

"Let's get on with it. If the tree recognizes us as different, do we allow it to draw first blood, then?" Tsin is ready to see them make quick work of any conflict.

As you make your preparations, the treant seems to realize what you're doing and rears up, calling out in its strange language.

"Стоп"

Hektir is up; Mal, Quinn and Pems can each cast one (non-offensive) spell before the combat begins. Note the map is 10-ft. squares.

Zephtyr (and his bears) holds his action, awaiting explanation about a talking tree from Mal or Pems.

"He said 'stop!'" Pems helpfully informs the tracksmage. Not sure if you were just waiting for that or have an action, sir...

Pems does indeed translate, but he also lays his WARD (+3 deflection to AC and bonus to Saves!) on Tsin, anticipating she's going to be jumping into battle with a tree very soon...

"Don't just stop there, Pemsworth! Ask it why we should halt! Go on, have a proper chat if you can."