"This way. It's not even 100 yards east from here" the lame smith says, heaving an inner sigh of relief as she hears the dragon-man voice his agreement.
@Brimley: so it looks like our following steps are:
- Tharok goes to Halgra, asks her about potential political opponents of Rodrik's who could have had a vested interest in seeing him taken out of the picture;
- the rest of the bunch checks on the guards manning the main gate first, asks them if they've seen Urnsul fleeing town, then catches up with Kurst and tries to persuade him to mount a search for the half-orc refugee.
Just going to drop a roll there, in case Kurst needs to be persuaded to spare some of his men... Otherwise, just ignore it.
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (19) + 9 = 28
Making your way back up to the to of Trunau is easy enough, though the city's upper section brings home exactly how cold and blustery the weather has gotten. While the lower reaches were relatively sheltered from the worst of it, upper Trunau is sorely exposed. Frigid torrents of wind buffet the exposed streets without mercy, driving snow about in an obfuscating cloud. By the time you reach the Chief Defender's home, you're eager to be indoors and warming yourself at one of Halgra's hearths.
Fortunately, you're not waiting long for an audience with your mother. The hour is relatively early yet, and she hasn't had the opportunity to begin delving into official business, even with the death of a Patrol Captain on the docket. After hearing your concerns, Halgra scoffs and rolls her eyes a bit. "Not to speak ill of the dead, but Rodrik was an idealistic fool. Even worse, he was an idealistic fool in love. It's nice to make grand speeches about progress and forward-thinking, I'll give him that, but if you think what was in that boy's fool head was anything more than a boy in love striking out on his own against his dad, you've been ranging out into the mountains too long. Jagrin's had a sore spot in his mind for anything with orcish blood ever since what happened to his wife. Not that I can blame him; raising all them boys on his own and leading the patrols was a tall order. But all this noise about intolerance? Look around you, boy. I'm named Chief Defender and I've had more than a few half-blooded runts. Sara Morninghawk sits on the council."
Halgra's face deepens from a grimace into nearly a scowl as she continues speaking, "As for Lastwall, they're getting no sanction or sanctuary from us because it'll rile up more tribes than we can handle. We start offering safe haven to the Knights of Ozem, how long do you think it'll take before the Belkzen hordes decide we're not just a thorn in their side—that we're now a staging ground for raids into their country? We have trade with the orcs, rare as it is. Second we start letting those knights in on the regular is the second that ends, and the tribes start wondering if maybe they should stop fighting each other long enough to march south like they've done in the past." Her souring expression softens a bit, as she realizes her tirade is poorly aimed. "Even so, there's no one in these walls brazen enough to stoop to murder over something so silly. That's not to say the boy offed himself, but I have a hard time believing such an action could be motivated by politics."
Everyone else sets themselves to the task of leveling their inquisitive enterprise at the town militia. Predictably, the gate-guards have nothing to offer that sheds any light on the situation. The endeavor ultimately results in a bit of circuiting through Trunau in the midst of a relentless snow storm, chasing down different guardsfolk from previous shifts. Most aren't terribly familiar with who Urnsul is to begin with, and none confess to having sighted the half-orc—or any one else, for that matter—exiting the town under any signs of duress or suspiciously.
Meeting up with Kurst takes a little bit of time, as he is mourning with his family. You are forced to wait in the common room of the Longhouse for a time. It is not until the early hours of evening that he manages a brief moment to entertain your request, promising to spare a couple of men and women to the task of tracking down Urnsul when he is able, though he reminds you that patrols are already stretched thin at the moment.
"This is not progressing as well as Qytheerah had hoped I'll wager."
Skrioth asks of her companions, "would it violate your customs, if we were to go and search her living spaces for clues? Is there a taboo against such things?"
First impatience, then outright frustration build up in the tall Shoanti woman as minutes become hours. Pacing to and fro as if the familiar halls of the Longhouse have suddenly turned into a cage, she repeatedly casts anxious glances towards Arctorus, afraid his temper might get the best of him. She herself tries her best not to let her aggravation dictate her actions, though.
The Graths have already suffered enough today. Intruding into their mourning would be beyond impolite – it'd be downright insulting to Rodrik's memory.
With this in mind, once they finally have a chance to exchange words with Kurst she makes a point not to let her disappointment show, instead thanking him for whatever help he would be able to provide before politely taking her leave. As the group exits the Longhouse, their shadows stretching long in the cold, solstitial sun, she can be heard muttering, half to her companions, half to herself.
"Kurst asked us to take care of the investigation precisely because he wanted to avoid involving the militia. Or Jagrin. Heavens know how he'd react if he knew about the hopeknife switch. And yet, back to asking the militia's help we went."
She shakes her head, dejectedly. "I'm sorry." Again. "I was a fool thinking coming here would be anything short of a waste of time."
This is what they get for following the lead of a thick-headed Shoanti whose rightful place is working the forge, not investigating murders.
Skrioth asks of her companions, "Would it violate your customs, if we were to go and search her living spaces for clues? Is there a taboo against such things?"
"There is. Unless you wield some sort of official authority, which we quite do not as of now, I'm afraid. Even then, we have no idea where her lodgings were. The only one who'd know is Sara, but judging by the fact she appeared no less frustrated than us I'd wager she has no clue either. One plausible place, and the only one which comes to my mind right now, would be the same boardinghouse Brinya's also living in. I still think we should head there next. Tharok's probably got tired of waiting for us by now."
Tharok listens, arms crossed, not challenging his mother's opinions. He'd thought along similar lines last night when Rodrick had outlined his plan and failed to provide the specifics, failed to explain how he would implement it and where his authority would come from. In the cold light of morning and before Halgra's precise, almost-scornful assessment, he can't help but agree that Rodrick's dreams of turning Trunau into a Last Wall outpost had been doomed from the start.
Still, as he leaves their home and heads toward Brinya's, he can't help but feel that Rodrick's idealism - his naive energy, his burning desire to make a change - might have sparked off something, enthused some like Arctorus and perhaps incensed others. This couldn't just be a lover's quarrel, not given the timing of the murder, not given Rodrick's prominence and revolutionary thoughts.
Hunching his shoulders and tucking his chin, Tharok makes his way through the streets, squinting against the blustery snow, hoping the others are finding some measure of success. Urnsul's testimony will be of primary importance. Could she be guilty of murder? Her flight did not bode well. Perhaps Brinya would reveal some more information, some clues that might help them piece together this mystery.
This mystery that was pointing toward a sordid crime of passion, and nothing more, a conclusion that simply did not sit well with Tharok.
Reaching Brinya's building, the half-orc steps into a doorway and settles in to wait. Used to the frigid climes of the Mindspin peaks, this cold, while bitter, does little to disconcert the ranger. Pulling his cloak close around him, and the peak of his hood down over his face, he watches the street and the windows of the building before him, and waits.
Tharok takes 20 on a perception roll as he observes the street and building before him while he waits.
While they walk, Skrioth prays, "Angradd, the Fire-Forge, you sent me here to help these people, and yet, I am literally a fish out of water. Perhaps even the fish would be more at home than I, because the fish will die, and be released, only to be born anew, but I survive, I flounder, and I know not my purpose here. Blessed Flame of the dwarves, a people I do not understand, I am your chosen, a mantle I will carry, for you and the dwarven people, but I do not understand. Grant me the strength to aid these people, the wisdom to solve this murder, and the resolve to further your cause."
Morgder finds the cold winds bracing. It reminds him of his time spent out in the harsh wilderness.
Mordger shrugs at Halgra. "Never seen no wrong come of speaking ill of the dead. Best to be truthful, way I see it." He scratches the scar tissue around his eye. We ain't trying to be racist, just telling it like it is. Sometimes it ain't racism, it's just true. Fact is that orcs are more often than not strong and stupid. He decides to leave that bit unsaid though.
Outside he keeps picking around his eye. Damnit but this thing itches. He forces his hand down. "It only violates customs if people know you did it."
"The flophouse it is, we have no other leads," Grafelda says.
Maybe Urnsul was a secret agent for a nearby orc tribe. Then she heard what Roddie was planning and killed him just in case. Now she's gone to report that the town is vulnerable and will come back with a bunch of greenskins?
The sun is beginning its approach to the horizon as everyone meets up outside of the boardinghouse that Brinya is known to stay at, though it's hard to tell with the frigid weather and grey overcast shrouding the sky in apparent perpetuity. You find some relief in finding Tharok once more, the ranger taking some shelter against the relentless gusts of cold wind in the frame of another building across the street. After apprising one another of the relative lack of progress made thus far, you head into the flophouse to, hopefully, get some answers from Rodrik's clandestine lover.
You are greeted by a modest affair as each of you duck into the squat doorway into the common room, the low-hanging door indicates the building's having likely belonged to a dwarf at some point in history. Simply appointed as it might be, however, the walls are sturdy and thick and do an impressive job at keeping the elements at bay. A mighty hearth dominates the center of the room from floor to ceiling, an opening towards the fire within apparent on two sides. The room is relatively packed at the moment, tables and benches nearly full to capacity with those calling the boarding house their current home. Judging from the plates and bowls arrayed, you have all managed to find your way here during dinnertime. Brinya does not seem to be present at current, though it is an easy enough endeavor to gain knowledge of her whereabouts: isolated in her room—understandable given the circumstances.
Making your way upstairs, you find the bunk-hall that dominates most of the second story, though each wall is lined with doors that lead to the more private accommodations offered. Brinya has a room to herself on the far side of the room. As she answers the door, you find an attractive half-orc woman with stunning red hair. She seems to be one of those rare cases where the ferocity of orcish features were muted almost entirely. Even so, her countenance is a pitiable one, as the most evident feature of her appearance at present is someone deep in the thrall of grief. She seems to be in a bit of a malaise, and is slow to register that such a motley band of persons should be looking for her in particular.
Tharok coughs, clearing his throat more out of a desire to hide his own embarrassment at questioning a woman so clearly in the clutches of despair and pain. Still, he nods awkwardly to her, and speaks quickly and quietly so that none may overhear.
"Our apologies for intruding, Ms. Kelver. We are all... we are all feeling your loss deeply. I wish this matter could wait. But it can't. We're trying to bring justice to whomever did this. Because we know as well as you do that Rodrik didn't do it himself."
Tharok takes a breath, struggling to keep his tone calm and serious. He resists the urge to look to his companions for reassurance. Instead, he grimly plows on.
"May we come in? What we have to ask would be best discussed in private."
The grizzled dwarf steps under the overhang, a hand dipping his axe down under it. He uncomfortably stares around in the crowded room. Damned if all these close spaces are civilized. Feel like I'm penned in. He shifts his hand to the dagger at his belt, the weapon giving the uneasy coiling in his stomach some relief. Not ideal, but it can be used in these close quarters.
Morgder remains in the back, a scarred and silent presence. He was never much of a people person. Especially women. Especially beautiful women. He casts about, scanning the halls.
Qytheerah averts her eyes when Brinya makes her appearance on the threshold, as if the sight of the grief in the young half-orc's face – a pain mirroring her own, yet presumably both deeper and harsher – is too much to bear for the tall Shoanti woman. No: it's not just that. For the first time today, she starts questioning the legitimacy of her own sorrow. And now all of a sudden, bringing it in the same room as Brinya's... it wouldn't feel right.
Remember, Qyth. It's not your Rodrik who died. It's her Rodrik.
Even so, she can't help but catch a glimpse of her delicate features, her coppery hair vibrant against the pale green of her skin.
She's beautiful though. No wonder he fell for her...
She's therefore relieved when she hears Tharok do the talking, only nodding shyly as he offers his condolences. For the rest of the conversation, she stands in a corner, her arms crossed, looking downwards.
Looking beyond Brinya to her room, true privacy might be hard to achieve. What little room is available within is dominated by a simple cot and a simpler wash basin. Tharok's suggestion that Rodrik did not kill himself seems to hit her like a hammer, and draws her instantly out of the stupor a pall of despair had inflicted. Her slate eyes go wide and she looks like she is ready to pitch over for a moment. She manages to steady herself with a right hand on the door frame, while her left moves reflexively to the hopeknife beneath her simple blouse. "He didn't. . .? Not because of me? Gods. . ." Tears begin to well up in her eyes.
It would seem that the likely truthful account of Rodrik's demise had not occurred to her.
Grafelda goes to stand with Qyth, and reaches out gently to take her hand. She holds it softly in a silent sign of support. These town dwellers feel death so keenly. They remind me of Rowan. Well, at least you can be there for Qyth like you were for Rowan. You're not completely useless.
"Not because of... why would you think such a thing?" Tharok is genuinely shocked. "Did - was there cause for him to - no." Tharok shakes his head, dispelling such thoughts. With the room beyond looking so cramped, Tharok instead makes sure to keep his voice pitched low, so that even Brinya can barely hear him.
"We know little as of yet. What can you tell us? Did Rodrik mention any political enemies? And - can we see your hopeknife, please?"
Qytheerah is still lost in her thoughts when she feels Elda's comforting touch on her hand. Almost instinctively, she clenches her grip, finding solace in the strength exuding from the orcish flesh and sinews. Turning her head slightly, she smiles at the witch, timidly.
Upon hearing the bewilderment in Brinya's reply, she feels a pang of remorse. We should have told her sooner – she has probably spent the whole day blaming herself for his lover's death. Did they quarrel? It matters little. Or perhaps...
Torn between the desire to offer some comfort to the grieving half-orc and her better judgment telling her not to interfere with the investigation, eventually her reason, as it often happens, capitulates to her feelings. "He lost it, didn't he? The hopeknife you gave him. That's why he commissioned a replacement one from Clamor. Too bad it was still unfinished when the murderer put it into his hands – otherwise the whole suicide story might very well have held" she whispers in a mournful voice, while producing the evidence they have gathered for Brinya to see.
Craft: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (19) + 6 = 25 to check if there's anything wrong, or simply unusual, with Brinya's own hopeknife
While the others are attempting to distance themselves from the grieving woman, Skrioth gravitates towards the warmer end of the room and the hearth. Bless Angradd, you have made me so unlike my people. I am drawn to the heat, when they would be repulsed by it. She warms her hands, and listens to the interchange between her companions and the sorrowful one. I dare not ask of what significance the water on her cheeks, as it will invite too many questions, especially from Grafelda.
Was hoping to actually hammer out this dialogue in-character directly, but I've been too worn out this week. Going to just go ahead and do an overview in the interest of progressing.
Brinya hesitantly hands her own hopeknife over to you. At the broader base of the blade, just above the hilt, is inscribed 'For Brinya, my love'. The rest of her tale is interrupted by frequent bouts of sobbing and grief.
She reveals the details of their relationship, explaining that she and Rodrik had been seeing one another for a few months. Eventually, and using his mother's own engagement ring, Rodrik mustered up the courage to propose to her. Even following the engagement, however, Rodrik had resolved to keep their pairing hidden from his father Jagrin. His bigotry towards those of orcish bloodlines is one of Trunau's worst kept secrets, so his approval would likely never come. Brinya accepted Rodrik's decision, but it was a subject that the two had argued about frequently—Brinya thought it a bit cowardly for Rodrik to hide from his father in such a way.
In more recent days, Rodrik had begun cryptically mentioning some sort of investigation that he called "his greatest work." Unfortunately, he obstinately refused to share anything more about it with Brinya on the subject. Worse still, Jagrin ended up discovering the pair's relationship. True to form, Jagrin raged and fumed at some length that his son would "dally about with a filthy half-orc."
At Qytheerah's questioning, Brinya nods somberly. At some point during his great investigation, Rodrik had managed to misplace the hopeknife Brinya had exchanged with him. When she discovered this, Brinya was furious; the exchange of their hopeknives was supposed to be a symbol of their bond. That he could manage to lose it was unthinkable. Amid another torrent of tears she reveals that she had told him not to bother coming back until he had made this right. This conversation took place the night of Ruby and Qytheerah's ceremony, the previous evening. Given the circumstances, Brinya blamed herself for Rodrik's death.
Brinya also confides that Rodrik always kept a journal on his person. He kept it mostly to jot down poems, plays, or ballads he was working on, but he kept a great deal of records on daily happenings as well. She has no clue where the journal would be now—that it was not found on his body is unusual. He did mention having a "thoughtful muse" at Trunau's Sanctuary—the temple of Iomedae. She had never given much thought to what that meant, assuming he had simply sought solace inside the temple while working on his plays and other compositions.
Finally, and most importantly, Brinya can confirm upon viewing the hopeknife found at the scene that it is not Rodrik's knife. Rodrik's hopeknife was her hopeknife, and the blade you hold currently is not the one she grew up with.
If you guys have some other specific questions for her, feel free to ask. She is pretty forthcoming. Just learning that Rodrik's demise wasn't her fault has lifted her guilt noticeably, if not her grief. At the time that you finish questioning Brinya, night has fallen outside, and the temperatures have plummeted even further. On the bright side, it isn't snowing any longer, though there is a substantial accumulation on the ground from the day.
Tharok will listen gravely, trying to balance his guilt over questioning a grieving loved one with the grim necessity of unearthing the precious facts that can help them understand the case at hand.
When Brinya confirms that the hopeknife used to kill Rodrik was not his own, he can't help but flash Qytheerah a glance of savage satisfaction. He listens further, and when Brinya finally subsides, he rubs at the length of his jaw and posits a further question.
"It seems Rodrik commissioned a replacement blade from The Clamor, more specifically, from a half orc called Urnsul. She's since gone missing, and we can't help but feel suspicious about her role in all this. Have you ever had any contact with Urnsul? Do you know if Rodrik did? Can you think of any reason why Urnsul might have fled?"
"Trunau's Sanctuary?" Skrioth ponders this, "I had viewed Trunau itself as a sanctuary against the savagery of the outside world, but there is a sanctuary within the sanctuary? What is it to protect against? The more answers we find, the more questions I have."
Arctorus stands quietly behind the others, letting them try to absorb the vast quantities of information being exchanged with the mourning lady.
There is a lot of things going on in there, and I don't want to muddle it up with some dumb questions...I'll just make sure nobody gets too nosy about what's going on...
He then turns his back to the conversation with Brinya and focuses his attention on the gathering room, making sure nobody gets too curious or tries to eavesdrop.
@Tharok: the only one who has a chance of being of high enough level would presumably be Tyari Varvatos, the High Priestess of the Iomedaean Sanctuary – which is also where Rodrik's body has been laid before the funeral. So yeah, as Grafelda pointed out, every lead is pointing towards the Temple as of now. The only question that remains is: do we want to go there now or shall we wait until tomorrow? Both are fine with me, but we'll have to grab some sleep sooner or later...
Qytheerah listens intently to what Brinya has to say, but speaks no words of her own for the remainder of the conversation. As the suspects about the hopeknife found in Rodrik's hand are once again confirmed, she returns Tharok's gaze with a knowing smile of her own – and yet, one full of weariness and fatigue; one which fails to extend to her eyes. A small intellectual victory; how little satisfaction it seems to give now she ponders between the grieving half-orc's sobbing. And yet, if it at least helped alleviate some of her sense of guilt over Rodrik's death... perhaps we should give ourselves more credit.
Having nothing to add to the conversation, neither in the form of inquiries nor suggestions, she lets once again Tharok voice his questions without abandoning her place in the corner near Grafelda. Before they leave, though, she can't help but give Brinya a long, heartfelt hug while offering her condolences.
"I know there's nothing we can do to ease your pain but... if you ever feel like you could use some sort of support, or just a friendly face to talk to – please, drop by the Clamor. If I'm not on militia duty, I'll probably be there sweating my ass off by the forge."
Spellcraft: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (4) + 6 = 10 to see if Qytheerah has any idea about the existence of the Speak with Dead spell (probably not)
Yeah, it will take a Spellcraft to be aware of the fact that speak with dead is a thing. Might allow a Knowledge (local) or (religion) as well, though at a higher DC
Everyone bounce over to Roll20 when you get the chance, and verify the party's current positioning. You can move yourself to a different square in the immediate vicinity of where everyone's characters are currently situated. Verify you have control of your character, can move them, darkvision and light sources are working properly, etc.
Same. Unless I have to manually switch layers or something like that, in which case I freely admit my inability.
Will try again tomorrow morning.
I know I'm far from the tankiest character around, but since as an Oracle I lack that +1 BAB at 1st level and I can't thus draw my weapon in conjunction with a move action, I'd rather have Qytheerah in the front so that she can at least contribute something during the 1st round of combat... Moving token now.
You progress through the streets and away from the boardinghouse where Brinya is staying. Much of Trunau remains under mounds of snow, though the snowfall itself has thankfully, and finally, tapered off. The main thoroughfares in the town have been kept relatively clear by the comings and goings of townsfolk throughout the entirety of the day. Cloud cover remains in full force, however, moon and stars hidden from view entirely. For most it is of no concern, but for Arctorus it is nearly pitch black outside, save for the occasional light from candles, hearths, or lamps spilling out through windows and onto the streets.
It is but a short distance beyond the boardinghouse in upper Traunau when an unlikely group of visitors descend upon your entourage. Perhaps the unexpectedness of the situation lends no small weight to how completely they were able to encircle everyone so quickly—a half-dozen ferocious looking wolves leaping out from behind buildings on either side of the street. Their ears back, hackles raised, and lips peeled back in a feral snarl that reveals vicious rows of sharp teeth, they move forward, voracious.
For Arctorus, it is an entirely different scenario. The draconic brute thinks he manages to spy a quick motion of grey fur through the light of a window here and there, but they vanish again into the deep darkness of the unlit streets. Slavering snarls and yelps seem to close in from both directions. . .
I was going to be nice and say Arctorus had time to light a torch, but there's not a conventional light source in the entire group.
Arctorus: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (11) + 1 = 12
Grafelda: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (16) + 1 = 17
Qytheerah: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 2 = 18
Morgder: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4
Skrioth: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20
Tharok: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9
???: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 2 = 7
Arctorus: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4
Grafelda: 1d20 ⇒ 17
Qytheerah: 1d20 ⇒ 4
Morgder: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (18) + 5 = 23
Skrioth: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (5) + 3 = 8
Tharok: 1d20 ⇒ 9
1d20 + 6 ⇒ (19) + 6 = 25
Wolves spend their standard actions moving closer for the Surprise Round; they were too far away to actually attack, fortunately. Everyone can act now for Round One. Brief reminder: I roll initiative for everyone and then average the result so the players can act as a single block. I roll enemy groupings once when it's convenient to do so (like a pack of wolves).
White Squares on the map are normal movement, Blue Squares are difficult terrain (half movement)
Players can all act now.
How easy it is for instincts to be lulled by a false sense of security. How easy it is to think the walls of Trunau to be impregnable, to think of the streets and byways of their home to be the one safe place in all of the vast and terrible plains that surround them.
And yet. Lulled as they may be, Tharok has spent too many years crossing the barren slopes of the Mindspin Mountains, too many years traveling alone and on the look out for ambushes exactly such as these to be completely caught off guard. His hands are moving, bringing an arrow from his quiver even as he's bringing his long bow from his shoulder, dropping to one knee as he nocks the arrow and lets fly before he's even quite realizing what's going on.
Taking aim at the closest wolf, he shoots his arrow straight at its maw, seeking to silence the terrible snarls and stop the beast in its tracks before it can come any closer. Firing at the wolf directly south of Tharok (Red).
Longbow Attack + Point Blank Shot: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (20) + 5 = 25
Damage: 1d8 ⇒ 7
Longbow Crit Confirmation + Point Blank Shot: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (7) + 5 = 12
Damage in case of Crit: 2d8 ⇒ (7, 4) = 11
If the red wolf survived Tharok's attack, Skrioth will 5' and attack it. If it didn't survive, she will attack the green wolf and still 5' step to the same spot next to Tharok.
She'll take AOOs as presented with her reach.
Boarding Pike: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (19) + 1 = 20 Brace, Reach
Boarding Pike Damage: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2
"Where is the guard? Should they not be protecting the town from these canines?"
Morgder draws his axe in surprise but it gets all fumbled up in his clothes. Damn! Fool to think inside the walls were safe.
Attack: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 2 = 3
Grafelda steps up to the wolf that was wounded by Tharok's arrow and Skrioth's pike. Can let her pretty face get all scarred up like mine, she thinks. Growling as if she were no different than their lupine foes, Grafelda leaps onto the wounded wolf and tries to tear its throat out with her teeth. The wild animal has reflexes beyond that of the town-softened witch, it leaps back from her tusks easily.
Attack on Red wolf: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 2 = 13 Miss
The day's events still weigh heavy on Qytheerah's mind as she struggles to keep up pace with her companions through the snow-covered streets and into the Kuthonian bitter cold. That, coupled with the sense of security she has come to associate with being inside Trunau's walls, has her caught completely by surprise by the sound of growls coming from the surrounding alleyways; raising her gaze, her keen sight is able to discern the shape of numerous wolves surrounding the group, their eyes glowing orbs in the darkness, fangs white against the black of the night. And not a moment too soon, as they appear to be already running towards them, poised to strike. Every muscle in her body clenches in anticipation.
"Where is the guard? Should they not be protecting the town from these canines?"
"You hear her Grafelda? Looks like we're on militia duty tonight" she manages to quip, despite the suddenness of the menace they're currently facing. "Don't charge into them, let them come and watch each other's backs!"
But really: where in the Seven Hells are they? How could those beast have entered Trunau undetected?
Also: where is Morgder exactly? He attacked so I assume he moved into melee; anyway...
Move Action: Draw Weapon
Standard Action: Ready Attack
Falchion: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5 or, you know, not
Damn. First the giant, now this. Does this dwarf have a death wish?
Muttering a curse under her breath, she raises both arms over her shoulder and draws her own weapon, before limping her way to the dwarf's side.
Move Action: Draw Weapon
Move Action: Move into melee next to Morgder (wherever he is – Brimley, feel free to move Qytheerah's token for me)
Hearing the growls and snarls, as well as the others in the investigation conversation and attacks, Arctorus grits his teeth and strides forward through the packed snow and mud towards the bit of fur he can see. As he nears it, he opens his right hand and takes a powerful swipe at the thing with his razor sharp claws.
Move Action: Moving (if possible, can't tell cause well...I can't see...) from original location to spot at end of line. If I can't make it that far, move me as far as I can along it.
Standard Action: Power Attack with a claw.
Power Attack: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (11) + 6 = 17
If Hit, Damage: 1d6 + 7 ⇒ (4) + 7 = 11
Tharok's arrow misses its mark, but still finds purchase deep in the wolf's chest. Much to everyone's surprise, it does not let out a yelp of pain, instead growling all the more fiercely. Bits of froth can be seen formed around the canine's jowls. It makes it all the more mysterious that a pack of rabid wolves could find their way this deep into Trunau unnoticed. Fortunately, the arrow does drive the wolf to the ground for a moment, ruining the beast's attempt to clamp its teeth down on Grafelda's shin.
Arctorus is relieved when his claws sink into mattered fur and taut muscles. A significant piece of his foe lands with a sickening squish on the steps just behind the dragon-blooded brute. The force of his swipe carries the wolf several feet into the air, where it lands with a thud on the wooden patio. Unexpectedly, the wolf -- now visible in the light cast from within a nearby window -- struggles to its three remaining legs and lunges at Arctorus with a ferocious snarl. It's teeth gnash harmlessly on his scaly hide, however.
The rest of the pack surge forward with reckless abandon, all a flurry of frenzied teeth and grey fur. Their bloodlust proves too clumsy to inflict much harm, save for one that leaps at Qytheerah. The aasimar had not noticed the other wolf stalking around the building, and her efforts to fend off the second beast afford another member of the pack an opening. Her armor fends off the initial bite, but as its jaws begin working and shaking they find a grip on her thigh's flesh beneath.
Going to go ahead and say that Morgder just readied an attack for simplicity's sake. Also, everyone make sure to writeup combat posts in Third Person Limited PoV. Any sort of table-talk should be OOC-tagged at the bottom of a combat post.
Concealment (Blue Wolf): 1d100 ⇒ 79 (Low will always be the miss window on percentages, btw)
Blue Wolf (Arctorus): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 1 = 14 Miss
> Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 4
Green Wolf (Skrioth): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5 Miss
> Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 5
Orange Wolf (Morgder): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (15) + 1 = 16 Miss
> Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 2
Purple Wolf (Qyth): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (16) + 1 = 17 Hit
> Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Red Wolf (Grafelda): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4 Miss
> Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 1
Yellow Wolf (Qyth): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (13) + 1 = 14 Miss
> Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Fortitude Save (Qyth): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6 (Failure)
> 1d2 ⇒ 2
Skrioth (AoO vs. Green): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (7) + 1 = 8
> Damage: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (8) + 1 = 9
Qytheerah takes 6 damage total.
Players are up again!
Arctorus roars at the beast before him, the sound a disturbing mix of man and dragon, before taking two more powerful swipes at the one nearest him.
Power Attack Claw 1: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (1) + 6 = 7
Power Attack Claw 2: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11
Damage, if Hit: 1d6 + 7 ⇒ (4) + 7 = 11
Damage, if Hit: 1d6 + 7 ⇒ (6) + 7 = 13
"Bloody hell, they're rabid or starving to death or both! They're going to fight to the death!" He steps between the wolf attacking him and Qytheerah, trying to draw more of the their aggro. He makes himself big, roaring in anger and swinging in a huge arc to draw as much attention to himself as possible. His roar is every bit as savage and wild as the wolf's as his one good eye glares with rage. He chops at the same one he missed a moment before.
Raging. 5 foot step to the west. It will potentially draw more aggro and also make it harder to flank me and Qytheerah. Attacking the wolf with an orange dot just south of me.
Attack: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (10) + 4 = 14
Damage: 2d8 + 10 ⇒ (6, 3) + 10 = 19
Grafelda roars and gives into her orcish side completely. What is going on!? She dives at the wounded wolf again, trying to tear out it's throat. Unfortunately, she is no match for the wild beast. RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Attack the red wolf again.
Attack: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (6) + 2 = 8 Miss
Great. Now I have rabies. Guess I deserved it for making fun of Arctorus getting some sort of blood-carried disease from Rodrik.
Qytheerah's still struggling against the first beast's fury when she glimpses another howling and frothing lupine creature bursting out from a nearby alley.
Goddess. How many of them are there? We're at risk of being over...
Her train of thoughts is cut short by a sudden flash of pain in her right leg – the second wolf has lunged at her thigh and managed to latch onto it. With a tearing sound, the leather of her pants is lacerated, exposing the pale flesh beneath; soon, the beast's maws are filled with hot, red blood as Qytheerah's thigh is shredded by its white fangs.
"AAAARGH" she screams, pain fueling her ire. "I'm not food for you to feast on, beast!"
Blinded by rage, she puts all her might in a powerful retaliation blow, only for it to clumsily hit the snow-covered ground with a loud THUMPF, missing her attacker by a full foot.
Standard Action: Attack the Purple Wolf
Attack: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4 I think the Random Number Generator Gods are out to get us tonight.
Damn, thinks Tharok as his arrow veers down and to the left at the last moment, driven perhaps by a gust of wind to send it punching into the wolf's chest and not down its throat. Then it's back up on its feet and charging forward again, and he sees the froth and the slavering maw and only has time to think, rabies? before he stops thinking altogether.
Instinct drives him to drop his bow, losing it in the cold slush at his feet. He rolls one shoulder, shrugging his greataxe off so that it falls into his cold-numbed hands, and tries to get a sense of the battlefield.
Was that Qytheerah screaming? Tharok can't get a sense of how badly she's hurt - there are too many bodies moving around him, writhing and leaping and snarling. Cursing, his lips writhing back from his own teeth in a silent snarl, he roars out, "Hold on, Qytheerah! I'm coming!"
The quickest way to her side is through the wolf attacking Skrioth. Raising his axe up on high, he brings it down like a woodsman attempting to split a vertically aligned chunk of wood. His blow goes wide, however, and the half-moon blade of his axe sinks deep into the iron hard mud beneath the snow.
Free action to drop bow. Free action to draw Greataxe due to +1 BAB. Standard action to attack.
Greataxe attack on Green: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (8) + 1 = 9
Skrioth steps away from the wolf [green] that just attacked her. She glances around to see how her companions are doing and notes that Qytheerah has been injured. She looks to Tharok, "I can help Qytheerah if you can handle this one."
Skrioth swings her boarding pike at the wolf [red] that Arctorus had already damaged.
Boarding Pike: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19 Brace, Reach
Boarding Pike Damage: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4
I see that red is now X'd out? If I dropped him, cool. If he was done before I went, and either blue or green was injured, then transfer my attack to that one please, with a preference towards green.