The Aquatic rise GM Espíritu (Inactive)

Game Master Riuk

14d6 ⇒ (6, 6, 2, 3) = 17

23d6 ⇒ (3, 2, 4) = 9

33d6 ⇒ (4, 3, 5) = 12

43d6 ⇒ (5, 3, 2) = 10

53d6 ⇒ (2, 5, 2) = 9

63d6 ⇒ (2, 6, 1) = 9
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reroll
61d6 ⇒ 2

14d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 5, 4) = 17

23d6 ⇒ (3, 1, 1) = 5

33d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 6) = 8

43d6 ⇒ (6, 1, 4) = 11

53d6 ⇒ (2, 3, 5) = 10

63d6 ⇒ (5, 1, 2) = 8
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rerolls

23d6 ⇒ (5, 4, 6) = 15

32d6 ⇒ (4, 4) = 8

41d6 ⇒ 4

61d6 ⇒ 3

14d6 ⇒ (6, 4, 4, 2) = 16

23d6 ⇒ (5, 5, 4) = 14

33d6 ⇒ (6, 3, 6) = 15

43d6 ⇒ (6, 1, 4) = 11

53d6 ⇒ (2, 5, 6) = 13

63d6 ⇒ (5, 3, 5) = 13
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rerolls
41d6 ⇒ 4

Aturna was a Mage-Priest, the first of a coven known as the Mot'zzen Mage-Priests. While not gods themselves, The Mot'zzen were still beings far beyond any mortal ken. Capable of shifting continents with a thought or sinking mountains with a word. They could live for tens of thousands of years and were instrumental to the formation of the world as it now exists. Such expansive lifespans and powerful minds often left the Mot'zzen prone to long contemplation, willing to sit and watch the frantic pace of lesser mortals take their courses around them.
Yet the Mot'zzen were simply the hands and heralds of a much older and much more ancient god. This god (or was it multiple gods?) was simply known as “The One(s) who Come” and the Mot’zzen were instructed to shape and guide the mundane world so that it may one day be fit to be inhabited by The One(s) who are Coming. However, only the Mot’zzen were allowed to worship this deity and only they could know its intents and directives, so when they spoke on its behalf, their word was law, and all followed.

Yet at some point in history, the Mot’zzen vanished. Records of their activities simply stopped. Without their direct influence those who used to listen and follow the word of Mot’zzen, and therefore the word of He(her? Them?) Who are Coming slowly dissipated. After another thousand years or so had passed even the temples of the Mot’zzen had been lost to the wilds, some sunk, others toppled to earthquakes or buried under volcanoes. With the temples went the Mot’zzens knowledge and power, and since only the Mot’zzen knew the teachings of They(it?) Who are Coming, any knowledge of this divine also vanished.

Now there are just a few temple ruins scattered about that hint at this once powerful civilization of World Builders, very few know of them and even less can read the ancient scripts.

One of the temples, known as “The Peak of Planes” has long been submerged and was dedicated to Aturna, the First of the Mage-Priests. Why this temple, associated with height or unending expanse would be found submerged deep within the seas is unknown. Some speculate that Aturna sunk it with himself when he disappeared while others speculate that it might be a gate to the different planes, and this temple is a point, the “Highest of the Planes.” Whatever the case, the temple itself was obviously not built with a sub-surface environment in mind.
As for Aturna, what can be gleaned from the writings within the temple states that he was the first of the Mot’zzen to arrive or be born here. Other scriptures show him teaching the other races how to perform magic and attribute to him the birth of arcane magic within the known world (incidently this is often in direct conflict with other religions, and with their gods being far more “apparent” within the world leads credibility to them, or at least dates the temple as far older then is believed, and before other religions “existed”).
It is also said that Aturna had “the shape of an amphibian, adorned with frilled crowns of simmering colours. Aturna wore golden ornaments of such extravagance and value to put even the wealthiest of nations to shame, while also protected by impossibly potent wards against harm or even time and death itself that shimmered in the tallow light.”
This if further embellished by the vast amounts of gold objects and statures within the temple, and the bluish wards that exist within to this day.
Aturna was also credited with creating the Grippli race, fashioning them after his own appearance, so that they may be the servants and craftsmen of the Mot’zzen. (however the Grippli depicted within the glyphs have tails, gills and a large fin running from the top of the head and going down their backs. It is believed that the Grippli were once a purely sea-faring race that has since adapted to the surface world)

14d6 ⇒ (3, 1, 6, 6) = 16

23d6 ⇒ (6, 4, 4) = 14

33d6 ⇒ (5, 2, 6) = 13

43d6 ⇒ (1, 5, 3) = 9

53d6 ⇒ (3, 3, 1) = 7

63d6 ⇒ (2, 2, 3) = 7
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rerolls
11d6 ⇒ 6

41d6 ⇒ 6

53d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 2) = 4

63d6 ⇒ (5, 4, 3) = 12
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rerolls 2
53d6 ⇒ (4, 2, 6) = 12

14d6 ⇒ (1, 3, 5, 2) = 11

23d6 ⇒ (4, 1, 6) = 11

33d6 ⇒ (6, 5, 1) = 12

43d6 ⇒ (3, 5, 6) = 14

53d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 2) = 10

63d6 ⇒ (1, 1, 5) = 7
--------------
rerols

11d6 ⇒ 6

21d6 ⇒ 3

31d6 ⇒ 5

63d6 ⇒ (3, 2, 5) = 10

Maz woke, cold, dry, and sore. This was happening way too often, and Maz hated being dry. But here he was, and there was his captor. He began sizing up the creature even as it turned to him and spoke.
A pathetic creature, but it does have its size. Oh! It speaks! I would not have imagined the pathetic creature capable. I highly doubt it has anything above an infantile intellect.
Maz then begins speaking to his captor in a patronizing tone as a shimmer begins within his hand, extending out. Beast. Your ignorance is not a sin, but even if you are incapable of understanding whom you have contained, it cannot be overlooked. Perish!
And with that, Maz hurls the newly formed javelin at his quarry.

Maz looks at the lesser human in front of him an eyebrow raised (scratch that. No eyebrows.) a scale on his forehead above his eye raises. Then he directs his attention to the horn in front of him.
So humans can produce drink. I doubt it to be much he drinks it tentatively, then another sip quickly after, and a little more eager.
Then he responds. Fate brought me to this... Quaint place, yet even its reasons are beyond me. But i lack understanding. I know not of this world, and i need know more.
As he talks, Maz traces his finger on the table, drawing a blue, shimmering line within the wood. He then lifts the shimmer from the wood, an ornate dagger pulled from nothing is in his hands.
I have low expectations.
He slams the blade into the table, then returning his hand to his drink, now thoroughly enjoying it.
But maybe i will be surprised.
The blade begins to slowly dissipate into a blue smoke, soon disappearing completely, leaving only a dent within the wood.

The doors behind Maz slam shut, but Maz remains focused forward.
After hearing about "Arlangar," Maz snorts, I doubt the man to be half the man he claims. Probably all lies.[/i]
Proceeding forward, he approaches the gargoyle [b]A test? Then what you make of my response?
Maz then raises his hand, a staff forming within his hand as he speaks. Aturna, guide my strike.
Then he strikes the gargoyle.
Next he drops the staff, now a blade forms within his hand and again, he speaks. Aturna, guide my blow.
Again, he strikes, and again he drops the weapon, now a bow forming within his grasp.
Aturna! Guide my aim!
He lets loose an arrow towards the gargoyles forehead...

Within the texts of that ancient temple there exists an order for the guardians, that the Temple Guard must periodically venture forth to the outside world so as to not lose touch with the greater world. Every 400 years or so should suffice, and those that do, rarely surface for more then an hour before returning to their duties.
It happened to fall on Maz's 32nd year of existence that he must venture forth. So he went from the depths towards the surface, and there found a boat, and within that boat humans. When he went to greet them, as was written within the ancient texts, the reaction was nothing he could expect. They greeted him with a smile, then extended a metallic stick towards him.
Bang.

Maz awoke, cold, dry and sore. His shoulder throbbed and when he went to examine what he would later learn to be a bullet hole he found himself unable to move. He had been tied up and thrown into a cell of what he could only assume to be the vessel before.

In front of him, there was a man. The same man who had greeted him with a smile and hostility before, and he had just ended the life of a young female in front of him.
Anger welled up within him, and he would exact retribution on his unworthy existence, but first, there were others in the cell with him....

"Ah," Alex hissed in pain. When he awoke he whipped his head to the side far too fast. The motion sent a spike of pain down his spine and up into his head. But that wasn't the only thing hurting. Everything did. Especially his left arm. It came within sight as he reflexively went to grab his head. A few inches from the elbow his forearm took a decidedly unnatural turn. And as he raised up he watched as it flopped over to the other side quite uselessly. The pain was likely a weight above him that threatened to smother his consciousness. Black spots danced before his eyes and he nearly passed out. He managed to take a few wheezing breadths and stop moving long enough for it to subside. "Shit," he hissed.

The pain subsided only a little but he managed to endure it enough to look around again. The cage. The cauldron. The giant. He took it all in before responding. When he did he found his mouth dry and his lips cracked. "Right. Story...Hn...I got a few...ah...What do you...hn...like? Sea adventure? Dashing hero? Damsel distress? Comedy?" Speaking was more effort than he thought but keeping it talking was likely going to keep him alive. At least long enough for him to do some healing. Either way. Things were bad. Really bad.

Alexander Drake gladly accepts the mead and downs it in one go. He then waves over a bar maid and orders two more, this time on him. He leans back and places his boots on the table out of the way of the conversation and the drinks. It was one thing to be casual, quite another to be rude. He gives the Ulfen a winning smile. "Here on business much like yourself. Tracking down some information. Nice little coincidence I heard that we are heading in the same direction. So if you would like my employ I am happy to offer at a reasonable price." He takes only a sip of the new tankard and sits it down. "I'm decent with a blade and with rigging. I can provide you with all the clean water you'll ever need. And, should the weather turn sour, there's no one better at keeping men alive and out of the drink. So i'd say a half a gold a day." The price was slightly less than double the normal price for a sailor but he doubted they could cast magic. So with the rumors talking him up it was almost a done deal. Getting paid to go where he wanted was much batter than having to pay.

Alex stares at the doors for a moment and scratches his head. "Not going that way anymore." He turns to take in his situation and, after a moment, curses. Riddles. He hated riddles. Truth and lies? Dead and alive? Three weapons held in the hands of intimidating looking gargoyles? He sighed. Whatever the trick was he wasn't going to figure it out. And he had places to be. A person to meet. He looks at the weapons, all very good quality from what he could tell.

Bold and brave. That sounded like him. But the sword at his side was of decent quality too and had gotten him through many fights already. It was familiar. It was special. It was his. So no to the sword.

Sly and cunning. You bet. And a bow, always useful. He had one but it wasn't nearly as good as this one. Polished wood etched with stylized waves. The soft glow of enchantment. He almost went for it right then. But he stopped and looked over at the staff.

Wise and learned. That he was not. At least not in the bookish sense. He couldn't remember the last time he picked one up. He had been many places so far and seen many things. And in all his travels, information had been a precious commodity. Maybe this staff could help. Make him wise and learned. Shore up some of his weaknesses. It wasn't pretty. It looked like a piece of drift wood someone had hammered a gem into. But that wasn't really bad thing. He was a drifter himself, looking for the one that saved his life years ago. And the gem was a light, transparent blue, like the waters of a hidden cove. A little rough but almost pure. Beautiful. Without thinking he reached for it and made his choice.

As she crested the surface of the water a thick fog hung in the air. The crashing of the surf muffled the sound of distant fighting. The thunderous boom of the humans’ cannons and guns thumped somewhere on land. The yelling and screaming of fighting and death could be heard along the shore. For weeks the Purest movement had pushed along the coast, uprooting and killing any non-humans they found. Her adopted people were human, but they had the taint of skin changers in them. Enough of a taint to be deemed unworthy by the mad human priest and his crusade of purity. The movement had been successfully pushing to the lands inhabited by her tribal people. While many other demi-humans or humanoids had fled before the scourge, the shark-kin, or Sea Scarred were a proud and noble people and would not flee before the oncoming army. Instead, they launched raids and sorties from their islands and coastal refuges. While successful, the shark people did not have the power of the Pure with their guns and cannons and steam ships. Many had died. Many were dying now and she could taste blood in the water. She crept closer to shore, obscured by the fog. She had hunted these waters and shores often recently, silently pulling pirates or sailors from their ships and dragging them to a watery grave. She heard several voices ahead on the shore. She could make out three men standing on the shore cursing the fog as they patrolled the shoreline. She stepped from the sea wordlessly, her long tangle of black hair falling to the water, a massed clump of seaweed vines wrapped around her. Her pale skin and dark hair may have caused a casual observer to mistake her for a patch of kelp washed in with a bit of frothy sea foam, but as she stood and walked up the beach to the men, they noticed her. They started and turned to approach her. She shook her hair though it clung to her pale wet body. The long sinuous clump of kelp slipped from her shoulders and waist, leaving a long ropy trail of seaweed behind her. She left small foot prints in the sand, the water oozing into the small indentations her feet left as she stepped onto the shore in the heavy fog. ”Oy lads what do we have here?” one of the sailors sneered. ”Looks like a pretty girl out for a swim. You lost girlie? Heh heh. You are an odd looking one aren’t you?” She approached them closer not saying a word but smiled cold and empty as she stepped past a large driftwood log. Her long dagger like claws dragged along the log, small curls of wood spiraling off and then damp chunks of old wood chipping away as her claws dug deeper. Her naked form glistened, dripping sea water onto the sandy beach. Her other hand moved to her bloated distended belly, rubbing her abdomen which pulsed disturbingly, as if something inside was agitated. The three men ogled her naked form. ”Looks like this lass is up for a bit o’ fun lads. Time for me to put another baby in her belly! Har har!” One of the men stepped forward fumbling with his pants. Another snickered, ”Save some for us Carl, and don’t be too rough with her, she’s just a little thing.” Carl replied, ”She don’t say much, but she will be screaming when I am done with her…” He stepped closer still, a piggish grin on his face. Isuri slashed both of her claws across the man’s belly gutting him open . His face went immediately pale, and the smile disappeared completely as his entrails spilled out onto the sandy beach. He wheezed once and clutched his intestines futilely as they slipped through his shaking fingers. Carl’s friends hesitated then scrambled forward, one of them pulling out his cutlass, the other bringing a heavy crossbow to bear. As the cutlass wielding man drew back, Isuri’s long hair shot out gripping the man by his feet and up-ending him. Her prehensile hair lifted the man, supernaturally suspending him in the air upside-down as he screamed and swung his cutlass at her well out of slashing range. As Carl lay dying next to her his blood oozing over the white shoreline, the third man slapped a quarrel in his crossbow and pulled back. As he worked feverishly with his contraption, the trail of seaweed left behind Isuri lunged forward slamming into him, wrapping itself around his neck, arms and legs. He cursed, his crossbow hopelessly entangled, “What in blazes are you girl?” As he struggled with the massive tangle of seaweed, Isuri picked up the driftwood log muttering a brief incantation. The second sailor tried to cut himself free from her hair, hacking at it feebly as he swung back and forth suspended upside down in mid-air. The small pieces of hair he managed to strike merely fell away to nothing and her prehensile mane renewed itself, supernaturally keeping him secure. Gripping the heavy driftwood two-handed, she swung the huge log with a strength unimaginable by her small frame. She took the swinging man’s head off splattering it like an overripe melon as he hung upside down like a piñata, spraying the third sailor with brains, bone, blood and gore. She unwound her hair, dropping the man’s lifeless body to the ground as the third man began to scream, entangled by the sea vines. Her hair snaked along the ground and through the air. Dragging the massive club behind her, she stepped closer to the man. As she stood over him, her bloated abdomen opened up and began to tear away like a ruptured tumor. The man screamed louder as her belly gave birth to a small tentacled horror that spilled forth and quickly scuttled towards him, its many arms grasping and crawling towards the man’s face. She brought her club down on one of his legs, crushing it into a pulp. The man shrieked in terror and pain. She slammed her club down again, shattering his other leg as the tiny octopus wrapped its suckered tentacles around his head, covering the man’s face. His screams now muffle,d intensified as the octopus’ razor sharp beak sliced open the man’s face, slicing nose, lips and cheeks into ribbons and injecting a lethal venom over and over. The man began to struggle less, poison coursing through his veins, pinned down and entangled by seaweed, hair, and tentacles. The octopus shredded the man’s face and the vines pummeled and slammed the man to and fro like a rag doll. Isuri’s hair began to grip him tighter, so tight it began to strip the flesh from his arms, pulling it off like bloody sleeves. The man was tougher than most, but soon he stopped moving. The octopus, sated, crawled back to Isuri, climbing quickly up her leg and reattaching itself to her belly, a squishy, suctioning sound fusing it in place, the small blue rings slowly fading, and the yellow flesh turning pale and white to match its mistress. The tangle of sea vines uncoiled itself from the bloody corpse and slithered along the sand, draping itself over her shoulders. She rubbed her bloated abdomen gently with one hand, and with her other caressed the blood coated vines. ”Well done my babies.” She walked past Carl, his innards strewn about. Already she saw the crabs closing in. They will feast tonight. She dragged her large piece of driftwood behind her as she walked up the shore towards the sounds of the fighting. As she stepped into a clearing, the fog seemed to be lifting here somewhat. She saw a contingent of her people fighting a large group of men who had put to shore on some boats. The fighting was pitched and many from both sides lay dead. She saw that her people were outmatched. Isuri’s anger flared as she saw her people fight on for their lives. In the fray she could see people from her village, her adopted mother and father, and siblings. She made quickly for the heated battle, invoking her witchcraft as she strode down the beach. With several brief incantations, her size grew, her small four and a half foot frame, growing to nearly nine feet tall. Another, and her arms grew grotesquely long, like those of a marine troll. She ensorcelled her oaken driftwood club and waded into battle. With her large size, long arms, and massive club, she felled one after another soldier, crushing in skulls, caving in chests, shattering arms, legs and spines. As she waded through battle, her vining seaweed tripped, tangled, strangled, and pinned down marine after marine for the kill. Her people fought all around her, skin-shaped into shark people, with large toothy maws, ripping and biting as they fought with spear and knife. But there were too many marines, they kept coming in boat after boat, and they had guns. As the fog faded even more, Isuri could see large ships offshore. They were using weather magic, the winds increasing to blow away the fog. With no obscurement, they began to fire their cannons. More and more of her people fell with each bombardment. Isuri’s anger grew. She killed more of the human raiders, but as the fog slipped away, her towering form stood out on the battlefield. Several men fired muskets at her. One or two missed, but one bullet slammed into her, penetrating her shoulder passing through the other side. She grimaced in pain as the glanced at the gaping wound. A second bullet would have sunk itself in her belly, but her bloated abdomen absorbed the metal ball, even as the tiny form attached to her writhed in agony. Soon enough it would heal though, drawing dark energy from her. The cannon fire increased and she saw most of her family surrounded, then cut down one by one by blade and gun. She screamed and moved to them even as her mother mouthed at her to run. She charged the group covering the distance far too slowly. Then she heard a howling noise; something was coming fast at her whistling through the air. The world exploded around her and everything went black.

You awaken to a blood-curdling scream that ends as abruptly as it began. You turn to the sound, as much out of reflex as curiosity, but find yourself in strange surroundings. Enclosed in a crude prison, a cage shaped out of the bones of some huge creature, the bars obstruct much of your vision. Further within the cavern, looming above a fiery cauldron and clutching the crushed, spasming remains of what might have once been an adventurer, is a malformed brute twice as tall as any man. Tattered bits of fur and cloth conceal much of its pudgy bulk, but beneath its garb you glean a blubbery, grey hide with a hideous array of pustules.
The giant deposits the broken, bleeding corpse it grips into the cauldron, where it lands with a splash in some unidentifiable concoction. Judging from the stench it kicks up, you would likely rather not know. One bulging eye seizes you as it begins stirring its feast, drool running unmitigated down the rolls of its chin and neck.
"Oi there, another one awake! Another awake. Maybe this one tells Old Brulk'tha a pretty tale. Maybe this one doesn't fill her belly tonight! Hurhurhur!" Her voice is wheezy but booming, and her jowls jiggle with each word.

Isuri lied on the floor of the cage fixing her gaze upon her captor. As it wheezed at her and blubbered and babbled she slowly rose to sitting position and met its bulging eyeball. Isuri pulled the tangle of kelp and sea vines from around her body which served as her only garment as well as a semi-intelligent companion. She directed it to slither to a darkened shadowy corner of the cage, where it slipped between the gaps and out the back of the cage out of sight. As the stinking hulk shambled over to the cage, and unfastened the door, Isuri stood and stepped to the door. ”I will tell you a pretty tale,” she stated coldly. As the huge creature pulled her from the cage, Isuri remained complacent, studying the fat pustuled giant as it carried her over to the stew pot. When the big cyclops spied Isuri’s bloated abdomen, she exclaimed ”Ooooh, it has a baby in its belly! Such a treat for Brulk’tha. After pretty tale, I will eat baby ok?” Isuri’s eyes narrowed as the giantess set her bound to the ground and turned to stir her pot of remains. Isuri’s claws, razor sharp had already begun severing the shoddy bonds, and her great strength began to rip them slowly apart. Her long black hair moved subtly as well, assisting in untying and tearing apart the crude rope. ”Ok little woman, tell me story now, or in the pot with you!” Brulk’tha sipped at an oversized spoon, slurping some white gristly piece of meat from the stew. Isuri spoke, ”Would you like to hear a story about my mother? She may have been much like you..” Brulk’tha turned suddenly, ”You has a mama like me? How is this so? You are small and weak, Brulk’tha strong! Haaahaaaa!” The old ogre’s chins jiggled and bits of sweat and spilled soup slobbered down her front as it laughed and wheezed, coughing up phlegm which she spit into the stew. She turned to stir it in, her single eye focused on her morbid soup du jour. Isuri’s hands now free made a subtle motion in the shadows, and her long vining companion slithered through the darkness across the floor, and into a darkened crevice, snaking up the wall to maneuver among the stalactites of the cave. Isuri’s hair worked its way through the refuse on the floor, reaching the creature’s pot where she had a very large oaken club standing. It was darkened from crushing countless creatures, their blood soaked in permanently staining it. As the big brute was focused on her soup, Isuri pulled the club toward her slowly, her hair carefully lifting it towards her. ”My mother was a sea hag, she lived in the ocean, she gave birth to me and abandoned me. I was raised by sharks.” She secured the club behind her under a pile of skins, rags, and rotten garbage. She kept both of her hands behind her to maintain the ruse of still being bound. One hand touched and held hold of the club as she muttered a quick incantation, taking a brief second to touch the shark-tooth necklace about her neck. ”You mama is a hag? Brulk’tha don’t believe you! Why do you tell me lies!?” Isuri responded softly. ”All good stories contain some exaggeration. Do you want to hear more?” The cyclopean woman grunted. ”Keep talking little girl, but Brulk’tha is getting hungry. Maybe you better in the pot.” As the woman fussed over her soup, a long sinewy vine fastened around rock formations on the ceiling dropped one end slowly to Isuri, as she made hand subtle hand motions to it. Once low enough Isuri’s hair snaked up ten feet in the air to meet the vine and entwine together. The hair and vine lifted Isuri into the air, who rose quickly, pulling the large enchanted oaken cudgel with her. She began to swing to and fro assisted by her supernatural hair. ”Hey why you not talking girl?” As the giant crone turned to where Isuri had been sitting, she howled, ”Where you go? You will be in pot for sure! Raaaaarrrgh!” Isuri finished a second incantation, growing in size to almost matching that of the giantess. She unleashed herself from the swinging vine loosening her hair at the right trajectory, her weight too much for it to bear now. The vine slipped from its anchor at the same time, dropping on the grotesque abomination. Isuri’s huge club slammed into the back of the giant’s misshapen head, with a splatting thump. The force of the blow doubled the woman over her face slamming into the rim of the stew pot, knocking several teeth out. The old ogress howled and roared in pain. ”Now you die!” she blubbered spitting out a tooth and a frothy spittle of blood. As she turned, the clump of sea vines wound around her legs, the heavy tendrils slapping and thumping against the creature’s thick skin. Isuri standing nine feet tall now, wound back the club again and swung at the bloodied bloated face. The huge woman was easy to hit entangled and struggling, but swung her arm up to block the blow catching the brunt of it on her elbow and huge fat forearm, bones crunching. ”Aaahh, give me my club!” it bellowed as it swung its other huge meaty fist at Isuri knocking the club from her grasp. The fat hag struggled to move to reach it. Isuri leaped upon the ogre, slashing with her claws, joining the tangle of vines and bodies, her hair snarling and tangling in with the seaweed to hold the ogre fast. With extra strength from her increased size, Isuri, drove her clawed hands at the woman’s face attacking the brute’s eye. She struck twice, once slashing open the giant fat blubbery neck, blood and a gravy like pus oozing forth. Her other grasped the creature’s face, driving her long dagger-like thumb nail into the woman’s bulging eye. A thick lid tried to stop it but Isuri was too strong, and the woman shrieked as her sole eyeball burst, popping like a ruptured boil. Isuri kicked off of her, leaving her hair to entangle and pin Brulk’tha. As she stumbled around blindly, it tried to tear away the sea kelp and hair, but even with its huge size and strength the tangle proved to be difficult. Isuri cooed softly to the ogre. ”Shhhh, it will be all over soon.” She patted her engorged abdomen, and a small octopoid form began to tear away, tentacles manifesting and wriggling forth like some ancient horror. The tiny creature flopped from her belly birthed in seconds and wriggled its way to the ogre, clasping on to a hand as it flailed about. The octopus wrapped its many tentacles around the already entangled creature and began to bite and snap at its fingers and hand. As Brulk’tha howled in pain, Isuri picked up the club again, and battered the blinded woman square in the back. A huge twisted hump crunched, and a large pustule burst apart, spilling its fetid goo over the giant woman’s rotten ragged clothing. It lumbered to and fro, cracking open its bloodied eye to try to see. Isuri chanted again, and her arms grew longer. Now out of reach of the creature, she battered it again, taking out a knee with a sickening crunch. Her hair pulled the good leg out from under the huge woman, dropping her to the ground as the vines continued to pummel her and the tiny tentacled tumor sunk its venomous bite into it again. ”Noooo..don’t kill Brulk’tha please…!” it begged. ”Awwww..” mocked Isuri as she brought her club down again on the prone writhing ogre. Slamming her square in the face, its misshapen nose disappeared in a spray of gore and cartilage and blood. The woman’s face caved in, she gurgled, wheezing and gasping for breath as she slipped into unconsciousness. As the vines and tiny octopus slithered back to their mistress, Isuri took one more double overhanded swing, delivering the coup de grace to Old Brulk’tha. Covered in blood and gore, Isuri strode from the cave, ”Time for a swim my babies.”

The strange fellow smiles broadly as he takes a seat across the table from you. The bustle of the tavern thrums all around as excited conversations crescendo and wain, only to be replaced by another. His flaxen hair, pale skin, and burly frame mark him as unmistakeably Ulfen. Judging by his garb—and lack of any noteworthy weaponry—he is likely a merchant of some stripe. Without being prompted, he slides one of the two horns of mead he carries across the table to you, raising his own in a toast.
After a modest mouthful of his own drink, he speaks, "Rumors flit about this place like a bee to the flowers. But all seem to agree that your. . . skills are worth every copper and more. Tell me then, friend: what brings you here and how can Ingmund convince you to allow him the honor of employing one such as yourself?"

Isuru sat across from the man. She looked about the tavern. She had arrived earlier and sat at the table observing the crowd. Her entrance had drawn a bit of a stir, a few wide eyes and many whispered comments under people’s breath. She realized long ago that her appearance did not fit the typical look of land people in the cities. Her long black hair and mismatched eyes were uncommon but not terribly noteworthy considering the myriad of races that walked the civilized and uncivilized lands. Perhaps it was her lack of clothing that brought about a few gasps. She never understood the preoccupation with clothing that the land dwellers had. In the sea it just weighed you down and constricted your movement. It had been explained long ago that attached to this was the concept of modesty, and that to some, revealing your too much flesh was a sign of low morals. She laughed inwardly at this ridiculous concept. Maybe it was her long fingers, which were tipped with razor sharp claws of steel, like butcher knives. Or was it that she dripped water as she walked, the giant tangle of ropy seaweed that clung to her like a mantle shedding sea water long after she stepped from the sea. Possibly the smell of the sea weed, and the salty water as it dried on her skin, an odor many land dwellers found unpleasant. Most likely it was her distended abdomen, appearing to casual inspection to be a very late stage pregnancy. Though causing no harm to her, or even impeding her locomotion, a large tumor dwelt in her belly, the focus of her witchcraft, her ‘baby’. Her mind wandered as she looked across that table at the well- groomed fool babbling across from her. When he shoved the mead across the table to her, she remained motionless, although a small tendril of sea weed snaked curiously forth of its own mind investigating the horn and its contents. A second later her long black tangle of hair began to writhe, and several strands crept over the edge of the table lifting the horn aloft matching the man’s toast. She set it back on the table, and a flash of disappointment crept over the man’s face, to be quickly replaced by his smile. ”You’ll forgive me if I do not drink,” she responded, standing and revealing her bloated protruding belly tracing a circle around it with one of her long wicked nails. It took him off guard a bit and he stammered, ”Of course…my apologies.” He quickly regained composure. This was a man used to being in charge and control. He probably prided himself on being prepared and having as much information before entering a situation. To be taken off guard was unsettling to him. Isuri responded to his query, ”Rumors are a funny thing.” She sat back on her chair, one foot on the floor, the other knee bent and the foot on the seat of the chair. The coil of kelp moved of its own accord again, wrapping around the table legs, or looping through the chair back, occasionally sending the end of a vine into the air like a snake raising its head, as if the plant could actually see by some method. She placed one of her clawed hands on the table. She spread her fingers to show the thick webbing between them. Her hair pulling away from her neck on its own, revealing a set of gills. ”Ingmund, I can tell you one thing. I am most well adapted to accomplishing your task. You want the contents of your sunken ship returned.” Again the man tried to conceal his surprise that she knew what the mission already entailed. He smiled graciously. She continued, ”I am practiced in the druidic arts, as well as witchcraft and know the ocean and coastline, in this area like few others you are likely to encounter.” The man nodded, rubbing his chin, and replied, ”Fair enough! Shall we discuss a price?” Isuri nodded, and a smile crept onto her face for the first time. ”Indeed. You mentioned coppers, but I was thinking more along the lines of gold, and pearls.” As she spoke, her hair pulled forth a small golden ingot and a tiny purple pouch from her own larger pouch. As the mobile hair placed the ingot and pouch on the table a few pearls spilled forth. An insignia on the pouch matched that exactly of a brooch on the man’s cloak. The man stuttered, ”H-h-how did you…?” With a predatory grin, she spoke in a low voice, ”Mr. Ingmund, I have already found your ship and its contents. I will return them to you for twenty percent of its value. Any less, and it is possible they may be lost to the sea forever.” The man almost choked, ”Twenty percent?!” He composed himself and then laughed heartily, genuinely. With a smile of relief and bemused curiosity, he held forth his hand. ”You have a deal!” Isuri stood and clasped the man’s hand, her own grip like an iron vice. A coil of sea weed spiraled up her own arm encircling the man’s hand and arm, joining the handshake. Isuri replied, ”I will contact you shortly.” She stood and strode from the tavern into the streets and headed towards the docks disappearing into the fog which now seemed to be slipping in from the sea.

Behind you, the tomb's double-doors slam shut. Try as you might, you are unable to pry them open by any means. A disembodied voice laughs unnervingly as soft blue flames begin to dance to life along myriad braziers lining either side of the room.

"Arlanghar the Brave and Bold; the Wise and Learned; the Sly and Cunning. All truth and lies. Dead and alive, a tomb and a mansion." Another peal of laughter emerges before the voice trails off into silence.
At the center of the square room stands a three-armed gargoyle, each hand grasping a different weapon: a sword, a staff, and a bow. The far wall is dominated by a mural depicting what appears to be three versions of the same hero, each wielding weapons that correspond to those held by the statue.

Isuri padded across the floor of the tomb. With her bare feet, she thought it should be a bit cooler, and damper. She stopped at the gargoyle statue inspecting it. A tendril of seaweed began to lazily slither from her waist, snaking towards the statue. She calmly diverted it back to the dark undulating mass that hung from her shoulders and waist, coiled around arm and leg. Not yet.. She stepped cautiously to the mural, pausing with each step across the floor, pushing down with each foot but keeping her center of balance back, in case she triggered a trap. Supposedly these old tombs were filled with them. She inspected the mural, looking for signs or clues or anything interesting. She inhaled deeply, the cool damp air of the tomb comforting and stifling all the same. Still not trusting the floor, she summoned water, a brief torrent issued forth from her hand, splashing onto the floor. It pooled and sat undisturbed briefly, then began to quickly drain away through tiny cracks in the mortar working its way through the floor. She repeated the process many times, splashing water about looking for hidden caches, invisible trip lines or unseen dangers that might be revealed. In all cases the water quickly drained away through the floor. Interesting. Focusing again, she uttered a brief cantrip and concentrated on the presence of magic, slowly turning in a full circle, taking her time with each turn. She faced the ceiling and did the same. There was strong magic present of varying types in the tomb. She focused the longest on the three weapons held by the statue. After that she focused on the mural. Magic was everywhere here. She placed her hand on several strong columns in the tomb, each in turn. With a thought, her long dark tangle of hair began to writhe, she manipulated it into several strands, and began to fish the ends of her hair into the floor, slipping between the crevices. The hair continued to slip into the floor, deep. She encircled one of the flagstones, sending tendrils down around it on all sides. Once so enclosed, she willed her hair to pull up. With supernatural strength, the hair pulled the flagstone from its mortared mooring. She peered into the depths, her perfect night vision piercing the black void below. The bottom appeared to be fully fifty feet down. She stuck her head down and inspected the underside of the floor. Ancient stone gear work formed an elaborate machine, that a best as she could tell could open multiple panels of the floor effectively dropping all contents into the deep pit below the bottom of which was covered with jagged stone spikes. She could not see how it was triggered but had her suspicions. The voice echoed again, ”One so young, you are brave and bold, but also wise and learned. But are you sly and cunning?” The voice gave her goosebumps, but the sensation was welcome, invigorating. She even salivated at the inherent danger of the tomb. She spit her excess saliva into the deep pit symbolically, and irreverently. She stood and walked to the mural. She had no use for a sword, or a bow, but staves could contain power she could use. She hungered for such power. She traced her long knife like nails in a circle around the staff in the mural not touching it. Her hair twisted into a thick braid that stood straight into the air like a cobra ready to strike. Her hand gestured to the columns on either side of her, and the long ropy vines covering her body peeled off and encircled the column tightly, securing her to both. As she slapped her hand to the mural, touching the staff, her hair shot out and plucked the staff from the hand of the statue as it glowed with magical power. The room filled with thunder as a counterweight in the statue clunked and the powerful gears quickly dropped the floor sections from beneath her. A brief sensation of falling flew through her before her vine safety belt held her securely. She pulled the staff in close to her. Breathlessly she whispered, ”I claim you.” The hollow disembodied voice echoed again, ”Sly, and cunning too….” She heard the ratcheting noise of more gears and the clunk of resetting weights as the floor lifted back into position. Grinning devilishly, she stepped onto the floor as the tomb doors began to unbolt. She pulled the huge doors open, as the dim morning light landed upon her. She slid the staff into the coils of seaweed now reattached to her and stepped into the day.

These may be slightly NSFW
Pic 1
Pic 2
Pic 3

1 4d6 ⇒ (5, 5, 5, 6) = 21
2 3d6 ⇒ (4, 5, 2) = 11
3 3d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 5) = 13
4 3d6 ⇒ (3, 4, 4) = 11
5 3d6 ⇒ (6, 2, 4) = 12
6 3d6 ⇒ (6, 5, 5) = 16

reroll 4 3d6 ⇒ (3, 4, 6) = 13

Shaking his head to clear it, Morgan immediately regrets the move as stars explode all across his vision. "Wow I must have been hit hard, I don't even remember it!" He quickly readjusts and his sense of survival comes through. Stalling for time Morgan hopes he can charm even an ogress as ugly as this, "Old Brulk'tha, I wouldn't have called such a vision of loveliness, old!" Morgan's eyes quickly flit over the cage as his hand reaches for the small dagger that hangs in the small of his back, "Damn, she found even that one". As the bile rises in his throat, Morgan can see that even a fat old ogress is susceptible to a little bit of flattery. "If only I were a little older myself, well and a little bigger! Why don't you let me out and we can talk a bit better." This puts the cunning ogress, back on guard. Realising that he has only one realistic option left, Morgan times it to perfection. As Brulk'tha opens the cage and reaches in for him, Morgan dives through her legs, coming up in a neat roll he then calls on his goddess, arm and birthmark extended and he summons a wave that crashes into the ogress, knocking her into the cage. Quick as he can Morgan shoots the bolt and locks the cage. As old Brulk'tha rages and roars shaking the cage, Morgan sifts through the discarded piles of clothing and equipment finding his weapons and anything of decent value.
"So long Brulk'tha you fat old crone, I think I win" and he saunters off towards the cavern entrance.

As the merchant approaches, Morgan scans the busy tavern, his quick eyes notice the navy issue boots below the merchant's garb and even though there may be no obvious weapons, a lifetime of living outside the law allow Morgan to spot the knife shaped bulge and the access slit in the cloak. Leaning over and accepting the horn, Morghan runs his finger down the side of it, Besmara giving him the power to clear it of any sleeping draught. " So what skills are those? I am not in what is normally an employed line of work!" As he waits for a reply Morgan takes a long draw at the horn, the sweet mead tingling his tongue on the way down. Playing a part, Morgan soon slumps forward as if asleep, watching from under his lids as the merchant hurries off to the watch. As soon as the 'merchant' is on the move Morgan is up. Knowing the normal routes out of the pub will be watched, Morgan walks past the bar and to the stairs, saying to the barkeep as he does, " Thanks for the heads up Jethro, Double or nothing that he brings 6 or more of the guard back, you in? I will be watching from the roof, so no cheating!"

Stepping slowly forward into the room Morgan runs his eyes around. Why am I here? It has only been seconds and yet already I can feel the walls closing in around me. Oh for the salty sea air and a pitching deck beneath me. Traps were never my thing, book learning neither.
Oh Besmara, aloe me to see the magicks that bind this place, that I may bring you more treasures for you to play with. As Besmara's blessing fall upon him, Morgan's eyesight gets clearer, bright coloured lines can be seen dancing around the gargoyle and across the floor. Moving with the fluid grace of a predator Morgan leaps the magic lines, rolling and coming up at the feet of the gargoyle. Hmmm which one, which one. Besmara will always reward the sly and the cunning first, I will take the bow, but let us see what Arlanghar can do to stop me if I am standing on his head! With the ease of many practiced years climbing the rigging, Morgan scales the gargoyle and takes the bow.