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Gameplay thread BEGIN
Hello!
I'm in!
Me me me me me
"Oi, ya blitherin' idiots, coming through, make way for yer elders!" The dwarf shouted, his advance through the group evident by the surprised and indignant yelps as one after another the group parted to allow him through. As he reached the front, the cause of the yelping became apparent, as the dwarf forcefully jabbed the butt of his rifle into the legs of those who did not step aside fast enough.
"Now then.." He said, stopping and leaning on his weapon. "..What are we doin'?"
Bathilda holds out a flask of whiskey labeled "General Events" to the garishly dressed dwarf.
"Not a clue," she says in a pleasantly silky alto, "wanna have a drink until we know who we need to kill?"
Dhice finds a spot that's a bit out of the way when the crew starts to gather. He seems surprised to see a few of the faces, but keeps to himself mostly. When Hjalmar blusters his way through the room, a few people notice that Dhice frowns and shakes his head slightly, and fewer still notice that a small stone tile lifts up in the dwarfs path, as if the floor were trying to trip him. Then it sinks back down and Dhice sighs, muttering to himself, "it's just his way, let him be...".
Archepex arrives neither late, nor early. He arrives exactly when he means to. He slides into the room and immediately looks out of place with his multicolored, earthy clothes. In nature he would have been tough to spot. In here...
The hawk perched on his shoulder didn't do blending in any favors either. Both the elf and the bird both scan the room with piercing eyes.
Hello, I'm Grigor's brother-in-law and I'm here for all your healing needs!
Greetings Mykmyk! You're just in time for the campaign to begin:
Times are hard for people all over, it is said. Civilized folk from the far-flung ocean shores to the central mountains are living in uncivilized times; talk of the southern lands turning into a plagued wasteland bit by bit, strange gates of hellish magic opening up at random, and the Skaven; the damned Skaven, the eternal threat to all other civilizations.
Little by little, the "smallfolk" of the rural countrysides and small towns and villages began to disappear. Without the high walls of protection that city dwellers enjoyed, it is becoming harder and harder to live off the land. Wild bandits and Skaven warbands roam the wilds freely, robbing and murdering anyone unable to defend themselves.
Accordingly, the strongholds of civilization that remain are becoming overclogged metropolises, with slums extending for miles around each one. The powerful magics of the city's elite are enough to stave off starvation in most cities, but even magical resources can be strained and depleted.
President Coghammer, the Dwarven executive at the head of the Democratic Republic of Valetto, has had enough. Leveraging his emergency powers of office, he has claimed vast swaths of land that have been partially or completely overrun in recent years, but have remained held by noble families within the capital. Shocking and drawing cries of outrage from the entrenched politicians and aristocracy of Valetto, Coghammer has made a public offer to all adventurers, sellswords and hedge magicians:
For every head of a Skaven warlord that is presented to him, a Duke's manor will be awarded;
for every head of a Skaven High Priest, a Castle will be awarded;
and if some way can be found to stymie the Skaven war effort altogether, Halsgraad, the mountain stronghold, will be granted to the hero's family forever more.
Even with such rewards, the prospect of venturing off into Skaven territory has kept all but the most foolish away from attempting it. You all, largely, are no exception; you all are smart enough to know that attempting such a mission alone would be suicide.
Still, the capital city of Saint Agnes is abuzz with the drama of Coghammer's challenge to the indolent ruling class. Such a shakeup of land acquisition is unthinkable in recent history; once land is owned, it is usually owned for good by the entrenched wealth of its landowners.
None of you have much coin to rub together. Eventually, with the lack of work available in the capital and the dangers in the countryside surrounding it, you began to trickle in to a ramshackle building that you were told was the headquarters for a Skaven-hunting merc company, MOUSETRAP.
The man in charge of Mousetrap was a halfling named Wicks. You were all signed on to work for him for a year, earning an equal share of the loot and food found on your journeys. When your company left St. Agnes, you were 40 members strong.
That was six months ago. Now, halfway into your contract, your numbers are much depleted, and you find yourself in a sticky situation.
Roll 2d6 with no modifiers. If you rolled above a 10, you were off foraging for supplies in a local abandoned village when the ambush struck Mousetrap's encampment. You arrive back at camp to find the Skaven holding your allies prisoner, what do you do? If you rolled a 7-9, you were taken by surprise by the Skaven ambush, but you have a minor secret up your sleeve (like a lockpick, a small knife, or a hidden ally) to turn the situation to your advantage when the time is right. If you rolled a 6, take 1d8 damage, and you're tied up with ropes around your ankles and wrists, with your wrists bound overhead.
The attack happened at dawn. The only warning Mousetrap got was the faintest possible sound of rat-claws scraping against the dirt before the ground erupted all around them and feral rats, their eyes misted with a reddish enchantment, launch themselves at you and bite and scratch fiercely. You all are seasoned fighters and defeating the first wave wasn't exactly difficult...but that is when the heavy footfalls of a Rat-Ogre effectively ended the fight. Wicks, knowing that some of you were away and could mount a rescue, threw down his weapon - a rifle - and shouted that he surrendered. Much of the rest of the Mousetrap follow suit - those that haven't been killed already.
The Rat-Ogre is a twelve-foot tall monstrosity of a bipedal rat that is being guided by a handler riding on its back and holding horse-like reins. The beast watches you all dully as the Skaven bind your wrists and ankles. Altogether counting the Ratogre and his rider, there are two dozen Skaven vs your party and a dozen of the surviving Mousetrap members.
Grigor was ...
Gain an XP! Looks like they got the drop on you, Umlich...
... stabbed in the back by a Skaven gutter-runner during the fighting for hit points and is tied up.
The one time he wasn't scouting. The one time! Archepex had just returned from escorting a valuable Elven scholar (to whom he was Distantly related) and was resupplying when the fight broke out. He fought and fought and lost friends and fought, but it wasn't enough. Thankfully, his hawk, Mule, was circling over head. Just a few bits of his powerful break and Archepex was free...
Dhice doesn't yet have the battle readiness trained into him. He's shocked by the incursion, and soon finds himself beat up and tied up, taking hp damage...
He immediately starts to look around, trying to size up the situation as it develops and in particular looking for any sharp rocks that might be nearby.
Azeban intended to later tell the others that he had allowed himself to be captured to keep an eye on Dhice, and Grigor. It wasn't the truth, but it sounded better than the reality that he had somehow missed an entire ambush. It mattered not at the moment, since he was bound near the others.
Dhice had been wounded, and Azeban shifted, trying to give the younger man an encouraging and comforting smile, that may well have come across as a grimace at Dhice's wounds. Despite how bad it looked, Azeban suspected that the two of them could mount an escape. After all, the filthy Skaven had no idea when they tied his bonds that he could turn into a hulking bear and tear the rope apart like blades of grass.
It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment.
Most people dont like Skaven. Most dwarves dont much like Skaven either. Hjalmar however, being of hardy mountain dwarf stock, utterly despised the revolting rodents. As the ambush had descended upon them, he had held his ground and steadily splattered rodent brains across the ground before being bowled over by the vile things. He was presently gagged, his constant threats and insults now turned to angry muffled gibberish.
Bathilda had been in the thickest of the fighting, turning Skaven into confetti with her zwei-hander. When she got it stuck in the particularly thick skull of a rather stupid Skaven, she turned to her dagger, then her teeth and raw strength when that got lodged between the ribs of another. She hadn't quite developed the hatred that Hjalmar had for the things, but her bloodlust had not been quite sated when she went looking for the inevitable second, third, and fourth waves.
She found the second wave alright. She found it when the rat-ogre's fist met her face.
After Wicks had surrendered, they hauled her out and stripped her of her gear and armor before binding her hands and feet and gagging her. They'd almost finished tying the others up when she awoke with a loud, surprised, "MMPH!" followed by a string of unintelligible curses. Judging by the time between pauses for breath, she'd gone straight for the more colorful and creative ones that she'd been using with increasing frequency when speaking of Wicks.
Archepex sighs at the furious chorus of gagged howling around him. So much energy wasted. And yet he dare not speak and give away the level of his own resolve. He would wait. Patiently. Like the trees.
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It had been such a pretty morning too. Communion was complete, breakfast was warming by the remains of last nights campfire...when the vermin came. Filthy things those. The fight had gone well for a spell, but the numbers were too great.
Luckily I'd recently aquired a small knife for performing surgeries, and thanks be to Valaya it was still secreted upon me after the hasty search by the rats. should be an easy enough matter to cut through my bonds...if I can manage not to slit my own wrists in the process.
After a good fifteen minutes, she finally stops and glares at Archepex. It's not that she hates the guy, or thinks him incompetent, but Wicks was out of her field of view and he was the only person who'd be able to withstand it handy.
It's kinda a compliment if you think about it a certain way, she thinks as she continues staring daggers.
The skaven chatter together and pick through your belongings after they finish trussing you up. The Rat-Ogre stares at Mykmyk with open hunger in its eyes, its colossal jaw hanging slightly slack and exposing its oversized incisors. Drool gathers on its lower lip and slaps to the hardpacked earth every few seconds. Its sloping forehead is warty and horrible.
The majority of the Mousetrap prisoners, players included, are gathered together in an area near the campfire and tied to posts. At the orders of the Rat-ogre's handler, a sinister-looking Skaven wearing a black hood, the rat-men gather all the available firewood (and many of the Mousetrap's flammable supplies) and begins to pile it up, causing the flames to lick higher and higher.
None of the skaven get too close to you individually; they're smart enough to know that most of you could physically overpower a single Skaven even when bound. They keep their distance and eye you balefully, clutching their crossbows and long-handled knives and whispering malevolent words.
As the flames get higher, Dhice notices the remainder of the mercenaries that were dispatched to search for supplies in the nearby abandoned town. They crest the hill carelessly, without any players nearby to advise caution, and come up short when they see the Skaven.
"Oh, f%%!..." you can hear from them, before the Skaven give a war cry and fire a volley of crossbow bolts at them. Caught unawares and unprepared, the mercs scatter and flee!
Currently, the flames are about 20 foot square from all the supplies that the Skaven gathered up to burn. The Rat-Ogre is just north of the flames, and the rider has stood up on its shoulders, and seems to be incanting a spell. Fire is gathering at his fingertips, and the Rat-Ogre is laughing a slow, stupid, evil laugh.
The 2 dozen skaven are firing their crossbows at the other mercs from your company, or waving their melee weapons in the air if they aren't holding crossbows. There are 8 knife-Skaven and 16 gulch-runners. What do you do?
Oh, Rikard, nice, someone passed the roll! That means you were away from camp when they were ambushed, so you aren't tied up. Since you posted after me, that means you were lagging behind the other mercs a bit. When they crested the hill ahead of you, they were attacked by the Skaven, but you went unnoticed. You're able to look down on the camp where the Skaven have your friends prisoner without being noticed, Darke; so you have the element of surprise. What do you do?
Okay, that's enough waiting.
As the crossbow wielding rats turn their attention to the idiots who didn't even notice the tracks, Bathilda begins pulling hard on the ropes binding her hands.
She sighs as she doesn't succeed in doing more than maybe tightening the knot securing her hands.
Ain't my day. Ain't my week, Ain't my damn month. Sure as hell ain't my thrice damned year!
Dhice looks around intently, trying to see who (or what) is directing the ambush, who the spell-caster is focused on, what the terrain is like, etc.
Still intent on a Discern realities.
You s+&!s, the lot of you. Blades and teeth and powers beyond reckoning, and we get ransacked by sodding rats.
Waylaid, frustrated, and damn near ready to piss himself, Locrian Aemin, er, Locrian the Drowned(!) attempts to lick some of the blood from his mouth.
Thank the gods they didn't gag me. Little vermin don't know who they're dealing with.
Locrian starts, quietly at first, humming a tune in a minor modality. Keep it somber, they'll think I'm just passing time. Eventually he starts adding in a phrase or two, hoping the magicks are enough to tend to some of Dhice's wounds.
"...stonemason, who broke your heart?
brick by brick, be mended again."
Seeing the leader distracted, and casting a spell no less, Hjalmar growled and gasped through his gag as he worked himself into a seated position. Then, with a loud groan, he forced himself to stand, before hopping as fast as he could towards the hulking rat ogre.
"Not today ya scum suckin' mongrel!!" Is what he would have shouted had he not been gagged, instead simply growling unintelligibly. With the black hooded sorcerers attention elsewhere, and the rat ogre so fully engrossed in its laughter, Hjalmar managed to reach the lumbering creatures legs, throwing himself bodily at the limb with all his strength.
However the trunk-like legs of the Rat ogre barely moved. The ogre however did, looking down in slack jawed surprise.
Archepex beats Bathilda's stares with a bit of trepidation. She only really looked that way when she was about to brain you, drag you into her tent, or both. Seeing as she was tied up, however, Archepex felt relatively safe. Relatively being the key word and safe being rather loosely defined at this moment.
Then the scouts, some of whom he had trained, arrive and the chaos starts up again. Time for a moment to be seized! He whistles and Mule days in from the bordering trees. He flies in fast and low toland on Archepex's bonds. It takes a moment to convey that it was not fighting time or snacks time, but the bird finally gets it and starts going to town on Archepex's bonds.
Right about the time Hjalmar bounces of the Rat-Ogre's shin the tips snap and Archepex immediately retreats into the remains of the camp. He needs a weapon.
No, I should've explained, beg pardon. I rolled to randomly determine which of you spotted the other Mousetrap mercs coming back over the hill, for purposes of the fiction. I do that sometimes, usually to avoid a superfluous Discern Realities or Defy Danger roll.
I strain to snap the ropes with pure strength (Bend Bars/Lift Gates: destroy an inanimate object)...
Which instantly, and quietly snap, causing no undo attention from nearby Skaven.
Dhice peers around himself, looking for something he can turn to his advantage, and notices something - the pooling drool coming from the Rat-Ogre's lower lip is actually enough to make the ground beneath his feet slightly muddy...other than that, there's a huge roaring bonfire near enough to all of you to be uncomfortable, and the ground slopes upward at a faint angle to the hills that surround the abandoned town nearby. Up on that hill, your fellow Mercs are scattered and fleeing from the Skaven assault.
You also feel your wounds closing. You turn and see the elven bard, Locrian, just finishing a minor spell that he cast using only his murmured voice. The knife-wound is little more than a scratch now, and your bleeding subsides. The pain is nearly gone.
Bathilda, Hjalmar, Archepex and Grigor seize upon this moment to strike. Bathilda is knocked over by Hjalmar while in the middle of wriggling free of her bonds, and falls flat on her face, cursing. Fortunately, she's within reach of Wicks the halfling, and he immediately sets to gnawing on the rope binding her wrists with his large, squarish hobbit teeth. He's doing more tugging and pulling than actual severing of the ropes, but it's working the barbarian free, little by little. Bathilda, when the ropes finally loosen enough to free you, what do you do?
Hjalmar fares little better than the human. With a reckless cry, he tries to knock the Rat-Ogre off balance, but you might as well try to trip a sequoia tree. The Rat-Ogre shifts from foot to foot, wavering slightly, and the lead Skaven curses and flails as he tries to maintain his balance!
the rat-ogre bellows, stooping low for a sweeping grab at the bearded pirate. You can try to dodge underneath it or try to run up the beast's arm, what do you do Hjalmar?
Mule the bird lands on Archepex's bound wrists that were pinned overhead, and swiftly severs the rope with his beak, giving a challenging cry to the Skaven. "BIRD! I HATE BIRDS! KILL IT!" you hear the wild-eyed Skaven leader cry. He has fallen from his saddle but is still hanging on to the Rat-Ogre's back-fur, screaming orders at his subordinates. Archepex and Mule retreat and the ranger is able to scoop up his weapon from where it was hidden near where he slept.
Grigor, you're able to flex and break the ropes, but they dig painfully into your wrists, leaving red welts that linger painfully. (Just for the fiction, your Fighter move actually means no downsides on 7-9 rolls of this kind). You are free to act. You are wearing your armor but your weapon is not within reach at the moment, what do you do?
Let it also be known that I'm looking forward to responding to the posts from Mykmyk, Rikard and Azeban. I love big parties :)
Hack and Slash with my gauntlet into the nearest Clan Skaven holding a decent looking sword for me to steal.
For damage.
I got a 10, so I haymaker into the punch, risking a counter-attack for an additional damage to his dumb, rat face.
Close but no cigar, my friend - starting characters cannot have a +3 modifier to any ability, you need to level up and pump up one of your stats to get that high. At 16 strength, you have a +2 modifier to your Hack and Slash, meaning that you get a partial success!
You still deal your damage, but you don't deal the extra 6. You bloody the Skaven's long nose in your mad rush to charge him, but his sword has more reach than your fists. In this situation, the defender has the advantage. He slices along your inner arm as he defends against your attack. Take 1d6 damage. Heedless, you double-fist slam into his nose. After staggering backward from your gauntleted punch to the face, the injured Skaven hisses and you are instantly flanked by two more Clan Skaven, one for each side! As one, they level their curved daggers and punch them at you, trying to shiv you prison-style! What do you do?
Bathilda manages to work her hands free with the help of Wicks and her first two actions are to remove the gag from her mouth and snag Wicks' hip-flask and use the cheap rotgut to rinse her mouth out and get rid of the taste of skaven blood. those two priorities taken care of, she whips out the halfling's boot dagger and cuts him loose.
She drains the rest of the flask before throwing it and the dagger back to the leader of this little fubar'd unit and says, "I'm still not sleeping with you," before rushing at the the leader of the skaven raiders and going for his neck. He looked like a priest after all and a priest's head fetched a castle.
Close but no cigar, my friend - starting characters cannot have a +3 modifier to any ability, you need to level up and pump up one of your stats to get that high.
You're absolutely right. Apologies, I ran a 16 stat through the Pathfinder filter in my head and came up with +3 modifier.
I'm not sure what i should roll to disarm one of them of their sword. Strength?
Archepex runs behind the nearest building to get some cover as a brutal melee breaks out. He comes around the far side to see Gregor get himself in a tight spot. The on one just wasn't fair.
He takes aim and fits at the back of the Skraven nearest him. At that moment Mule dives, following the distinctive red and yellow of Archepex's fletching.
The arrow flies true and half a second later mule flies by the Skraven's head inflicting deep claw marks across its scalp.
Seeing the others start to leap into action, Azeban nods slowly and digs deep within himself, "Spirits of my ancestors." He mutters quietly, "Hear my call." Almost immediately, he begins to change, his muscles swelling outward as thick fur bursts from his skin. His face elongates, with huge teeth filling his mouth. Within a matter of seconds, a large grizzly bear stands where he had been before. The bindings lay in tatters around his feet, and he lets out a roar as he surveys the battlefield.
Having just rolled onto his back after his failed tackle, Hjalmar looked up into the rat-ogres gnarled face with defiance written on his own. He had just finished thinking how fortunate he was to be gagged so he didnt get a mouthful of dirt from his gambit, when the ogres head moved in above him, showering him in stringy drool. "Roight, ill be havin' yer head for that!" He bellowed through the gag, the volume so intense he could actually be understood.
"First things first though." He thought as he rolled away from the crane-like arm sweeping towards him.
Using the momentum of his roll, he got back on his feet, leaping over the sweeping arm and landing on its wrist. As the arm kept sweeping upwards, bringing Hjalmars face level with the confused one of the ogres, he pushed off, slamming his head into the soft yielding flesh of the monstrosity's nose.
Scraping against the beasts nose, his momentum carried him further than he had expected, bringing him level with the leader. Thinking quickly, he slammed his legs shut around its cloak, before gravity finally decided it was time to return to the ground. Though it hurt, he managed to hit the ground where the drool puddle had formed, saving him from serious injury.
Seeing Bathilda and Hjalmar trying to take on that giant rat ogre, with the leader still clinging to its back, Dhice finally manages to get his wits about him (helped significantly by Locrian's healing magics). The shredded fabric that dangles over Dhice's forearms flaps wildly, as a stream of sand billows forth.
Suddenly the look on Dhice's face twists into a rictus of pain. The elemental energies that he's learning to channel are chaotic and have a will of their own. Sometimes they get the better of him, and he usually pays a heavy price when they do...