Kjeta Strongmalt |
Beats mine. Which is to save my weapon at it ineffectually while shooting magic missiles at it...or maybe tiny balls of Fire.
Let's just hope that Deimus doesn't mock your tiny balls next! :O)
Carnadine |
at least you have magic missiles... or small balls of fire...
Hrungnir |
I see that the bard in everyone is coming out.
Well, woe be upon any of who would mock Hrungnir’s tiny balls of Fire or his magic missiles. Because he can shoot his magic missiles six times before he needs to rest! And his tiny balls of Fire always burn.
*Lexi |
You mean you see the best in everyone coming out, which makes sense, and is kinda touching.
Since, you know, bards are the best class in the game.
Hrungnir |
You mean you see the best in everyone coming out, which makes sense, and is kinda touching.
Since, you know, bards are the best class in the game.
I’d actually love to be in an all Bard party. Well, I guess you’d call it a band. The rule being that no player can have a duplicate college and that each bard must use a different instrument.
Plus, when else can a half-orc with a guitar-axe be seen as a legitimate character?
Raseri Whitescale |
Oh! Make him a barbarian with proficiency with guitar-axes! Then you have
a heavy metal band! :P
I love bards too, but something pulled me to playing a cleric this time around. it's been a blast playing Raseri, even with the low rolls.
I feel that enough attention's been drawn to Hrungnir's orbs of arcane might and fiery fury, so I shall refrain from adding more, no matter how small they may be. :D
Deimus |
Did we get a short rest between the hunt and this meeting? If so, Deimus would use some HD.
Deimus |
Great!
Short Rest HD and Song of Rest: 5d8 + 1d6 ⇒ (5, 6, 5, 2, 7) + (1) = 26
Raseri Whitescale |
I'm gonna get in on some of that action too.
Short Rest HD and Song of rest: 5d8 + 1d6 ⇒ (7, 3, 5, 3, 5) + (3) = 26
Kjeta Strongmalt |
1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Going to be heads down with work writing today (wish me luck!) but should be able to post again on Sunday, and maybe Saturday.
Hope yall are doing well!!
Raseri Whitescale |
As much fun as that would be narratively, I think that Raseri would have to pretty much be rebuilt. She's only got an 11 in CHA at the moment and that means her Spell Attack and Save DC would be tanked pretty much.
*Lexi |
I'm fine with the modified duels. It's faster. Is there a way I can get sneak attack? I ask cause it seems like both the people I've dueled got it.
GM Infinity |
Yeah, the factions are sort of neat. I feel like if I tried I could have created some way more interesting (these are unmodified from module), but meh...this Act is already an infinite amount of prep. Ravens, Grey Ladies, and 2 others still to find...
Also speaking of Acts, we are damn near the end of Act 2 out of 4 for the whole shebang.
Raseri Whitescale |
Neat. That makes that sting a little less. Also, woo on the more magic items.
Deimus |
Ough!
Deimus |
I bet.
Raseri Whitescale |
Wow, talking about writing from experience.
On a happier note, I'm enjoying the scene with Lexi immensely. I just wish I had some popcorn.
*Lexi |
Still not as bad as the article that I read recently that a woman went to the doctor for ear pain and they discovered a spider in her ear.
I wore earplugs while I slept for like 2 months after that.
Raseri Whitescale |
No worries. You have a good evening. :)
Still not as bad as the article that I read recently that a woman went to the doctor for ear pain and they discovered a spider in her ear.
I wore earplugs while I slept for like 2 months after that.
Yikes. That must have been unpleasant for both doc and patient.
*Lexi |
ya, the doctor was shocked and kept going on about how he'd never seen anything like it before.
GM Infinity |
Carnadine, the Honor Duel is a somewhat standard joust on horseback followed by a melee taking place in a simulated magical forest. Your opponent has stats and abilities nearly identical to yours. So just want to lay out how these events will be played...have thought about it alot, asked other DMs for advice etc. Been pumped for this moment since quite early in the campaign and I hope its a memorable experience as a player.
Joust:
-No initiative will be rolled.
-You can choose to deal damage, but typically only evil knights would intentionally harm another rider during a joust.
-A stunning victory is to knock the crest of your opponents Stechzeug helmet and simultaneously dismount your opponent. This isn't a lance on the shield type joust.
-A secondary thing that could happen is to shatter lances (which is good) while possibly dismounting your opponent.
-If a dismount occurs, or if 3 lances from one contestant are shattered, the joust phase is over and melee begins (but not immediately, the spectacle is rearranged and begins in a new area...and you wait to be told to start, etc).
-Your opponent's strength ability score is the DC of the joust. For the check mod you can use your highest mod (you can choose to use Athletics or just your normal melee weapon attack mod in other words)
-In the eyes of the fey, they can learn the most about a pair of fighters when both shatter their lances. At that unique point when both are threatened, whichever fighter remains seated is considered the 'undeniably superior' mounted combatant.
-Joust DC Results:
==================
Critical Fail: mount mishap (blamed on the mount)
Fail: lance remains whole (bad)
Success: lance tip breaks (good)
Beat by 5: lance shatters, Animal Handling check vs Joust DC or dismounted (wonderful)
Crit or beat by 10: dismount and Stechzeug crest knocked off (ultimate joust victory)
==================
-Mounted Combatant grants advantage on Animal Handling check to stay mounted, but does not help in event of Stechzeug crest hit.
Will post the melee lowdown in a later second post.
GM Infinity |
When it comes time IC for Raseri to explain where she's been, we have a small novella for you to read. :) After the Monolith's strike that day during the fight outside the tiny hut, this happened:
The Midnight Hunt
You remember the words of the Monolith 'You are dismissed...' and the cold chill of the great sword as it cut into you. But you don't remember exactly how you got here.
A greenish fire blazes in a large stone fireplace, the chamber warm with various furs and taxidermied animals hung with pride. A hunting lodge?
You wander about the place and find furnishings and bedding, a stocked kitchen, and various supplies necessary for an extended stay in the woods. A healthy wine cabinet even, including some harder spirits.
After some hours you hear a shuffling of feet from a corridor, and a tiny voice "He...hello? Is someone there?"
Raseri blinks as she stumbles back from the terrifying blow the monolith gave her and blinks as she finds herself in a cozy hunting lodge. Despite the warmth, she shivers from the chill of the massive bruise she can feel forming across her side. She winces as she twists just the wrong way to aggravate the injury. Part of her is scared of what she'll find here, but she also feels the undeniable pull of curiosity. Another twinge of her ribs wins, however, and she casts a spell of healing on them. After a moment of standing in the great room and finding herself only armed with what she was wearing before coming here and her shield, she starts to explore. How well stocked the place is surprises her. The food, the bedding, and even the wine and alcohol will be welcome after the week she is having. She wonders where they are when a small voice makes her nearly jump out of her skin. She turns to face the voice, praying that it isn't another demon disguising itself as a girl. As the fear takes hold of her, she shrinks a few inches.
"I-I am. P-please, I mean no harm," Raseri asks as she tries not to panic.
Thor answers your prayer, and the Monolith's wound sutures itself...easing your pain and lifting your fighting spirit.
Among your explorations, you also find a stock of weaponry and leathercraft. However, these are clearly not weapons of war...but rather weapons of the hunt.
Of course you can tell by the crossguard, to be precise the size of the crossguard on the swords...they are not meant to parry. All are of high quality and bear the same forger's mark...which you recall seeing on the temple assassin's black opals. Along with swords are knives, spears, lances, bows, and crossbows along with their munitions.
The leathercraft seems tailored for animals. Small harnesses are hung neatly for hounds, hawks, and falcons...some large enough for even gyrfalcons perhaps. The creature's voice startles you from your inspections.
Responing "Plis Ima Noarm, you say? C-call me Oaklocks." says the creature, trying to be polite but obviously as scared as you are. It seems he has already helped himself to the arms and booze. Stepping into the light, you see a brownie: a sort of half elf, half halfling sort of creature. It wears a simple green wool tunic and has taken a shortbow with a quiver full of silver arrows.
His eyes are solid black.
"P-pleased to meat you, Oaklocks," Raseri says, calming a little when she sees that he is not so threatening. She sits against the wall on the floor as she feels her knees begin to buckle from the relief she feels flooding through her.
"Do you know where we are," she asks after a few moments letting her heartbeat slow. "The last thing I remember was fighting one of guards in the shadow fey's court, then I was in a great room filled with hides and heads, trophies of past hunts."
"Why, yes. I think I do. This is the prince's hunting lodge...the Black Prince of Balefire, that is. The azure boar on snow fields is his banner..." and so you note such symbolism indeed hanging about the halls. "My lady...we have been dismissed from the courts. We must hunt to regain the graces of the royals...before..." he swallows deep, too afraid to say it "...shadow corruption. We are outside the palace walls!" he adds, as if that explains it.
Raseri isn't sure if she wants to laugh or just lay down and let whatever fate finds her catch her. Of course it was hunting, and she could never regain the favor of the royals. She was almost certain that they wouldn't tolerate her even in the best of circumstances.
"I am no lady of the courts, Oaklocks," she tells him, "I doubt they would let a fateless, hag-cursed northlander back in even if I did manage to kill something on this hunt."
She sighs, feeling weary. She didn't know how to hunt, she was a terrible bowman, and she wasn't even sure she wanted to go back. It was better for the others that she is gone. Without her there to mess everything up, things would go much more smoothly.
"Are the royals looking for sport? For comedy? For art? I cannot provide the first and the last, but the middle should be easy enough for one such as I," she says, her tone turning scathing with self-loathing and bitter as lye with failure.
She stands, looking over the weapons before selecting a spear with a long, blade-like head.
"If you are ready," Raseri says, gesturing for the brownie to lead the way.
The poor creature looks wholly at a loss at your flurry of words, likely more comfortable baking acorns. At your mention of a hag-curse it makes a series of odd protective gestures over its heart and eyes. But then it seems to realize "...northlander? Oh, of course, you must be with the Midgardians of the Shush Book. Hehe..." it laughs nervously "...I'm afraid dismissal is more than just removing you from court. You've...we've...been replaced there. The longer we stay here, the longer our friends will be fooled by our Dark Doubles...everyone will laugh at them...oh my..." it seems to judge by your reaction that perhaps somethings are better left unsaid.
Raseri looks at Oaklocks as he mentions a dark double and pales.
"We should get this hunt over quickly then," she says as she picks up a longsword in a style that's close to what she's familiar with. "I know that two of my companions will not take kindly to being made fools. In the meantime, what can you tell me of the Shush Book and the court? I'll tell you something of myself in return, anything you may wish to know."
"Well...a trade? I would prefer a memory more...tangible." he holds up a plate of cherry pastries, somewhat scared and surprised at himself that he dared to even ask. Could he be hinting at the Ritual of Memories Lost? It was said the arcane goods created by the ritual were traded like currency in the courts...
As you mull it over, he selects his gear...choosing the gyrfalcon blinders and an ivory horn on a long fuzzy black rope. "The gyr will be our lymer...we have not the assembly for a proper relay, so I suppose the chase is ours..." He seems to know much about this practice. The falcon will find the hart, small game...fowl most likely. Ordinarily the hart would be exhausted by being chased down by trained dogs, with the hunters on coursers. But here...with the two of you and no horses...you'll be the chasers on foot.
"I fear I have too few memories," Raseri replies as she eyes the cherry pastry. "I guess it is part of my curse, but I do not know," she admits. She sits and thinks for a long time before asking, "What would happen if I were to forget everything?"
I don't think she's going to be giving up what few memories she has, though I think it would be tempting for her.
As Oaklocks begins discussing the hunt, Raseri feels a gnawing fear in her belly as she realizes he recognizes none of the words he is saying.
"Please, forgive me, I have never hunted before. I do not know what most of those words mean."
"Well, its ok. I think it will just be a matter of perseverance...we outlast them!" he says jovially, trying to raise her spirits.
He pauses at the gyrfalcon's cage, gently putting its blinders on until secured in its perch "Hmm...if you forget everything? I don't know, I suppose it still happened...you just couldn't learn from it, right? Would be a strange sort of second life..." he grabs a few waterskins and stuffs a bag full of snacks "Look...nevermind. I don't know what made me say that...been around these courtiers too long I guess. We're in this together, right...?" heading out to the hunt.
He explains the Shush Book, how the kennelmaster keeps it open in the old Librarium for anonymous writers to spread their gossip. He also details some of the factions at court...the Grey Ladies, the Ravens, a series of unrecognizable names mostly. But one group, the Lords of Light, might spark your interest. Demon slayers, they are led by one called the 'Blind Seer' who communes directly with Khors-Amon, god of the Sun...it is said he is able to dispel any and all illusions.
You walk a few hours into the forest, some 5 miles perhaps. It's a dark and gloomy place, the sooty black trees leafless but somehow majestic...worthy of a Prince's estate.
For most of the hunt you are alone, forming the three points of a triangle with Oaklocks and the gyrfalcon. Then you hear the bellowing of the horn...the chase has begun.
You see Oaklocks moving very quickly through a copse of trees into a clearing, where a bloodied but still beautiful white swan struggles. Its feathers flash rainbows like white pearls, wings clawed from the falcon. "Quickly, your sword! Mercy to the hart..."
Raseri finds it hard to be in a dark mood around Oaklocks. She smiles as she checks the spear over.
"I think I can manage that," she says.
As he muses on her question, then apologizes for asking in the first place, she figures that it is just as well. Too few memories in her own head to make any sense of herself, and having nothing at all would probably be worse. As he asks her if she is with him, she smiles and slams a fist to her breast.
"You are my brother in arms. Our fortunes are tied," she says. "Besides, I find I rather like your company."
After Oaklocks explains to her several things about the court, she shares her tale, starting with waking up in a grove outside of Zobeck with no memories beyond fleeting glimpses and nightmares haunted by silver eyes. She tells of what happened to lead her on this path, the coming of the Shadow Fey, her job guarding a young woman with Lexi, how she met her companions. When she arrives at the fight at the library, she grows quiet, finding it hard to continue.
***
Raseri holds the spear in one hand and draws the sword she'd pilfered. It felt almost wrong to kill the magnificent swan, but it would be a mercy to end it quickly. She steps into the fray and aims to drive the tip of her sword into its heart.
Over the next few hours, and turning to days, similar such scenes would repeat themselves. Perhaps the mercy blow never became any easier... Still, at times Raseri (if she chose to look inwards) felt a strange peace on the hunt. The goal was simple and success required only to concentrate on this strange form of atonement, or status proving, or whatever this Black Prince's sentencing indeed was.
At times she felt the presence of Thor, a certain warrior-like brashness...an aura of challenge against any monsters that might threaten her or Oaklocks. Thus it was assured that by His hand, and no fault of Raseri's, what came to pass next...
It began as a long span of quiet on the 3rd day. The hunting trio was in their now practiced formation, each just out of sight of the other...save the gyrfalcon who would rise above at times to mark the path.
Then a snuffling sound of some enormous beast bounced about the thick tree trunks. After a cautious approach, there it was...a silver skinned oxen, perhaps twice the size of a beef bull.
Legend had it, Thor would eat 2 oxen for dinner...and even used a full ox head to bait the serpent god Jormungandr. Perhaps this was a portent of things to come...
Raseri could spot Oaklocks' silhouette on the far side of the creature...standing motionless with the gyrfalcon perched on one shoulder...his hands had 2 fingers raised, the signal to strike.
Raseri nodded and readied her spear. After a moment to take in a deep breath, she rushes the bull and gives a shout that sets lightning dancing over the spear. The head plunges deep into the bull's side and the crackle of thunder rumbles all around the clearing. Enraged, the beast bellows and starts to turn, but then stinging arrows fly from where Oaklocks is hidden and pepper its flank. It swings its head back and forth, shaking off the wounds and pawing the ground. It turns with frightening speed and one of the horns catches Raseri and sends her flying into a tree.
Raseri blinks, trying to clear her head, but the bull threw her hard, and she feels a trickle of blood running down the back of her neck. Oaklocks shouts something, but she can't make it out. She looks up to see the bull readying for a charge when it rears and bellows again. It turns and charges after its tormentor, confident that no threat will come after it.
But the beast has never fought a northlander. Raseri pulls herself to her feet and stumbles after it for a few paces. She regains her balance and her bearings as her hands wrap around the haft of the spear. Her prey is near and she can hear the cries of the Gyrfalcon as it harries the bull. She finds the trail easily enough and is pleased to hear the bull's bellow sound closer this time.
She isn't happy to hear Oaklock's cry out in distress. She picks up her pace and stumbles a bit as she pushes herself to move more quickly. Noxious, green fumes hug the ground and are rapidly fading as approaches. She breaks through a copse of trees to find the bull, still enraged and standing, looking at her. She takes in a deep breath and holds her symbol of Thor high as she utters a prayer for strength, and the Thunderer answers with overwhelming power that staggers the bull. Again and again Raseri calls down the lightning until the bull falls. It shudders as it lets out its last breath, a wisp of green smoke flowing from its nostrils. It is then that Raseri notices that where the green fog has touched has turned to stone.
"Oaklocks, I– I think we did it. It's down," she calls out, a weary smile on her face. No answer comes.
"Oakloaks," Raseri calls out, moving to where she'd heard him. She stops short, her breath catching in her chest as she sees the half-shattered statue with a look of utter terror on its face. She recognizes the statue a moment later, and her smile dies.
Oaklocks is beyond any of her skill to heal. Even if she can make him whole again, she has no way to undo the petrification he'd undergone. Her heart sinks as she realizes he is gone. Butchering the animal helps her get through the end of the hunt. She takes the metal plates, the horns, and the emerald eyes before leaving the rest for whatever will eat the foul smelling carcass.
Once she is past the smell of the kill, the gyrfalcon flies to her and perches on her shoulder. She strokes its head gently as she walks back to the lodge. She wonders if she'll keep hunting until she too dies in some gruesome manner.
Time passes, but without Oaklocks the mood has soured significantly. Eventually curiosity or a strong sense of survival takes hold, and you might abandon the hunt to explore...to seek a way out. However, as you might have expected all such expeditions bring you back to the Lodge within mere hours...
Next perhaps you would turn your explorations into the Lodge itself...it is certainly no simple woodman's shack and offers many chambers to explore. It is truly a mansion hidden among the wilderness.
It's during this time you find it.
It could have been a portrait of a sweet roll for all you cognitized in that moment, only one detail held you: silver eyes.
The painting above the fireplace...empty for all you care save the eyes of silver. It would only happen much later that you would notice the shadow fey the eyes sat within. The inscription 'Black Prince of Balefire' in an elegant rectangle of brass below confirming his royal, not haggard, lineage.
Days bleed into weeks then months, perhaps years. The routine of waking, hunting, and butchering becomes all too familiar to Raseri. The only thing to mark the passage of time is the lengthening of her hair. Even that proves to be an unreliable clock, she realizes as she notices her hair falling almost to her knees one day while passing a mirror. Then looks at herself, truly looks at herself for the first time in only the gods know how long. She is shorter, only an inch or two more than five feet, her features finer and more elfin. Her ears are pointed just a little, and her eyes are a little bigger and more almondine. This place is changing her, she realizes. It is messing with her mind and her body. How long before it messes with her soul, her very spirit?
She packs for a long journey, planning on hiking until she finds a way out and back to Midgard. She takes with her a few of the weapons from the armory to defend herself with, and with her pack, stolen from the same stash of supplies and gear, ladened with dried foods and waterskins, she sets out for whatever she can find. She travels along the road for several hours, never vearing right or left. As dusk falls, a deepening of the gloom more than a setting of the sun, she finds herself back at the lodge on the same road she had set out on that morning. For a moment, she swears she can hear the tittering laughter of some fey bastard thinking her a fool.
Raseri growls and takes a different path, walking for a few hours as she concentrates on that part of her that could feel the threads of fey magic and the unseen doorways. She follows her sense of magic as best as she is able before hunger and fatigue force her to take a rest and sleep. She travels for several days, a week, then two. Her supplies begin to run low as she nears a month of threading her way through the mystic energies that cover this realm like spiderwebs. As she feels she is nearing some border or doorway, her pace quickens and her flagging spirits rise. She turns with a bend in the road as it wends its way through a dense copse of trees.
Her heart sinks as she sees the hunting lodge again. She snarls and storms into the place to replenish her supplies and tries again, stretching her rations with game that she hunts and smokes along the way. Two months pass before once more she stands before the lodge. Again and again the process repeats itself. Sometimes only a few hours pass, other times she goes almost three months without seeing the lodge. It does not matter what path she takes, even if she takes no path at all, nor does it matter how careful she is, how well she picks her path, she always finds herself back at the lodge. After three years of trying to escape, Raseri collapses to her knees and screams in futile rage as she pounds her fist into the dirt and begins to sob when she finds herself, once more, in front of the Black Prince's hunting lodge.
It takes nearly an hour for her emotions to play themselves out. She spends every ounce of magic she has tearing apart the landscape around where she'd lost her composure. In the end, all it does is tire her and break one of the blades she'd been carrying. Not even the tree she poured bolt after bolt of lightning into is singed. Defeated, she stumbles back into the lodge and finds a bed to sleep in.
Over the next several days, she begins to explore the lodge, more to give herself something to do than out of any real sense of curiosity, at least at first. As she looks, she realizes that there is no way for all of the interior rooms to fit inside of the structure she sees outside. She begins to wonder what may be hidden away in the twisting hallways and rooms beyond the ones she has seen. She wonders how the place always seems to be neat and clean with no servants or anyone else around. She knows, thanks to Deimus and her own observations, that only certain members of the court are able to be seen by newcomers, but she can't help feeling that she is alone.
On the second day of her explorations of the house, she finds the baths attended to by servants invisible to most of her senses, though she can feel them as they usher her in and pamper her when she first discovers them. The bath and massage afterwards certainly help her feel better, but she knows she's no closer to finding a way out. She does mark the location and how she got there, appreciating not having to rely on magic or using a cold stream out in the open to clean herself.
Some parts of the lodge prove to be more mutable. She finds that set of rooms that change layout every time she visits them, sometimes even as she moves from room to room. Another part of the lodge has doors that connect to rooms in other parts of the lodge, though, those doors never connect to that part when she passes back through them. She finds that she enjoys finding these oddities and the break from the everyday that she is settling into.
Not all of them are so benign, she learns a few weeks into her searching. A few times she is forced to fight for her life against monsters and creatures twisted by fell magicks in dark rooms that lay forgotten deep in the lodge. One part of the lodge in particular loves toying with her by putting her life in danger, such as by flooding a room with freezing cold water that threatens to numb her limbs and leave her helpless in its icy embrace or by thinning the air as if she were on the peak of the tallest mountain. She avoids it after it nearly kills her with smoke that burns her lungs and throat and nearly chokes her to death.
For a while, she believes that part of the lodge to be the worst of it. Her days are spent wandering the halls as she looks for a way out, but she soon forgets her goal and simply explores to see what lays beyond the next door and the nest bend in the hallway. Then she finds it.
A painting hanging above the massive fireplace in a great room with rafters shadowed in gloom holds her in place for what feels like an eternity. Silver eyes pierce her and her soul, pinning her where she collapses to the floor. Her mind goes blank with terror and her heart is squeezed in an icy claw whose twin traces the curve of Raseri's spine. She wants to vomit, to cry, to run, but she is held by those silver eyes that mock her and damn her.Tears finally blur her vision and she looks away, down at her hands and softly sobs. She has forgotten, in her time here, the promise her silver-eyed double made to her. Slowly, she lifts her head back up, fighting her fear with every inch her gaze rises. She sees now that the eyes are not those of a woman, but an impossibly handsome elven man. Raseri looks at the painting clearly for the first time and spies the plaque of brass on the frame of the painting. The Black Prince of Balefire it proclaims as the subject of this painting.
Raseri stands, her mind whirling with a dozen thoughts as she wonders what silver eyes mean to the fey, and if this is more than a coincidence. Is it possible that the fey royalty of the shadowed court she and her companions had come to see and speak to on the behalf of Zobeck share a bloodline with the hag that had taken her in after she burned down her village and killed her family? If they do, then what does that mean for her? Will they bind her and give her up to the hag? Will they keep her locked up to study? Will they just kill her?
She finds no answer in those eyes, nor the slight, cocksure smile the prince bears. With a sigh, she moves on, having no desire to explore a room watched over by those eyes. The next morning, she stays in the bedroom she found on her first day exploring and has claimed as hers. She hardly gets out of bed, feeling drained and scared. The reminder of her double's promise haunts her thoughts and her dreams.
She barely sleeps the next few nights and spends most of the next few days curled up under the covers of her bed. After the fourth night of restless dreams and nightmares, she finds the liquor cabinet and drains one of the bottles. The warmth in her belly wars with the churning she feels in the same area, but after a few minutes pass, she hardly notices. In fact, she giggles as she understands why some old soldiers she'd met in Zobeck would drink themselves stupid. Nightmares aren't so bad if you're too drunk to care!
She wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache. She barely makes it to the toilet before the contents of her stomach rebel and come back up the way they came. After that particular fiasco, she avoids drinking anything even remotely intoxicating for a while. She recovers fairly quickly once she's drunk some water, her headache disappearing with each cupful of cold spring water. Feeling better, she bathes and continues exploring the lodge, searching through some of the passages and rooms she passed by in her earlier wanderings.
She finds a huge dressing room with overstuffed couches and a vanity stocked with all sorts of perfumes. Much like the baths, unseen servants usher her in. She looks around as she hears a tutting sound from somewhere, but before she can place it, she's seated and her boots and socks are pulled off of her feet by unseen hands that swiftly move on to undressing her before she can protest. After a few seconds she's left shaking in mixed rage and embarrassment in nothing but her small clothes while her clothes are taken away and neatly folded. She tries, futilely, to cover herself with her hands. The baths were one thing, but this was something else.
A moment later, she feels a tap on her shoulder and hears an ahem from behind her. She shuffles her feet and turns to see several sets of undergarments floating before her. She frowns as she comes to understand. This wasn't a simple trick for nosy visitors. Her clothes, all of them, were too plain for this place. She gives a sigh and nods at one set that wasn't covered in small gems or looked more like it was supposed to be seen than covered up. Her choice made, the unseen hands once again guide her to a dressing screen where she changes.
She finishes just before the screen is folded back to show a dress floating before her. After a moment for her to inspect it, she feels hands once again guide her and help into the dress. After less than a minute of adjusting and tying the laces, a triptych mirror floats before her and she sees herself dressed as, she guesses, a young fey noblewoman. Turning about, she sees herself from all sides and isn't sure what to make of this strange young woman, a girl really, looking back at her. Part of her wants to accept it, to be the lady she sees. Perhaps it would be easier. Surely Lady Raseri of House Whitescale would be more appealing to the fey court than Raseri Whitescale, smith and sellsword of Zobeck.
Unfortunately, she knows that she lacks the upbringing to fool anyone long enough to pull it off. She stands straight, trying to project a regal air, and while the mirror shows a young noble secure in her standing, Raseri is far from feeling the confidence that should be there. She sees the cracks in the mask and shakes her head.
The unseen hands bring forth another outfit and help her change. This one is the simple garb of a handmaiden. This too feels false to her. She thinks she can better pull this off, but she doesn't know everything a handmaiden to nobility or royalty would know. Besides, the only noble she knows is Carnadine, though she supposes Hrungnir might be dwarven nobility, as strange as he is. Again, she shakes her head.
She tries on dozens of outfits, putting on a mask with each one, but she never feels that the role is hers, that this is who she is. As she is about to ask for her clothing back when three last outfits are brought before her. She recognizes them as the outfits she'd bought in Zobeck before coming to the Court of the Shadow Fey. She tries to think about how long ago it was. Weeks? Months? Years? She cannot guess. Time is too elusive here, too fluid.
She tries each of them on along with the jewelry she'd bought with them, and still they feel wrong. She looks like a child playing in her mother's wardrobe, she feels. Even as invisible hands adjust the fit of each outfit, she still feels out of place. Certainly she looks the part of a northlander lady, but she knows it is just a mask, and still sees the girl pretending to be someone important.
She begins to wonder where the servants had found her belongings when one last outfit is brought out, the dress she'd bought when visiting the Zobeck Council what feels like a lifetime ago. It was after that when her luck had soured. She looks at it and sighs, letting herself be dressed once more. It had already been altered to fit her diminished stature. She looks up as the necklace is settled into place and finds a brilliantly dressed noblewoman, the young scion of some great house come to visit the Shadowed Courts. She holds her head up and stands as regally as she can manage, but she sees the cracks, the imperfections in the mask that give the lie away. She's no noble, her family, when they lived, were thralls, slaves indentured for their debts. She knows that she can fool no one by acting as if she were. They would all see through the lie.
She feels herself shrink and looks back into the mirror. Is this who she is, she wonders. Is this her true self? She doubts that is so. She barely knows herself. She only has those few, precious memories of her childhood and her time in Zobeck. As terrible as they may be, they are hers. Or are they?
She recalls Lexi's words and shivers. What if they are not hers? What if this is just another mask? Is that all she is? Masks concealing a hollow vessel of clay to be shaped by the whims of fate? She shakes her head in denial. She has to be more than some mortal plaything. She can't be just a doll for some silver-eyed hag to play with and throw away when she has had her fun, right?
No answer comes and the stillness grows maddening. She rushes out of the dressing room, needing to find someplace, anyplace, where she can just be, where she can feel the wind. She moves in what she thinks is the right direction, but her mind is too addled to pick her way through the passages and corridors in the lodge. The walls close in. She needs to feel the wind. She needs to see the sky! She grabs the latch of a heavy wooden door and throws it open.
She finds herself in a library. The ceiling soars nearly twenty feet overhead with shelves reaching from the floor to the ceiling, each one lined with hundreds of books. Ladders on brass rails allow for access to the higher shelves. Beyond the stacks, Raseri can see an atrium giving a view out into the moonlit forest and the stars overhead. She moves more cautiously, her heart thundering in her chest as she remembers the last time she was among stacks of tomes and scrolls. She had even been wearing the same dress, she recalls with a note of morbid triviality.
She finds no monsters lurking in the shadows, though she does find the atrium soaring up over a hundred feet above and five more floors as filled with books as the first. Grand, sweeping staircases lead up to them. She wonders what the Black Prince could want with so many books. She doubts it is for show, but she can never be certain where fey are concerned.
She settles into a large, overstuffed chair, letting it swallow her as she gazes up at the stars. She feels that the sky is too empty, even with the overly large stars filling it. She remembers the blue and green flames that lit up the northern sky and wonders if the fey here have never seen such a sight. She watches the turning of the stars, letting it calm her. After a while, perhaps a twelfth of a turn of the stars, she is fast asleep in the chair.
Glowing, silver eyes pierce her through. Damning her and mocking her all at once. How could she think she could escape so easily? Hands black with blood tug on the silver thread tied to her heart and bring an obsidian bladed dagger up to sever the thread. There is no fate for her. There is only oblivion.
Raseri wakes with a start. She looks around, searching for those eyes that always haunt her nightmares and finds, instead, a plate of warm pastries and a steaming mug of mulled cider. She shivers as she realizes how cold it is and wraps her hands around the mug to warm them. It helps a little, but the blanket she notices sitting next to her helps more. She sips the cider, letting it warm her up as she looks out at the snow covered landscape beyond the atrium's frosted walls. A growl from her stomach draws her attention back to the plate of pastries and she picks up one that looks like it'd go well with the cider and nibbles on it, trying no to drop crumbs everywhere.
It proves to be a futile effort. Some of the filling spills out and plops onto her dress with all of the malice of a blight-spawned demon and Raseri feels both annoyed and embarrassed with herself as the dark filling stains her best dress red and purple. She waves at it, wanting it to go away, and blinks as she finds the stain gone. Has she always been able to do this, she wonders. If she has, how much has she forgotten in this place? The questions weigh heavily on her as she finishes off the offending pastry before it could do more harm. She stands, focusing on the tingling in her fingers as she cleans up the few crumbs left by her haste to finish.
She thinks about leaving the library, but she wonders what she could learn from these tomes. Her curiosity wins handily over her listlessness. She gathers a couple of books she can read and settles down in a chair near a merrily crackling fire in one of the hearths. Her mug of mulled cider resting on a table beside her as she reads. The ink and parchment trap her for hours and days as she reads page after page, tome after tome. Something, she feels, is here, waiting, needing her to find it. Caution urges her to stop and consider what she is doing, but its voice is drowned out by the need, the desire to learn what that something is.
She finds it in a treatise on the gods. It talks of the earliest ages of Midgard, the coming of the Aesir, their wars among themselves. It speaks of Veles, who commanded the gods to cease their slaughter. And it speaks of Masks. She reads, feeling that she's on the edge of something. That she could grasp what it is, if only she were able to understand. Why had the masks of the gods caught her attention so? Was it something to do with herself?
Perhaps, if she is lacking, her abilities and talents useless to those around her, then she should wear a mask that is useful to her companions. Maybe by adopting a mask as her own, she can become the mask and regain her fate, her purpose and destiny. She could be whatever she needs or wants to be.
She could, if she is willing to pretend and lie. She would need to lie so well as to fool herself. Could she do that? Could she fool herself? She doesn't know. Maybe? Eventually? Perhaps never. The uncertainty is unbearable. She wants nothing more than to have something, anything, she could trust about herself. The mask, if she dons it, could be that something.
Which mask, then? She could not hope to fool the fey with one that they know, she thinks. If that is the case, then why not forge her own?
She looks down at her hands, her eyes widening as she sees the calluses on them for the first time in… Was it days? Weeks? Years? It doesn't matter. They are there, and she feels her hands longing to be useful. Thorsdottir, they'd called her often enough, but she could just as rightly be called Forgemaiden. After all, had not Volund and Thor worked together to craft the dwarves?
She winces as she thinks of the way most elves and dwarves she knows of got along poorly. Better to not draw attention to that, then. Better to find an aspect that the shadow fey will not despise, if she can't find something they would adore.
She feels her hands long for the handle of a hammer and the heat of a forge. The ring of an anvil echoes in her memories. How long has it been since she had worked the bellows and shaped the iron? She walks out of the library, back to the dressing room and starts looking for her clothes. The servants, unseen and mostly unfelt, fluttered about for a moment before they figured out what it is she seeks. They come back with beautifully made clothing that is as sturdy as any she could ask for while working a forge. She almost winces at the extravagance, but she can't deny their quality, so she changes into a set that looks like it will fit her well enough.
She leaves as soon as her boots are on and rushes out the door just in time to remember that she doesn't even know if there is a forge here. Not ready to give up without looking, she searches for any unexplored passages. A strange mood falls over her as she wanders the halls. She feels a nervous, frantic energy driving her. She has to find a smithy, a leatherworker's shop, anything!
Just as she feels that she'll go mad, she flings open a door and stops as her jaw goes slack in awe. Long disused, a beautifully furnished workshop lays before her. She can see all of the tools she could need or want arrayed before her for any kind of craft she is skilled in, even some that she isn't. She sees the neat stacks of materials and the racks of tools and her mind dances with possibilities.
She begins to search through the neatly organized materials and tools to find what she needs to start the fires and sketch out ideas. As she combs through the crates to see what she could use, her heart stops for just a moment. In the corner, covered in dust and cobwebs are the spoils she took from her last hunt with Oaklocks. She remembers the brownie so clearly, she almost thinks he is beside her.
But he isn't. He is gone, dead for, was it weeks? Months? Years or decades? Time was too slippery here for her to know. She dusts them off, looking over the horns and the metal plates she'd harvested from the monstrous bull she had killed. She feels something, a faint spark, as she touches them, but she can tell the spark needs more time. Time to grow and take form.
After inventorying the supplies, Raseri begins to sketch ideas and plans, putting her ideas down to make room for the plans that would turn those ideas into something real. She worked them over in her mind, refining the shape just as she would with a piece of iron. Time is immaterial to her as she spends hours on end thinking of what she wants to make. As the forge's flames fully take hold, she smiles, satisfied with the work she has put in so far. It is time to begin.
Her hands feel clumsy as she tests the feel of the hammer and tongs after putting in a piece of steel to heat. For a moment, she can hear the cackling and feel their judging stares on her. She can hear them telling her that it is useless, but she pushes it aside, She is not Raseri, now. She is the Smith. She takes in a deep breath and begins to work.
The process lets her forget her past mistakes and failures. She only sees the steel and the form it will have. Hammer and anvil shape the metal to her will, turning the lump into bars and then those into blades. She works on another piece of steel, making a drift for a hatchet head. Slowly, her hands remember the movements and she falls into a steady rhythm as she makes the head for a hatchet to match the blades she is letting cool after heating them to prepare them for hardening. Even in this state, she finds herself tiring. She finishes forging the hatchet head and leaves it to cool as she puts the tools away and shuffles towards the door to find a place to sleep.
She finds a cot with bedding, some food, and water waiting for her in a chamber just past the entrance of the workshop. The still warm meal takes care of the hunger she isn't even aware she feels until she devours it like a starving man might. The exhaustion catches up soon after she has eaten her fill, and she falls asleep on the surprisingly comfortable cot.
Days pass as she works on piece after piece, improving with each one. The set of hunting knives and hatchet are joined by a belt and sheathes to carry them, then a pair of daggers and scabbards covered in filigree. Each piece comes out more refined with details more delicate than the last. After finishing a starmetal sword with silver and gold inlay, she turns to the horns of the bull she'd killed and begins to carefully lay out the designs she has sketched for them.
Hours pass as Raseri carefully works on inlaying gold, silver, and bronze to show a pair of scenes showing wolves hunting through the woods under the boughs of oaks and the light of the moon and stars. She adds a mouthpiece and a rim of silver to each of the horns with rings for the leather straps with their detailed fittings and embossed knotwork. They are placed apart from the other items, weapons, tools, belts, and jewelry that she had completed earlier. These she intends to take with her to present to the Black Prince if the chance ever comes.
The next morning, though it is difficult to tell that in this sunless land, Raseri begins working on a spear with a long-bladed head. After finishing polishing the spearhead, she engraves Yggdrasil, the World Tree, and accents it with gold, silver, starmetal, and mithral inlay, coming down the head and onto the hickory shaft to the buttcap at the other end. Embossed leather wraps around and helps with the grip. After weeks of work, the spear is finished with more and more detail hidden in the deceptively simple designs of the spear the closer one looks.
Next she turns her attention to the armor plates. She lays out her mail and the padding and begins to plan out a new set of armor. The plates work like steel and Raseri forms them to fit her, crafting a new suit of armor for herself. The work takes months as she forms each piece and engraves it with the knotwork common to the clothing and art of her homeland. A motif of roiling storm clouds and lightning covers parts of the armor while a prayer for strength threads its way all over the armor along the knotwork borders and designs. As a final touch, she adds the symbols of Thor, Valeresh, and Perun, as the Masks she feels the closest to, circling the rune for storms to the inside back and chest of the armor.
The final things she makes are holy symbols to Thor, Perun, and Valeresh, masterworks of engraving that she spends weeks on, and a mask of white and various shades of blue-gray, like the colors found in a cloud on a bright, clear day. Gold, silver, and starmetal filigree trace delicate curves and twisting knots from the brow and eyes, down the sides of the face, to the chin. Most of the face is blank, however, an impassive wall that shields the wearer from the prying eyes of those that would know their secrets.
The implications of the mask frighten Raseri more than a little. Does she really need to hide herself away? If her previous encounters with the shadow fey are any indication, hiding is the wisest thing she can do. Besides, she thinks bitterly as she looks at the completed work, it's not as if she even had a true self to hide. She has to be honest enough with herself to admit that much. There are years of memories missing and how can one know who they are if they cannot remember what they did?
She sighs and puts everything away, packing the items she had made into several packs she'd crafted to practice her leather craft. She doesn't know where to go, but she knows she can't stay here. The act of creating had given her some clarity and with it, she realizes the deviousness of the trap. It would keep her here forever, giving her more to explore until she died or went mad. She has to leave, even if that means she can only go back to the Court of the Shadow Fey. Raseri may have been kicked out, but the Lady of Storms would at least be tolerated. She dons the armor and the mask before finding a horse in the stable and loading the rest of what she'd made into a packsaddle.
With her bow at her back and her spear in her hand, she guides the horse out of the hunting lodge's stables and into the eternal night.
Raseri Whitescale |
I may have gone overboard with this one. It was a fun piece.
GM Infinity |
1 person marked this as a favorite. |
I was curious how long so I had to search back and find it, March 31st was when you were dismissed. So yeah, about a month RL time.
Ras finished writing April 14th I think, so we've been sitting on that for a good 2-3 weeks jonesing like crack heads waiting for a fix (or at least I have).
Not overboard, was an awesome way to take a deep dive into the character. I just hope it has given you or will lead to some good dnd memories...stories to be told with a smirk years down the road.
Raseri Whitescale |
Oh it certainly has. I'm looking forward to when Raseri finds out about the deal her double made cause that's one that is bound to be interesting. I'll be telling the guys I play DnD with on Sunday about it.
And yeah, I've been not so patiently waiting. That's why there's been some interludes over the past week or so. :P
Deimus |
Yes, that's just awesome!
GM Infinity |
Carn's DC is 16, strength score not mod. I'll go ahead and tell you Zaeri's is the same. Offensive check would be +6 for a lance attack. You can instead use Athletics, which is the same +6 for you. But different buffs work on different things. If you want buffs, look for things that effect one of those two. So, you are rolling d20+6 vs DC 16. With your current mod, crit wins and dismount is threatened on a raw roll of 15 or more. A 'medium' task difficulty... ;)
Zaeri has been fighting undead hordes in campaigns for decades, so its unclear to Carn if Frightful Charge will work. OOC, he has an ability to match your undead resistances that works on frightened.
Your more usual abilities like Extra Attack, Heavy Armor and such will come into play during the melee. I felt the joust segment couldn't really be run well using normal rules. Zaeri's abilities are nearly equal to yours so it is up to the dice gods what happens here, not a scripted thing.
One difference though is Inspiration, which you got recently for the memory trade with the Grey Ladies.
GM Infinity |
Joust DC Results:
==================
Critical Fail: mount mishap (blamed on the mount)
Fail: lance remains whole (bad)
Success: lance tip breaks (good)
Beat by 5: lance shatters, Animal Handling check vs Joust DC or dismounted (wonderful)
Crit or beat by 10: dismount and Stechzeug crest knocked off (ultimate joust victory)
==================
-Mounted Combatant grants advantage on Animal Handling check to stay mounted, but does not help in event of Stechzeug crest hit.
You beat the Joust DC by 5, so result 21 or more for Carn in this case. Merely breaking the lance tip by hitting the joust DC is acceptable (in audience opinion), but doesn't progress the joust further to melee. 3 shatters or a dismount is required to advance.