OK I'm back. With Shield Master, Carn gets a bonus action to shield bash, so both of his attacks can be with a sword. So, if I've understand the past round, he would get a second attack with his sword on the pooch with advantage. Also, how many HP does everyone have? Where is everyone relative to everyone else? Sorry for so many questions.
Taking advantage of the prone pup, the ghost knight saws his silvered longsword back into the hound.
Longsword with advantage: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (9) + 6 = 151d20 + 6 ⇒ (9) + 6 = 151d8 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
Carnadine again tries to roll the hound exposing its belly.
Athletics (shove): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (1) + 6 = 7
Inspiration to reroll Athletics (shove): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 16
Longsword attack 1 (if advantage): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (4) + 6 = 101d20 + 6 ⇒ (11) + 6 = 171d8 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 5 = 10
Longsword attack 2 (if advantage): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (14) + 6 = 201d20 + 6 ⇒ (17) + 6 = 231d8 + 5 ⇒ (3) + 5 = 8
If the pooch is prone again and still alive, Carnadine will use his action surge to attack twice again and try to finish it, mortal combat style
Longsword attack 1 (if advantage): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 221d20 + 6 ⇒ (14) + 6 = 201d8 + 5 ⇒ (6) + 5 = 11
Longsword attack 2 (if advantage): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (19) + 6 = 251d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 161d8 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
There's a tracker I keep updated with each of my posts in my GM tag, but I'll try to be better about posting summaries each round as well.
Poochfall the Third: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
With a wail, the black hound of night goes down on its chin. It wails again and again under the unrelenting attacks of the dhampir. Bursts of cold stream from the body with each slash, like a torn leather tent in winter. In its death throes, parts of its body fade out of existence..trying to teleport away...but the metabolism powering that ability has faded and died leaving its flesh both torn and scattered atop the barbican.
Technically down to 5, but giving it to you to make up for some mishaps on my part.
"..." the fey seems speechless, only staring dumbly at the Knight Incorporeal.
The guard shouts pointing his friend's short sword "Now drop your weapons! You are under arrest! Treasonous bile!"
*whoosh* A great set of wings spanning wider than the walk sweeps overhead, and you catch a glimpse of the second fey mounted on what, for all intents and purposes, is a giant riding owl.
The other fey, left behind, smirks "You agree to take me to jail? That's the deal?" he has not yet lowered his weapons and it seems insane he could still continue...yet that is what he says.
Hound died, fey 1 used his turn to escape, fey 2 seems talkative but is still armed and has perhaps readied an action, we can still be in initiative. Up to players what to do here. Carn/Kjet/Ras up.
Following Deimus gaze, Hrungnir asked ”Ye alright laddie? That yer father buried there?” He assumed that Deimus had been named after his sire. ”Take yer time, nay rush.”
Deimus reaches inside his cloak and your hear a metallic click. A moment later, his breastplate rises up and he reaches underneath, then a snap echoes from under the breastplate, then it drops. In Deimus's hand is a small cog, which he places carefully on the tombstone.
To Hrungnir, he answers: "Something like that."
Finally, after another long pause, he peels his gaze off the tombstone and walks away, in a drunken manner, and addresses Lexi: "Meeting later would be a good idea. I have a coffee shop in the Ghetto, would that work? You can find me there. I'll make you a great espresso."
Does Ras recognize the fey as the one that was mocking her?
"No, let this one keep his weapons," Raseri says as she steps towards the fey. "Let him keep them so I can show him how badly he erred when he dared to mock me!"
If no one stops her, she's going to cast Call Lightning and start frying up some Elf Carbonara.
If done exploring the eerie temple grounds, you can get out just as easily as you came. Back on the adjoining street, the yellow-cloaked woman approaches again, astonished "You were able to enter the temple, and pray? Unmolested? Could it be the shadow curse is feckless?"
Ignore her, punch her in the face, etc where to next? Time advance to the ghetto? Intermediate scene with Lexi at the brewery?
Lexi is heading to the brewery. She's not going to bother talking to the woman.
Lexi brushed past the woman without answering her and then disappeared into the dark night.
"What is coffee?"
Deimus tilts his head at Lexi and a long moment passes with only the sound of gears grinding and memory tubes whistling softly the only sound breaking the pregnant pause.
"Tzk. You'll see." he finally replies.
As they walk out, he says to the woman: "Worshippers should come and worship their god." and walks away.
"Hrungnir, what are you up to?"
"Hold, friend." Kjeta says, putting a hand on Ras's shoulder.
"True, these fey have answered our offers to parley with violence. You would be justified in killing him...but perchance sparing him will enable us to learn more."
Turning to the fey guard, Kjeta says, "Now, prove to us that we should spare your life. Lay down your weapon, and tell us what's going on here."
The cool night wind of late autumn whistles through the crenelations as the scathsidhe balances his options. A moment of silence interjects itself between the 2 parties, between the 2 worlds.
The snow white elf brings his fine bow to his lips and kisses it (just one sweet smooch) before setting it on the ground at a snails pace. He then un-slings his shoulder baldric, oddly carrying his rapier in a green velvet scabbard and sets it as his feet...its chape a strange purple tinted metal. From underneath his bracers is produced a matching pair of tempered iron darts, with crystal balancing mechanus inset near the front. Finally, from his left boot is a long black spike...the horn or other organic growth of some unknown animal.
Raising his hands for free inspection "The goings on? Isn't it clear? We were to take this gate and hold it in the name of our Queen, by right and by lawful edict." he states.
"I thought Zobeck had no queen," Raseri says, her rage not yet sated. It retreats for the moment as her hammer returns to her and she easily catches it before the magic has left it. "That is what these southlanders told me when I first came here six winters ago," she adds as she replaces the hammer in its loop on her belt.
The light on the head of her maul steadies as she walks forward to the pile of weapons and begins to inspect them and see what many of steel these fey carry. She eyes the dart she picks up and frowns in disapproval at the mechanism. Gnomes and elves did love to overcomplicate things.
Raseri is a smith, so what do I need to roll for this?
The Kobold Ghetto, a third world
The *tOck* of some underground engine clocked regular beats as Hrungnir and Deimus approached the Ghetto Gate...one of only 2 entrances to the alien world of the kobolds.
Dingy, crowded, walled off from the rest of the city...a hard life of poverty and an early grave. Such was the promise of the ghetto, and for kobolds fresh from slavery it was a great improvement.
Imagine a spider egg sac burst, and a billion baby spiders set loose writhing over each other in clumps and random masses. Then, simultaneously, the tiny creatures each set upon building structures 3 to 5 stories into the sky.
It was a warren of streets no more than 6 feet wide (at most). The ghetto lay between 2 rivers, the insects were a constant sucking nuisance. Roofs of the angled and questionable architecture met overhead in most places to block the sun for the nocturnal inhabitants.
They say, and Deimus knew, it continued much the same beneath the earth. Every week they say, and Deimus knew, they extended farther and farther down...bringing silver, lead, and other valuables to enrich the city.
Deimus knew, such organization whispered of a time before the shadow fey...when kobolds built traps to rule all of Zobeck without master. But as little as 90 years ago, under the Stross, this was the kobold pen...their prison. Yet some say the everwound spring that powers the gearforged was the kobolds own invention.
Tavern rumor had it, as Hrungnir had heard, many an unusual entertainment could be had within: rat fights, pigeon hunts, skipping threesies, the Lynx gladiator pit, public amateur alchemy exhibitions, pleasures of the scale...all organized under the King of Kings...a title with a quick turnover, as a thousand ancient clans beset each other in modern intrigue.
It is here Deimus built his coffee shop, a gathering for likeminded kobolds to sip and invent, to be everything...anything...but a slave.
Hrungnir is a complete foreigner here, and treated as such. As you near the gate, a brace of burly drakes approach with some strange manacles (?) in hand "Sssstandard ssearchesss..." one says, whistling through an odd fang with, impossibly, a singular hair growing up out of its enamel. All this time, you thought only mammals could do that...but never from a tooth.
Hrungnir, they are swarming you and getting close, picking at your arms and armor. Just the smell from the open gate is revolting enough to cause you to be poisoned (no save) for...
Poison Duration: 3d6 ⇒ (5, 1, 5) = 11 rounds
Deimus knows this hustle is standard procedure for non-kobolds, and might advice him to stick it out...or somehow convince them Hrungnir is a friend...etc
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"I thought Zobeck had no queen, that is what these southlanders told me when I first came here six winters ago..."
He smiles and bows in earnesty "The patience of our Queen of Night and Magic is divine. How long would you suffer the presence of a foreign incursion on your lands? Would you have the grace to offer them a fortnight? A month? A year? 6 years, as you say? Our grace waited a century in Her virtue. Though in truth, it is not my place to tell you how to live." The last sentence he nearly whispers, enigmatically.
Int check (Smith's Tools proficiency): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5 *Sigh*
Raseri, surely this is not a new ore under the Midgard sun. It must be some exotic alloy, rather, a blend like steel sets iron against carbon. The edge has a ceramic quality, as if it were fired instead of forged, yet the point is so impossibly folded it must be. Reminiscent of elven work you've seen, yet following a wholly different aesthetic.
As she turns her attention to the material the dart is made of, her expression softens into one of deep thought. She leans the maul against her shoulder as she uses both hands to examine the metal and tries to determine what metals it could be.
Kjeta looks to Raseri, Carnadine, and their valiant elf-blooded companion, wondering Does that make any more sense to you than it does to me?
"Her lands? Queen of Night and Magic? This all sounds like riddles to me.
"Who is this queen? Where is she? What is her claim to Zobeck?"
"This Dwarf is my friend. He saved my life today. I ask that you treat him as a honoured guest!" says Deimus to the gathering Kobolds, his hands held peacefully, not resisting the procedure.
Persuasion: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (15) + 10 = 25
To Hrungnir he says: "This is the way in the Ghetto. Just go along please."
Shadow CaptiveQuote:"I thought Zobeck had no queen, that is what these southlanders told me when I first came here six winters ago..."He smiles and bows in earnesty "The patience of our Queen of Night and Magic is divine. How long would you suffer the presence of a foreign incursion on your lands? Would you have the grace to offer them a fortnight? A month? A year? 6 years, as you say? Our grace waited a century in Her virtue. Though in truth, it is not my place to tell you how to live." The last sentence he nearly whispers, enigmatically.
"If you speak of Northlanders, such as myself, then you would find that I am far kinder than many of my kin. For your mockery, they would have already taken your head and put it on a pike, weapons or no. For your invasion, well, you were weak enough to let them in and not drive them out. Other northlanders would say that makes it their land by right," Raseri answers, her eyes meet his and narrow as her still smouldering anger flickers in their depths.
"I do have to question the nobility and grace of one that employs assassins against unarmed priests and conducts hunts in markets full of expectant mothers. If your Queen is as righteous as you claim, then why has she not come and made her claim on these lands openly? If I must make a guess, I would say some fey magic that binds her to ridiculous rules. You do so love such foolishness."
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Hrungnir kept has hands far from his hammer and shield, holding them up in the air to show he meant to harm.
”Eugh. Hope this covfefe or whatever is called is...” He almost said worth it, but realizing how boorish it would sound, instead said ”...as good as it sounds.”
Sorry for the delay. RL game last night
At an appropriate time in the conversation with the potential elven prisoner, Carnadine asks, "Elf, I am Carnadine, Knight Incorporeal. What is your name? And, who is your liege-lord who would pay the ransom for your freedom?"
"Do you pledge to remain politely in our custody until we determine that your ransom is paid in full?"
Persuasion: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17
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He seems to hold his tongue after Raseri's remarks but can't resist a sarcastic "Yes, Northlander. It seems you have us figured out..."
Considering it pointless to continue with her, the captive turns to Carnadine, sizing him up a moment "I am...how you say...Master-of- Roads, Haylcaster Montylgrue, of house Roren. I have surrendered to the Zobeck guard..." he emphasizes "...Knight Incorporeal? Are you some secretive branch of the Zobeck militia? But regardless, I do swear to the stars...I shall be a model captive."
You hear another *whooo* from down in the darkness along the wall.
"Very well Haylcaster Montylgrue of house Roren, we witness your pledge and surrender to the guard of Zobeck. Let's escort you downstairs before the Thorsdottir loses her civility." Carnadine looks to the elfmarked to the lead the way with Carnadine behind the elf. He leaves the others to collect the elf's gear and potentially look around.
The noble dhampir certainly does not elaborate on the Knight Incorporeal and leaves the elf guessing. Although, it is interesting that the fey would think he is somehow attached to the defense of Zobeck.
Second Wind: 1d10 + 7 ⇒ (2) + 7 = 9
Enter the Kobold Ghetto
Although the main barrier had been breached by Deimus' quick and calculated words, Hrungnir's walk through the incredibly cramped (even for a dwarf but especially for a gearforged) streets was anything but discrete. On every corner (and there were many corners intersecting at various heights and angles, never square) he would be solicited with some new commercial venture, some new scam, from various mine gangs, street gangs, unsanctioned guilds, silver syndicists, pimps, pushers, and even pros...perhaps it was only the runecasters hardy constitution that kept him from retching.
The most common sight however is the working kobold, dressed in their dusty gray-green uniforms. Custodians and maintenence workers of the city Clockwork...they light the hidden boilers underground that drive the winding of springs, oil the joints of the Watch's automatons, steward the many clockwork doors, lifts, scullions, and bridges...they repair locks, gravity-fed devices, wind-up keys...they are the silent machine.
The silent machine takes its work to every nook and cranny of the city, often invisibly. Deimus has built his business at the heart of this silent machine, tapping its energy for business but truly for camaraderie. It lies on one of the cleaner streets and seems to have an aura of respect...I'll let Deimus describe from there since its his place, go wild.
"Very well," Raseri says as she stands and takes the weapons up in a bundle, "I claim these as weregild for your insults against me in place of your tongue."
She turns to the guardsman and can't help but smile as she asks, "Tell me, brave guardsman, what is the penalty for attempting to murder a city guard? I would assume that it would be something rather harsh to discourage those of low character from trying."
Really, she's trying to rattle him. She's still ticked, but is settling for humiliation rather than his life as honor would demand.
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Slight retcon, didnt mean to ignore Kjeta's question.
"Who is this queen? Where is she? What is her claim to Zobeck?"
He smiles "In the Summer Court she sits on a mirrored throne within her palace of glass and dreams, attended by 1,000 lords and ladies with alabaster skin and hearts of ice. Zobeck and the Margreve it sprung from have always been hers, since time immemorial. The true question is...what right does your...you call it...Praetorian Council? ...have to Zobeck."
Also lol covfefe, Hrungnir.
I think I ninja'd you there GM Infinity
Order on the Wall
The guard turns with a smile "Oh no...make no mistake. This is treason and there is only one penalty: death." shoving his shoulder hard back under the ruined portcullis "...and you know it, dontcha little turd-boy?"
Who could say why the fey so willingly turned himself over for death. Perhaps he actually didn't know. Perhaps, in some twisted noble line of thinking, death sent down by the rule of law was more just than death sent down by a random sword swing. It does make you wonder however, because now it is twice these fey have been eager to surrender...the first being the assassin back in the Khors temple. The party declined that first request, however.
Same deal as with Lexi as far as equipment goes. We can say you talk to her about it at some point. It will eventually fetch double value as soon as the buyer comes around. Or if you had other smithery plans for it, do tell.
Snooping around, you find the remains of 2 automata...the guardians that are supposed to stand eternal on this barbican. Their heads have been severed and dumped without much ado at their feet, the clockwork body a crumpled heap just adjacant.
*whoo* Following the strange noise down the wall further, your heart startles a moment as humongous flapping of wings comes into the light. Another great owl, this one likewise saddled but without rider, perches atop a merlon...cocking its head in that wierd owl way it blinks its eyes and constricts its pupil, Jurassic Park style.
Roll animal handling, and roll high, should you wish to keep the great owl as a mount.
Oh, I have plans for the gear. I just need to think of how Ras would go about finding out how to forge it.
Raseri follows the others along the wall, not much of an investigator. She felt little satisfaction in hearing that the elf was doomed to die, and even felt a small pang of sympathy. She shook her head and began to wonder about his words.
"It is not my place to tell you how to live," he'd said. Was he speaking to all of them, or just her? A chill that had nothing to do with the cold ran down her spine. Flashes of pain and silver eyes came rushing back, but faded with the same elusiveness that all of her memories from before waking in Zobeck seemed to possess. Part of her feared what they meant. The fey were fickle, and powerful. Anger had forged her words, but perhaps if she had been less hasty, she might have learned if she had cause to worry.
Her thoughts keep her from noticing the owl until its call shakes her from her reverie. She stands there, unready and exposed while she carries her maul in one hand and the spoils of battle in the other. Her eyes lock with the owl's and all thoughts and worries fly from her mind.
"Um hvað ertu að fara, næturvaktari?"
The question is more curious than frightened, but she still couldn't keep a note of fear from her voice. The owl is large enough for her to ride, and the hound's breath had stolen more of her vigor than she wants to admit. if a fight breaks out, she is certain she will be the one not walking away from it this time.
I'll let someone else handle the animal handling roll. Ras isn't too keen on having a mount.
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Kjeta is scratching her head, trying to puzzle out what in the world this fey soldier is saying...when the sight of the majestic owl stops her dead in her tracks.
"Sweet Mother of Ale!" she murmurs, lifting her tankard and then taking a long drink in honor of the bird. Use one of my last remaining doses of Blessed Brew to refocus on CHA
The bird is a far cry from the oxen she raised as girl, to help plow the fields of barley, but something in it's eye...
She approaches slowly. Instead of making eye contact, she makes a point of looking toward the bird's feet. As she approaches, she signals her own relaxed state by pretending to stretch and groom herself...until she's close enough to hold out a hand. "Here you are, beautiful. Nothing to fear here. Nothing to fear..."
Animal Handling: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (19) + 7 = 26
Animal Handling: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (16) + 7 = 23
Who's who on the wall
The owl makes a tranquil *qucrrr* sound reminiscent of a normal barn owl, but its lungs are 5 times the size so there is something percussive in the way the syllables roll...like a deep war drum. Dipping its reigned face within reach of Kjeta's hand. The owl for its part, seems as masterfully trained as the dog. Kjeta may require some flight lessons...
Not sure how long you'll be able to keep this, but in the time you do have it we'll just assume without rolls you can accomplish basic stuff like moving from point A to point B. But you can roleplay slowly getting the hang of it for fun. In combat situations or trying something off the wall, its another matter however. Might be some dex rolls or other animal handling in those cases.
Lexi made her way towards the Brewery, looking for Kjeta and Raseri...
Just wanted to remind you that I'm headed that way Infinity...
"1,000 lords and ladies with alabaster skin and hearts of ice?" Maybe I've more in common with these fey than the others.
Wonder what their game is. Probably trying to get an official from Zobeck to apply the laws of Zobeck against a vassal of this Faerie Queen to instigate a war or at least yo create a political wedge. Carnadine wonders about what he's heard.
When the giant owl arrives, he hides his jealousy of the alemaiden's success to recruit the feathery mount. Amazing. Flight!
Lexi pads silently alone through the large park that separates the Temple district from the Merchant quarters. The hairs on the back of her neck stand, her instincts blurring into imagination and seeing shapes that aren't there. She pauses for just a split second to ensure she is alone...and her own shadow moves beneath her feet.
A whisper comes from the shadow, as if from within a deep well "...the shadows will rule...the Sun is setting..." before realigning itself with the proper geometry. The feeling of pursuit leaves her for a moment, and she continues to the brewery unassailed.
Presumably that's where Ras and Kjeta go after the wall?
The guards at the gate cheer for Carnadine, Raseri and Kjeta, and the Bastard Elfmarked, accomplishing what they could not. All in the squad swear to buy you a drink and gut the next bruiser that fronts you.
At the mounted owl, there is wonder, but also trepidation. "We've seen the odd strix at late hour. Some have pledged to hunt them but never been seen again. I would tread carefully with such a beast, its owner may come looking..."
Not letting it sour the moment "Well Bastard, and..er..knight..? Its a long walk to the Citadel. You won't go without escort. Men, let's see this scum in bars and drink hails to a duty done."
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"Here we arez: the Clutching Drake..." says Deimus, his usually flat voice filled with pride.
The three-story building where his shop is located stand slightly askew, as though the building rests on the building next to it, which also seems to rests on the next one, and so on and so forth, leaving one to wonder what cornerstone actually holds the Ghetto up.
The faded facade sports colours of an age long gone and forgotten, its stucco friese and embellishments gnawed and chewed to almost nothing but a suggestion by years of rain, smoke, and the occasional revolution. On the friese, the name of the shoppe is painted in crude black characters.
The coffee shop is on the main floor. A small, narrow and low door, even by Kobold standards, of reinforced wood grants access to the interior. Beside it, a narrow and encumbered staircase leads to a metal door leading to the basement.
The shop is lit by distant and discreet oil lamps, the same ones used by Kobold diggers far below. Three tables, each with three chairs fill the small space, all of different design and eras, each broken and repaired a hundred times, lead to a small bar of corroded copper, with three stools matching the chairs perfectly, and behind which stands proud a glorious contraption of Deimus's design.
The machine is covered in pipes and gauges, and steams whistles softly from its left sides. On top of the machine are piled several cups, again a perfect match to the eclectic decor. Deimus offers Hrungnir a seat on one of the stools and slides behind the counter.
He picks what looks like burned lentils and places them carefully in a glass container above a metal box. "The beans come all tzhe way from the Dragzon Empire. I roast them myself in a stove below. It's the most complicated part of the process. You want them just right, not too green, not too black... This machine here I designed based on one of the big diggers they use below for the big jobs, except this one is tiny in comparison, and works with steam, but it's mostly the same."
He flips a switch and the small box roars as the beans disappear from the container. Deimus waits a few moments, then the machine stops. He then pulls a small brass knob and a drawer bolts out of the box, filled with a powder the colour of the beans. He then very carefully drops the powder in a silver holder, presses it down with one of his fingers, which is the exact size of the container, and sprinkles some powder on it: "Sugar and cinnamon, just a touch. It'll be a little sweeter. I don't take any, but I think you'll prefer it that way."
Hrungnir notices that Deimus's tone is slowly changing as he proceeds, as though he was giving his first daughter's hand in marriage to the Dwarf, as though he was joining the Kobold's clutch.
Finally, the silver bowls is screwed in the machine and Deimus pulls a wooden lever down, slowly. The gauges flicker in unison and, just as he slips a tiny cup of emerald porcelain, a brown liquid streams from under the silver bowl and into the cup.
With reverence, Deimus places the cup in front of the Dwarf and takes a step back, like a painter getting perspective. In front of Hrungnir, the emerald cup holds but a few drops of a drak brown liquid atop which floats an ephemeral foam made of myriads of tiny iridescent bubbles.
"It's the smell of it I miss the moszt..."
Lexi pauses for a moment, then whispers "There are not shadows without light idiot." before continuing on her way.
Hrungnir’s looked of pale faced nausea slowly faded as his senses became accustomed to the Kobold’s territory. For someone used to being underground, there was much which he did not find foreign. But still, there was plenty to marvel over, for the ingenuity of the kobolds could not be denied. His own people looked to the past. They perfected what had come before. It would seem that the kobolds looked to the future, making a name for themselves through invention.
But regardless of whether one looked forward or back, the tone of a craftsman’s pride was unmistakable. He was growing to like Deimus more and more. He wasn’t ready to *say* it, but this was a rare person whom he would be willing to consider a friend.
He took the coffee and smelled it. To his surprise it was hot! Was it supposed to be hot? He supposed so. The smell was...caramelized? No...slightly nutty? It was hard to describe. ”There is much to be jealous of when it comes to yer current form. But I can understand why ye’d miss the smell. It’s hard to describe, but there’s nothing I know like it.” He raised the cup and took a sip, unsure of what to expect. ”Whew! That’ll wake ye up.” He said. And as he did it, the realization came to him that Deimus likely couldn’t taste either. The idea of a proud craftsman being unable to know his own passion was heartbreaking. He was at a loss for words. So he took another sip instead. ”So...ye made all this yerself? Was it invented, or does the craft run in yer family?” As he asked he realized how little he knew of kobolds or their ways.
"Yes, a Knight Incorporeal, Carnadine of Bruvik. You are welcome." The noble dhampir replies to the guards.
Then, the ghost knight turns to address the elven prisoner. "And, Haylcaster Montylgrue of House Roren. Until we meet again. Be well."
After the guards escort the prisoner away, he asks, "Thorsdottir and Alemaiden, it was a genuine pleasure to fight by your side. I have business at the city's archives, if you've no where to be."
Carnadine was on his way to the city's archive. However, it wouldn't take much to invite him to celebrate. Plus, we can meet more of the party.
You assume correctly in Raseri's case. Her tools are still back at the brewery and she's starting to feel her injuries. Would it be possible for Raseri to grab a few teeth from the hound? Or, if the hound is more normal sized for a large dog, could she take some of the larger bones and the skull? I want to make something using those.
Raseri claps the elfmarked on the shoulder and gives him a smile.
"Bravely fought, my friend. Thor smiles on you today, and may he do so for many more years. Come find me at the brewery to Ninkash when you are finished drinking the rest of them under the table," she says with a hearty tone full of cheer.
As they head off to take care of the prisoner, Raseri turns to Kjeta and her owl mount.
"Wind and storms, Brewmother. You cut an imposing presence there on that owl. Even I would hesitate to fight you," she says with a chuckle. "If you intend to ride it to the brewery, you shall see me coming up the road."
Turning to Carnadine, she gives him a friendly clap on the shoulder.
"Are you sure that you would rather pour over records in dusty tombs than to spend a night celebrating with two lovely maidens? I am certain that Kjeta's newfound friend would be able to take you far more easily than I," Raseri says before starting down the street into the city. "As for me, I am off to hopefully be there before the feast has truly started."
A few blocks from the gate, Raseri ducks into an alleyway and braces herself against the wall. The fight had taken a toll on her and while she'd managed to stay on her feet, even the divinely gifted healing of her god had limits. Her lungs felt as if she'd been doused in icy water and left outside in a blizzard. Adrenaline had let her ignore the damage, but now that it had faded, she couldn't help but shiver and her teeth chattered together as she whispered the prayer that would mend her hurts.
Cure Wounds(Level 3): 3d8 + 2 ⇒ (8, 4, 6) + 2 = 20
"Barist harkalega, litli hundurinn. Ég heiðra þig með því að gera það svo þú gætir barist aftur," she says as she pats the bag of trophies she'd scavenged. The southlanders could not understand, not when she barely understood her need to honor one who'd nearly killed her. Damn her fleeting memories. She did things without knowing or understanding, and it was difficult, so difficult, for her to not cry out in frustration when she tired to understand and know the reason behind her actions. To do things by rote because they had always been done by rote was a southlander vice. The Northlands were far too unforgiving of mistakes to not know when and why one did something, as were the realms of the fey.
She paused as that last thought ran through her mind. Why had she thought that? She shook her head and continued on to the brewery. Her stride was long and her back tall and straight, both hiding the uncertainty she was feeling as she tried once again to figure out the how and why of who she was.
Don't know if I beat anyone to Kjeta's Brewery, but I'm up for some roleplaying if y'all are.
Lexi waited in the shadows outside the brewery for a moment, watching the comings and goings.
First rule, always know where everyone is
Her master's voice popped into her head unbidden, and she exhaled quietly while she observed the scene.
Looks like there was quite a fight here earlier.
Lexi was about to make her way inside the brewery, having determined that she could reach the second story window sill she had been eyeing, when she watched Raseri walk into the brewery.
Sliding up behind her, she quietly stalked her steps, waiting to see if the priestess noticed her.
Stealth: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (3) + 10 = 13
Basically, she's gonna play that game where you stay directly behind Raseri and thus out of sight. The stealth check is just to determine how quiet she's walking.
Sweet, I'll take the canines and some of the bones (the femurs and anything else that would work for handle scales)
Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (14) + 5 = 19
Raseri lets Lexi follow her for a few moments before setting down her maul and saying.
"Hello again Shadow. You have a strange way of greeting others. I do not think I have ever met someone that would hide behind the person they are coming to see," she says before turning and giving the other woman a grin. She takes off her helmet, revealing youthful features that can't be on someone older than seventeen or eighteen.
"What mischief have you been up to this night? I pray that you have a few good tales to spin."