DM Salsa Presents - Rise of the Runelords (Inactive)

Game Master AdamWarnock

Cailyn was taken a bit aback at the genuine grin, which was as bright, open, and well-inspiring as the noon sun.

Part of her is proud of having any part in its production.

Since she had not given a proper greeting to the other speaker, she leans to the side, past Ms. Ashborn, to see Mr. Mendelson. "Good morning, Mr. Mendelson, I apologize for my rudeness, but I Do hope your slumber was pleasant."

"Ameiko's letting us all stay at the Dragon for free if we want," Dare says. "My... reservation... at the Feedbag was up anyway, so I kinda needed it, but she seems legit... both as a person and on the offer. Talk to her Conrad, I'm sure she's got a spot for you."

She opens the packet and offers him a sausage, and then hands the rest off to a nursing volunteer to share with any children present.

"And, well, at least each of us now knows we're not crazy or imagining things."

Sleepy Sandpoint was far from sooty Alkenstar and it was doubtful anyone present had ever laid eyes on one of their famed firearms, but even if Scrapeknee didn't know what a gun was, he'd certainly jumped it.

"Well, 'crazy' is a strong word, dear chap," Willie interjected carefully, not so much the bucket of cold water to this conversation as a tepid trickle down the back. "Just not playing with a full set of marbles, is more so what I mean. Temporarily misplaced, I'm sure!"

He did dearly wish they'd all look beneath their respective couches for said marbles, though, and soon. The group now appeared quite convinced of a dream quest handed from on high, an idea not at all to the layabout lordling's liking. Willie liked his comfortable existence of lazing at labor hours and breakfasting at lunch, and wasn't eager to disrupt it. Beyond that concern, this all sounded rather dangerous. And not just for themselves either.

"It's just..." he tried, haltingly. "This is bringing to mind that knight who woke up one morning and decided to joust with windmills, no? If one is to take up arms against 'doom', 'darkness' and other imponderables, it'd be helpful if the ills in question could give a holler - just to know where to point said arms. Would save a whole lot of knights from looking the fool, not to mention a lot of faultless mills."

Stabs in the dark could be perilous like that. Never know what you're going to hit.

A look at Willie and arches a brow "Willie, some of us shared dreams, and most of us at least had a shared theme, with religious overtones to each. That's not a single knight declaring war on windmills. How we LOOK to others doesn't matter nearly as much as the lives of folks here. I can't speak for others, but barring an arch deva with flaming sword appearing in every building of sandpoint declaring 'hark' I think this is probably as clear a divine warning most mortals will ever see. It must be important, or why would the gods send messages to such unlikely folk? We're not heroes, so it must be that we are in the right place at the right time to help."

Conrad clearly hesitates when Dare hands him a sausage, but eventually shakes his head. "I'm g-good," he lies. If Dare goes along with her plan of donating her leftovers to the wounded, there's probably children who need this food more than he does.

"What would you c-consider a holler?" he scrunches his face. "Like, a shared d-dream, a d-divine vision or something? Or for the G-Gods to show up p-personally to tell you where to g-go?"

"D-Dream or not, town's b-been attacked. It's far from over."

Conrad gets the eyebrow now, for a different reason. "Mate, just take the f@!~ing sausage. If doom's around the corner, we don't want you feeling fainty."

To Willie, "Listen, Socks, I reckon you buy in more than you're saying or you wouldn't be here now. And you helped yesterday. Shook me out of that enchantment the goblin threw at me, too. You're already in on it, so stop trying to talk yourself out."

"What would you c-consider a holler?" he scrunches his face. "Like, a shared d-dream, a d-divine vision or something? Or for the G-Gods to show up p-personally to tell you where to g-go?"

"Yes, actually, they jolly well should!" a glum Willie sputtered, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Bally irresponsible to invest a man with... righteous purpose and all that, and then give him nowhere to relieve himself. That bloke will find somewhere, someone to make right. Give a lad a dagger, tell him he's free to use it, and see what's left of the curtains in time for tea. What I mean is..."

Windmills and curtains; the city boy wasn't the brightest of chaps and didn't quite know how to express his misgivings, a bother compounded by them still bubbling forth from his grey matter half-formed like molasses from a sponge even as he spoke. He didn't exactly have the benefit of practice either. Sure, young Wilberforce considered himself a decent enough sort. Why, he'd even considered going to that charity ball once. But ethics as a topic of conversation seemed to him rather rude, almost too naked, like discussing one's swimwear. Principles on the whole sounded to him like altogether too much work, much as he admired them in others.

This, however, was something nearer and more personal. He knew these fellows. He knew them to be as decent a lot to have ever shared a drink, and didn't want to see them hurt on what could very well be a fool's errand. Or, heavens forefend, hurt anyone else.

"What I mean," came the last attempt, "is that there is no evil to fight. We trounced the goblins and trounced them well; they're gone. If there is some wooly threat out there, we'll have to find it ourselves. And we are... we are a basilisk team sent out on to the field by coaches who saw fit to blind us all. If we are to trample forth in the dark, we should be dashed careful. It was only last year one such blighter rushed into the spectator stands thinking it the opponent's goalkeeper, and if gossip holds true, that little old lady still isn't on her feet."

While he didn't know how to say it, certain thinkers at Willie's neglected university might have agreed with him: there were few things more dangerous than a righteous mission. A crusader could justify a great many horrors - even find evil where there was none - so long as they believed their mission true. Of course, simple folk could agree with this sentiment as well, even if they knew it by a more worldly adage: when all you have is a hammer, everything starts looking like a nail.

"Listen, Socks, I reckon you buy in more than you're saying or you wouldn't be here now. And you helped yesterday. Shook me out of that enchantment the goblin threw at me, too. You're already in on it, so stop trying to talk yourself out."

Already warmed up what with arguing one case, Willie was ready to tackle another. Except he found he couldn't. Whatever else he was, the young man was not disingenuous. When faced with a plain truth, he wouldn't dispute it. And Willie recognized that there likely was some truth in the orc-ling's assertion; that he was protesting more so for the sake of it than because he had any hope of convincing anyone. Why, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was reflexive. Though no rebellious firebrand, Wilberforce's existence was defined by a rejection of the authority figures in his life, defying them in his own small ways. He supposed it made no difference whether these resided in school offices, mansions or indeed the great beyond.

He scratched at his oiled hair. But then, this might be something to take heart in. After all, he alone amongst them hadn't been directed by some providence wearing a toga. Should this mad caper go ahead, he would be joining it of his own free will, smallest of small comforts as that thought was.

Why, the only thing that had visited his dreams last night was a cat.

Right?

Something in Dare's tone reminds Conrad of when his mum ordered him to "shut up and eat his vegetables". He accepts the sausage with a timid "thank you" and begins munching on it without a further word of protest. "It's d-delicious," he nods after a few bites.

"What I mean, is that there is no evil to fight. We trounced the goblins and trounced them well; they're gone. If there is some wooly threat out there, we'll have to find it ourselves. And we are... we are a basilisk team sent out on to the field by coaches who saw fit to blind us all. If we are to trample forth in the dark, we should be dashed careful. It was only last year one such blighter rushed into the spectator stands thinking it the opponent's goalkeeper, and if gossip holds true, that little old lady still isn't on her feet."

"There's always evil to f-fight," Conrad chimes in with surprising solemnity. "And it's not hard to find, even b-blind."

Cailyn seems to have more sympathy for her cousin's argument than the others. Their desire to do good is evident in their every word and stance, even to someone like Cailyn who is not an expert at reading people, just reading about people. Her and her cousin are more... practically detached.

"I think they might providing us the foreknowledge that 'evil is coming' then requesting that we should remain in Sandpoint. For us, to not take other employment that would require relocation to another city, to return to one's family's homeland, or to return home in general." The last directed to Wilberforce, but with an undercurrent to herself (which is a far down-the-list option for her since it involves a lot of begging. Begging that would most likely be ignored and disappoint an already disappointed matriarch further. If that last part was even possible)...

Where was she? Oh.

"At least until this new danger has shown its hat to us and we've returned it with a firm rejection of its visit." She pats her cousin's arm in sympathy. She knows all this contemplation is taxing, and a little familial pride buds inside her at his continued attempts at it this morning.

Scrapeknee looks impressed at Conrad's statement on evil, and nods.

Then looks about for the good Father.

"Most evil everywhere is harder to fight. People being cruel to each other, the rich putting their boots on the poor's necks to stay on top. In a way this is a welcome rest. It's easier when the monsters look like monsters (says the tusky green woman). Well, easier except they're more likely to kill you straight away. But then some'd rather than than suffer." Dare trails off. "Sorry, I'm babbling. Not used to having someone to talk to."

Just as Scrapeknee is looking about for Father Zantus, the Desnan is walking hurried over to the six of you.

Can I get a post from everyone, please?

Cailyn had been looking up at Dare with surprise and interest when the very man they had been waiting to see started striding purposely toward them. She beamed a smile at him, hoping answers were about to be given.

When talking to Joanna

What I'd care for is the gods to answer my prayers and have you and your creepy sister suddenly succumb to your wounds and drop dead, so I can be with my friends, who you shady criminal b&~%&es are keeping me away from. Since she slowly is actually starting to make real connections more, her resentment for the two women, Iulian, and Vhiski grows cancerously. She'd rather fight ancient evils for the gods any day over ever deal with shady merchants and gangsters ever again, if only she could be with Lita and Conrad and the others. She is all the more frustrated that her conversation with her future masters is yet delayed. She just wants to get this over with. Her eyes flicker to a statue in the cathedral. You know, Sarenrae, if you want me to fight for you, you could get these chits out of my way. They don't have to die. Just be gone.

Outwardly, Dare gives Joanna a stiff nod and an expressionless face. "Of course, Miss Joanna. Whatever you say."

Bluff How expressionless is she?: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13

With the group, when Zantus arrives

Dare is a bit bemused (but not upset) by Cailyn's look. "Did I say someth- oh, there he is."

She quiets and presumes Scrapeknee or one of the others will present the oddity of the dreams.

Conrad quickly wolfs down his sausage when he sees Father Zantus striding towards the group. He's slightly overestimated how fast he could eat, because he's still munching on his improvised breakfast when the priest reaches them.

"Father Zantus, thank goodness. I know much is going on, but may we have a moment of your time? Strange as it seems, there's been a run of crazy dreams...well, not crazy, I think divine powers are trying to tell us something, not just me and dani."

Joanna nods before bidding Dare farewell.

Father Zantus blinks as Scrapeknee mentions dreams, apparently caught off guard.

"Then Desna and the other gods must be thanked," he says with a ghost of a bemused smile that fades as he continues on. "I fear that you would do well to heed any warnings the gods deign to give you. Please, come with me. I need ask you a favor, but not here with so many ears."

The father leads you out into the graveyard where Old Naffer, the head priest of Sarenrae in Sandpoint is waiting by a crypt that stands open.

"Ah, I see you found 'em," the old smuggler turned cleric says with a nervous laugh. "Nothing's come out, but I have heard a few creaks an' rattles down there."

"That's good to hear," Father Zantus says before turning to you all. "As you can see, there's something amiss here, and I was hoping, praying really, that you six would be able to help us deal with it and discover what happened and how. We've found prints, but we can't make heads or tails of them, and then there's the noi--" The Desnan priest is interrupted by the gentle clunk of bone on stone He glances worriedly down into the crypt and swallows.

"There's that. I'm no warrior, and Naffer, well--"

"I'm old as dirt," the Sarenrite says for Father Zantus and gives the younger man a toothy grin. "Ain't gonna offend me none, Father."

"Yes," Zantus says as he chuckles in embarrassment. The moment of levity doesn't last long as he turns his attention back to why all of you are out here. "That's the gist of it. We will gladly reward you for your help, of course. Will you see what's going on here," he asks the six of you.

The city boy was rather relieved when Zantus, the old so-and-so, didn't have much to say on the topic of dreams or indeed dream quests. Not much beyond an appropriately clerical blessing by way of a pat on the shoulder. Granted, Willie wasn't thrilled at this, but he had feared far worse: something like a degree of rabbling and rousing!

So it was that he dutifully followed the gent into the ol' marble orchard where he promptly failed to follow the selfsame's oblique request.

"What's this then?" Wilberforce asked the ministers in peering into the yawning crypt. "Some cheeky bovver boys been about? I say, bit rich to muck about with graves, what?"

Vandals perhaps? Willie was fond of a bit of midnight caroling himself, but disturbing one's rest eternal was a step too far. He sympathized, being so fond of his own sleep.

Lita sees Zantus just around the time he catches sight of the rest of the group, and she returns to them in time to hear Scrapeknee's quick explanation of the previous night's dreams, though her expression turns quickly to one of concern at the Father's worried tone. That concern only deepens as the group is led out into the graveyard, where even seeing Naffer safe and smiling and cracking jokes, albeit nervous ones, doesn't distract her from the open crypt and the sounds coming from within.

"You think the goblins last night had necromancers? Are there any other crypts open, any other graves disturbed, anything like that?"

Without a thought, Dare clenches a fist and nods resolutely. "Course I'll help."

To Lita, she says, "The gobbos had some spellcasters anyway." She scratches her head. "Or maybe they found their way to the city through underground tunnels to begin with." She nods to Zantus. "I ain't any sort of tracker, but where's those prints you said you saw?"

"We could seal it, let whatever is down there weaken or starve." Cailyn suggests, her tone becoming academic, as if she is simply tackling a problem, not talking about the undead "If the noise continues after a week, we could then investigate."

Father Zantus shrugs at Lita's question and shakes his head at Cailyn's musings.

"It's possible they did, though from what I know most of them aren't gifted with that black art," he says before turning to Cailyn. "And I fear that we can't you see this is the crypt where my predecessor and his adopted daughter have been laid to rest. It may have happened five years ago, but most of Sandpoint remembers Father Tobyn well and fondly. Besides, if what is down there is undead, I would not want it left alone to defile the remains of those buried here."

"'Sides, this is the only crypt or grave that was done this way. You can see the prints there," Old Naffer explains as he points out the mess of footprints that are in the muddy grass next to the crypt and lead away from it to the northwest. Indeed, it does seem like the prints only came here, almost like their owners knew where to go.

The noises that come out of the crypt are nothing like anything Conrad's ever heard. It certainly doesn't sound like flesh, or any rebellious teenager prancing around. Hell, it doesn't even sound like metal being dragged across stone. It sounds... drier, somehow. More brittle. Like the scraping of bones against rock.

It makes Willie's selective blindness rather infuriating, really. How the man survived this long is beyond him.

"We'll g-go," Conrad says decisively. He crouches down to inspect the prints. They look bigger than the ones left by goblins' feet. He wonders who the hell could have slipped into the crypt unnoticed. Were they even from Sandpoint?

Survival: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (3) + 5 = 8

Dare isn't really the investigative type... at all, really, but she does her best to look for anything useful that might give them clues about who arrived or where they came from.

Perception: 1d20 ⇒ 16

"Undead?" The word was parroted with a sort of needy wishfulness that betrayed just how dearly the speaker hoped he'd misheard Zantus. Willie stepped away from the open crypt like it was the gaping maw of a dragon, now considerably more alert.

"What, you mean... a grave dodger? Walking ivories? The dearly not-so-departed? Here?"

His baby blues were splayed in general dismay. The young man was less than comfortable with the dead in their peaceable state, never mind those who managed to escape the Gray Lady's bosom. "Oh dear. Well, this is a horrid state of affairs," he said emphatically, remembering to shake his head in emphasis. "Someone ought well do something."

"We'll g-go."

"Eh?"

Oh, dash it all! Wilberforce had been too slow on the uptake to grasp the situation, and now he found himself volunteered for some overdue undertaking. He didn't even bother protesting beyond a surrendering gesture. True, this was surely a job for the town guard, but he understood well enough that these were busy what with the recent upheaval. And their little party had so recently proven themselves competent goblin slayers.

Such was the danger of doing a job well; you ran the risk of being given more work!

"Right. Well," he therefore said with a tortured grin, "we had best set these shamblers back to the wrong side of the grass, what?"

Might as well just get to it, Willie supposed. Besides, it wasn't like a shuffling cadaver or two were all that, were they? Yes, he was sure the others would manage while he offered some choice encouragement from the back. Why, they counted a paladin among them! This should be right up her alley.

But first came these curious prints. Willie offered his typical help, which was to say that he tried to stay out of anyone's way, mostly just looking over the broad shoulders of Conrad and Dare. "Do these imprints spell anything for you, dear fellows?"

Survival (aid another if possible): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (9) + 1 = 10

Forgot that survival can be used untrained; would have tried it in the previous post.

Cailyn glances up at Mr. Mendelson's decisiveness and then back at the dark opening. It is clear she does not like this, from the small frown, the tensed shoulders, and of course, the fact that she tells everyone "I do not like this. Tactically, I mean. Of course. Unless this crypt is different than all the ones I've read about, it will be cramped, negating the benefit of our numbers. If we even have that benefit." Her hands try and push down her skirts, which is in several layers, as is the fashion, and make her even take up more than a comfortable amount of space. Not something she can do anything about right now since she is not disrobing in front of the clergy.

Or anyone! Her mind jumps in to add the last part

With minor distraction, Cailyn looks at Ms. Ashborn and Lita "It is dark, and while I never wish to presume, statistically your ancestry should be a benefit in there. But the rest of us will require light. Destroying any chance of surprise and potentially hampering our ability to fight." she paused, about to ask Ms. Ashborn if her fire magic could produce light, but any time anyone has asked her about her magic has ended up poorly, so she stifles the question.

"We don't know how many are down there, or what they are..." she sighs.

While she has been pointing out all the flaws with the plan of going in, the small bibliophile has been slipping her heavy crossbow off her back and cranking in taunt.

One last bit of practicality comes out of her, as she sets a bolt "Father, you should alert the guard. If we fail, whatever is down there might no longer be content skulking."

Cailyn is ready

"Don't worry, Princess, we're not going to chuck you into the dark first."

To Zantus, she asks, "Father, you've a light spell or a torch you could spare our markswoman?" Dare has neither, not having had need of them due to said aforementioned ancestry.

Back to Cailyn, "But you've outlined a fair plan. I'm not exactly the sneakthief sort, but I could probably try to creep ahead of the rest of your light--if Lita or anyone else who can see in the dark wants to come with, more's the merrier--and see what we can see before we tackle whatever's down there. If we're lucky, whoever's there can be cowed into backing off. If we're less lucky," She snaps her fingers and makes a spark fly into the air. "Hopefully they're quite flammable."

Late to the party... darn cold. Survival roll for earlier if allowed... 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (14) + 5 = 19

OjWoj follows, with the others, wanting to say more, wanting to say EVERYTHING so the man can get the details he needs to advise them. But... it turns out something is on the good priest's mind.

Without a thought, Dare clenches a fist and nods resolutely. "Course I'll help."

"We'll g-go," Conrad says decisively.

"I'm with Dare and Conrad, of course we'll help... we'll talk about the warnings we recieved in dreams after but we DO need to talk of them," the young man sounds more firm, not disrespectful, nor pleading, but speaking with a mature assurance. The tragedy has forced him to put some insecurities to the side, at least while there is work to be done.

He does look at the prints, and then when the talk of light arises, he smiles a bit, "How about this?" And with unpracticed ease, he runs his hand over his shortspear's point, and it blooms as brightly as any torch, though the colors less resemble flame and more very bright starlight.

Light spell

"Do these imprints spell anything for you, dear fellows?"

"Not r-really," Conrad replies snappishly. It's unclear if he's more exasperated at Willie's meddling, or the mysterious footprints.

The prints are a confusing mess to most of you, but Scrapeknee's eyes are able to suss out more than most. He clearly sees that about a dozen individuals came to the crypt and went back. Most of the prints are from goblins, but the Shoanti stargazer sees that one set of tracks belongs to someone bigger, probably human given the size and depth of the prints in the muddy ground.

We appear to be missing a Lita. I'll give her another day to catch up before we delve into the crypt.

"No, really?" Willie cooed as the native relayed the story the prints had to tell. "Are you sure you read these right?" The Magnimaran looked more than a little ridiculous in bending forward to peer at the ground, scrunching his face as if trying to decipher an ink stained textbook. It wasn't that he doubted the young fellow, exactly. It was just that the story sounded so ruddy unbelievable.

"A proper person with the goblins? I can't imagine anyone who could tolerate those little blighters' company. Not exactly the types you invite over for a spot of lamb and boiled pudding, are they?"

No, sir. Not the types at all. Which meant the party had a mystery on their hands. Which in turn meant that Willie could safely put it out of his mind. This was for someone else to solve. After all, why worry about yarns you knew you didn't have the machinery to unravel? The matter thusly resolved he righted himself, moderately satisfied.

"Oh, right!" Seeing Scrapeknee light the head of his spear, the gent was reminded that he knew a similar trick himself.

"Off into the dark and damp
Where your truest friend's a lamp."

Touching a finger to one of the buttons of his waistcoat, it immediately began to glow in a garish pinkish-purple in contrast to the oracle's ghostly starlight. Was it terribly wrong of him to consider this half in service of actually seeing any shamblers, and half just another reason for himself to enter the tomb last?

Casting light as well.

"That's my best guess, Willie," He admits after he's reported his findings on the prints. "I could be wrong but I don't think so."

Then he nods as another light spell comes into being.

"I can go in ahead of the light with Dare, but..." Lita raises her arm to illustrate, her scale armor clinking against itself with each movement. "I'm not exactly quiet. I can keep them off the rest of you, at the minimum."

I'm going to try this as Theater of the Mind since this should be a fairly quick fight.

Lita and Dare lead the six heroes, some more reluctant than others, down into the crypt. Inside, the air grows chill, as if some fell influence is trying to corrupt this holy place. Simple stone pillars hold the rest of the structure and frame the dozen or so niches in the walls. As the full crypt comes into view, the source of the ominous noises is readily apparent. Two skeletons move as one, sensing the life of those coming down the stairs of the crypt and reaching out to tear that life from the fools that dare cross them.

Initiative Order:
> Scrapeknee and Willie
- Skeletons, of the spooky and scary variety
- Lita, Cailyn, Dare, and Conrad

The skeletons are in a 20ft by 20ft room with you all on the stairs leading into it. They are within 30ft of everyone, and fifteen feet from Lita and Dare.

Scrapeknee and Willie: You're up!

Scrapeknee may appear confident, and resolute... and he is the latter, but the appearance of actual moving skeletons, despite the meaning warnings of undead being possible... the dead are walking, and that is so fundamentally wrong he gasps in trepidation!

And a new day is here, and power refreshed, once more a fiery star erupts from his exhale and streaks at the two skeletons

Spray of Shooting Stars (Su): As a standard action, you can unleash a ball of energy that explodes in a 5-foot radius burst dealing 1d4 points of fire damage per level. A successful Reflex save (DC 14) halves this damage. This attack has a range of 60 feet. You can fire one explosive ball per day, plus one additional ball per day at 5th level and for every 5 levels thereafter. You can fire more than one ball at a time, but creatures caught inside more than one simultaneous explosions only take damage once.
Targeting Skeletons. DMG: 1d4 ⇒ 3

Then he admits, "Sorry, got spooked."

The skeletons flinch as starfire explodes between them. One of them is charred black and is barely hanging onto its existence as white-hot embers continue to consume its bones. The other manages to use its fellow as a shield, whether out of some spark of malignant intelligence or just plain dumb luck. It is not unscathed, but it is in much better shape than its fellow.

Willie's up

Light? Not for his sake, no thank you. Who was to say Willie couldn't see in the dark much like dear Lita and Dare? After all, at the first sight of the rattling undead, his peepers went big as an owl's. The young man felt rather rattled himself, freezing on the spot as empty eye sockets turned the group's way. It was an odd thing. Somehow he hadn't anticipated facing these necromantic remains to be all that, not after fighting the goblins. Like comparing kippers to kestrels, he now realized: entirely different critters. Goblins might fit every invective under the sun, but that was just it: they still belonged to this sunny realm every beast, blighter and bloke called home. But this? These walking abominations? They were something wholly unnatural and it chilled Willie to the bone.

Thank the stars then (perhaps literally so) that good old Scrapeknee's outburst, im- and explosive, drew attention away from his fright.

"Sorry, got spooked."

A shaky breath through a strained smile followed. "Yes, well, happens to the best of us, old chum." He harrumphed to clear the fear from his timbre. "Good show, though! Er, if I provided something in the way of startling, would you have a few more of those in you?"

Right then! This was no time for jitters, however justified. These horrors needing banishing back into the dirt. Unfortunately, he was not the man for the job. But this didn't mean he couldn't give those workhorses bearing down on the skeletons some choice encouragement.

"Go on, chaps!" he called, his voice echoing trough the small space and somehow bolstering everyone present. "Send these walking ivories back to join the great majority!"

Just revving up inspire courage and perhaps moving out of people's way. +1 attack/damage!

Initiative Order:
> Scrapeknee and Willie
- Skeletons, of the smoked and charred variety
> Lita, Cailyn, Dare, and Conrad

The skeletons shuffle forward and swipe at both Lita and Dare, the two ladies being at the front of the group. Neither manages to even come close with their clumsy blows and leave themselves open for a counterattack.

Everyone Y'all are up, but I'll resolve Scrapeknee's and Willie's actions after everyone else's

A shaky breath through a strained smile followed. "Yes, well, happens to the best of us, old chum." He harrumphed to clear the fear from his timbre. "Good show, though! Er, if I provided something in the way of startling, would you have a few more of those in you?"

Scrapeknee seems to grow introspective for a moment, trying to most past his nerves or surprise and then realizes "No, that's all of those for today."

Right then! This was no time for jitters, however justified. These horrors needing banishing back into the dirt. Unfortunately, he was not the man for the job. But this didn't mean he couldn't give those workhorses bearing down on the skeletons some choice encouragement.

"Go on, chaps!" he called, his voice echoing trough the small space and somehow bolstering everyone present. "Send these walking ivories back to join the great majority!"

Just revving up inspire courage and perhaps moving out of people's way. +1 attack/damage!

Still, his nerves fade as Willie cheer them all on.

Dare, at the head of the group, angles herself to catch the pair in an arc of flame (making sure not to catch Lita in it, even though it probably wouldn't hurt her) she conjures from her burning hands.

Fire Damage Reflex DC 14 for half, minimum 1: 1d4 ⇒ 2

That should definitely take out 1, and hopefully make the other easily to take out with a minimal roll

Skeleton 2 REF: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (11) + 2 = 13

Dare's flames fan out from her hands and reignite the embers Scrapeknee's attack had left on one of the skeletons, consuming it and causing it to collapse in a pile of ash and charred shards of bone. The other looks to be in almost as bad of shape, bits flaking off and turning to dust where red and yellow embers burn the abomination.

Next hit kills the remaining skeleton. AC 16, DR 5/Bludgeoning

Conrad grabs his flail to deliver a powerful blow to the skeleton, but unfortunately his aim is wrong, and the head of his weapon just takes out a chunk off the undead's shoulder instead of crushing its skull.

Attack: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7
Damage: 1d8 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7

attack, with precise shot: 1d20 + 4 + 1 ⇒ (14) + 4 + 1 = 19
damage: 1d10 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5

Cailyn lifts her crossbow to her shoulder, slows her breathing and waits until her allies shift just enough... then... Thwack. The bolt shoots out and slams into the skull of the remaining skeleton.

Was that a normal or a blunt bolt, Cailyn?

Normal, sir. She is not fluent enough in skeletons to know blunt is best.... and she doesn't own any blunt bolts yet, too knew to this adventuring thing.

Cailyn's shot looks as if it will end the unnatural monstrosity, but alas, the sharp point skitters off the brow ridge of its skull.

I think we still have Lita in Round 1 and then we have Scrapeknee and Willie in Round 2.

Attack: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

Lita tries to step up and take advantage of the opening the skeleton in front of her leaves, but finds a skeleton a somewhat harder target to strike effectively than a body, her blade hitting nothing but air.

Lita's strike would have been true, on a normal human, but the tiefling paladin's blade passes right through the empty belly of the skeleton.

That's it for Round 1, Scrapeknee and Willie are up for Round 2

Initiative Order:
> Scrapeknee and Willie
- Skeleton, of the resilient and tenacious variety
- Lita, Cailyn, Dare, and Conrad

Seeing the bolt skitter off despite the excellent aim, OjWoj switches to his sling, allowing his spear to fall to his side, and flicks a bullet at the remaining skeleton.

Bard Bonus included, to hit: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6
Dmg (BB included) 1d4 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6

His bullet has force, but no accuracy!

Scrapeknee's bullet whizzes down the stairs and hits with an impressive crack, but unfortunately, it only manages to crack the stone floor behind the skeleton.

Willie, you're up!