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1) I am based in Southeast Asia (UTC +8) so my posting hours may be unusual (especially for those in North America). I usually update at least one or twice per day. Just to keep the game moving, please post at least once every day and at least once during the weekend.
2) Please keep all posts and communication in all channels limited to a PG-13 level and be both positive and inclusive.
3) Please label all three of your actions. Even if you think what you are doing is obvious.
4) If I am unavailable for longer than 24 hours, I will let you know in the Discussion Tab. Out of respect for your fellow players and myself, I ask that you do the same. Real life happens, and real life will always take priority over the game, but out of fairness for your fellow players, please let us know if you will be unavailable for an extended period of time.
5) Please note that on the following days, my posting can get unpredictable:
Tuesday/Thursdays - all day, as they are the 2 busiest days of my work week
6) Please complete the Macros and the Slides linked at the top of the page.
7) Questions, concerns? Feel free to share them in the Discussion tab.
8) Let's have some fun and tell a great story together! After all, that's what we are here for.
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A gentle, somewhat aerated sound emits at a low frequency as a robed figure enters the space, graceful movements, almost delicate, arriving him before the meeting spot.
A look into the cloak reveals a soft metallic face, and yellow eyes alight with some amber radio glow, rivulets of that same color connecting a pair of twinned streaks that flow down his neck, and presumably, to the rest of his body.
Awaiting patiently.
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"I am told you needed some actual muscle"
Short by the standards of his own people, Fjorn makes up for his average human height in midway heft. He is surprisingly nimble for a thick-bodied and heavily armored warrior - sporting a sturdy wooden buckler with a sapling glyph on his ample forearm, and carrying a modest ulfen axe in his right. His thick beard and full head of hair a dirty blond finds itself loosely bound into multiple moderately kept locks; a few of which are indeed well groomed and arranged neatly into ropey braids, whereas others seem to have taken on an orientation of their own, unruly, unwound, unorganizable.
Though his manners are polite, they stand in contrast to his wild eyes which dart around, as if to signify he is experiencing a mild hallucination at all times. This isn’t far from the truth, for beneath his warm furs what looks like a portable laboratory is stowed in horizontal and vertical rows across the inside of his garments and around his waist - liquids of nearly every spectra visibly within reach of his ordinary sized hands.
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The rough-looking half-orc wears scale mail, and has a sword at his left hip. A crossbow is slung over his back. He carries himself like a soldier, eyes alert for potential danger.
”Kosh Bracken”, he says, by way of introduction. ” ‘Fore I joined the ‘Ciety, I was a mercen’ry, scout, patched up fellas like you lot. Now I just get paid betta!”
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A giant floating brain comes flying across the formations of troops. "Giant" in that it's an exposed brain nearly as large as a beer-barrel with an atrophied body hanging beneath it.
Thandar's Third Theorem (the name of the giant floaty brain) is used to the effect they have on most people of this planet. They barely even notice the gasps or how activities come to a halt as they pass. From their altitude of 20 feet or so above the crowds, they scan the troops looking for Venture Captain Brackett whom they were told would have their assignment.
They spot a small team assembling near the Venture Captain and float down to join them.
"Hello, you are the Pathfinder team, I presume?" they say aloud so as not to startle anyone with a telepathic greeting as they smoothly descend to the field. Hovering just above the dirt, their feet - though clad in lightweight soft boots - don't quite touch the surface. The atrophied body with 4 thin arms hanging below the giant brain is clad in simple traveler's clothes. They bear no weapon or gear except a small pack upon their back and a wayfinder dangling from a thin belt at their waist.
"I am Thandar's Third Theorem, but please just call me Third for simplicity."
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The marble-paved circle at Breachill’s center has become an armed encampment. The tall bronze statue of the city’s founder impassively watches shouting officers of the Steel Falcon readying their formations for battle. Engineers carefully stack ammunition alongside enormous bombards. Nearby, Pathfinder agents hurry to and from Venture-Captain Brackett, preparing for the upcoming struggle.
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>>Blink-blink<<
"That's definitely a vision..."
Having earlier taken, or rather, continuously refreshing, a special fragrant concoction "for nerves" , our shaggy ulfen hero vomits the contents of his stomach onto the floor, clearing the effect of the mutagen (including any occasionally recurrent side effects), and gives the floating brain another look.
"Nope. Not a vision" and goes over to shake it's flappy hand "Fjorn. Of the Kolkind Clan" he is careful not to be too rough, oberserving that, as an organism, much of it's energy seems to be routed upwards rather than distributed evenly, resulting in a frail constitution but the apparent instalation of continuous levitation "Can't say I've heard ah Thanadar nor studied any of his Theorems, but, I can say that whatever mission they got planned for us today, I can dew my best to keep you afloat!"
As other Pathfinders ensemble and rehearse battle formations, Fjorn once again refreshes his nerve concoction, checks the contents of his handsome horn, nods to the others assembled, grabs his axe, goes over to fist bump Basag Bungo "Two missions in a row - I see you brought your Lethal Cutlery again!" and heads towards the venture captain.
Advanced Alchemy
(□□□) Juggernaut Mutagen, Moderate
(□□) Blasting Stone, Moderate, one loaded in Weapon Siphon
(□□) Dread Ampoule, Moderate, one loaded in Dread Helm
Horn of Plenty w/ Provision
(□) Invisibility Potion
(□) Healing Potion, Lesser
Unless otherwise noted, everything above stored in Horn
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A rather emaciated and elderly goblin woman inspects the bombards and ammunition, followed by a slightly concerning-looking wolf wearing a riding saddle and thick leather 'armour' over its vitals. "Oh the children would love this place, it's like a little festival" - despite the faint raspiness like leaves blowing in the wind, she speaks with surprising gentleness and warmth, like an elderly kindergarten teacher about to read a bedtime story. Her sureness of step and confident upright posture seem out of place for her otherwise appearance old age.
Meeting the assembling group with her Wayfinder visible, she falls in with her fellow Pathfinders "I am Granny" she offers to no one in particular, broadly addressing the gathering "...and this is Hungry, he's a friendly dog, you can pat him, go ahead". The battle-scarred wolf looks entirely not friendly, and more inclined to rip off limbs than be petted by them.
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Third shakes hands with Fjorn using the upper right of their limbs and bobbles in the air once slightly as if bowing. They begin to speak, but stop, resisting the urge to explain who Thandar was and the importance of their theorems, most notably of course the Third. "Thank you, Fjorn. But worry not; this is not my first mission as a Pathfinder, and my magics and mental powers have proved sufficient so far. Not that I will be rushing forth into the breach, obviously," they finish with a laugh and Fjorn is sure that he hears the laugh both audibly and directly in his mind.
At Granny's introduction, Third bobbles in the air again in greeting. They opt not to pet Hungry, fearing that such a beast would likely find their small hands a bit too irresistible as a snack.
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A small but stout halfling arrives at their meeting place. One can see that he has some tools at his disposal: a frying pan, a huge two-pronged fork, a long piece of wooden pole, and a Y-shaped staff. Stowed behind him is a steel shield.
He looks around to make sure he arrives at the right place, and finds a group of Pathfinders gathered nearby.
"Basag Bungo, at your service! I hope I am not late for the mission briefing?"
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A small but stout halfling arrives at their meeting place. One can see that he has some tools at his disposal: a frying pan, a huge two-pronged fork, a long piece of wooden pole, and a Y-shaped staff. Stowed behind him is a steel shield.
He looks around to make sure he arrives at the right place, and finds a group of Pathfinders gathered nearby.
"Basag Bungo, at your service! I hope I am not late for the mission briefing?"
”Not yet”, Kosh replies. ”Fink dere’s someone who knows ya”
He nods toward Fjorn.
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Basag turns and recognizes a familiar face, returning the offered fist bump with his own.
"Fjorn!" he greets enthusiastically. "Yes! A staple for cooking, and for fighting! Extremely useful in both!"
He gives Fjorn’s horn a more appreciative look.
"And nice horn!" he adds, realizing he can’t quite recall whether he’d seen it during their last mission.
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Fjorn chuckles chubbily "I can always eat!" patting his generously portioned midsection which juts only slightly from his tightly-strapped armor "Oh this ol' thing? Well..."
"There was a god of war, if'n yew knew him, slain right out the sky, his blood drawn like rain on all of the meadows, tundras, and fjords of my home country, whence I had been taking a sabbatical to visit my kin. And well, some of that divine essences got washed into me when I was taking a sauna with my cousins, eating fruits and meats right outta this here horn. And since then, it, and I, are drawn together, back into the sky..."
He recounts the story with his eyes drawn back into his head, using expressive and larger-than-life hand gestures, not unlike someone describing a pharmaceutical "trip" of one kind or another. Indeed, from the looks of him, it likely was.
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The venture-captain wipes his brow and drinks from a canteen. "Good morning, Pathfinders! I hope you’re rested. It’s going to be a long day. You might be a bit nervous seeing all the preparations, and I don’t blame you. We’re here to challenge Cheliax and the Hellknights for the town. But you’re still fresh from your confirmations, so I don’t expect you to join directly in the battle." Brackett produces a hand-drawn map of Breachill with several locations marked across the Breach Creek to the north. "We’re working with Andoran’s Steel Falcons on this mission. They’ve secured the town south of the creek that divides it. Most Hellknights have retreated to Citadel Altaerein northeast of town, but a few holdouts, fiends, and mercenaries remain in the north half of Breachill. I spoke to Greta Gardania from the town council. They’ve had a tough time under the Hellknight’s occupation, and many townspeople are trapped, short on supplies, or too afraid to get to safety. That’s where you come in. I want you to cross the creek and check three of the locations I’ve marked on the map. I’ll send others to check the ones you don’t. Help the townspeople and convince them to come with you back here. Prioritize their safety."
He pauses, looking over the gathered army-the Eagle Knights sharp in their blue uniforms, banners waving and bright, steel gleaming in the sunlight of the cloudless day. "Marvelous, isn’t it? It reminds me of tapestries I’ve seen of the Shining Crusade, brave knights in all their splendor." He turns away from the scene. "The machinations of fiends brought us here, but mortals will do the fighting, and on a scale beyond what most of us can imagine. Be careful, Pathfinders. Just get yourself and the civilians back here alive."
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Dinardin is a quiet, contemplative man dressed in full plate armor. He bears a beautifully-wrought polearm emblazoned with the sigils of Iomedae and Lastwall. He nods stiffly to anyone who glances his way, but doesn't engage in small talk.
"Dinardin," he says by way of introduction. "Servant of Iomedae and the Society."
Turning to Bracket he asks "Do we know which order of Hellknights is in the town? And why? Is this about something in the citadel or is Cheliax invading Isger?"
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Society Lore
"Ahh well if it's geo-politics we're now directly engaging in, then I bid you all greetings on behalf of the glorious Peoples Democratic Republic of Thisteltop" Granny offers "Dinardin raises a good point - what is the situation? Isger was always a vassal state of Cheliax and not much more than a glorified trade route overseen by a puppet Steward who ultimately served the House of Thrune, the main threat outside the self-interest and greed of the State administration was really the challenges faced by the citizenry of a lawless vacuum left in the devastation wrought by the Goblinblood wars, probably best not to mention the War eh?"
"What are our rules of engagement? Are we seeking to remain non-partisan and here to ensure the welfare of the citizenry, or actively engaging the Hellknight forces?"
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"I wouldn't go calling myself fresh..." mildly insulted, Fjorn specualtes to distract from the seemingly-low estimation placed on his skills as a warrior "...but I also know that some Special Forces are needed for Tactical Missions on the Subterfuge side of things" he looks at Granny, to add his thoughts to her query "Perhaps by 'not join directly in the battle' the good venture captain means to ply our Unique Talents against a set of tasks the requires an Eclectic Skillset" winking at her.
He turns back to Brackett "Should we enlist any potential conscripts to fight for their country? And, if we encounter any of these Knights" glancing at Dinardin a moment "Of any order" and "Should we take them as prisoners? Or are we advised to not refrain from lethal violence?"
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Basag is completely lost amid all the political and geographical mumbo jumbo his allies are discussing. It’s a relief, at least, that they seem to understand the background of what’s going on. He knows a little himself, but the details are too blurry for him to confidently speak on topics he’s not well-versed in.
"So our mission is to find these people and get them out? Good." he confirms.
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Basag is completely lost amid all the political and geographical mumbo jumbo his allies are discussing. It’s a relief, at least, that they seem to understand the background of what’s going on. He knows a little himself, but the details are too blurry for him to confidently speak on topics he’s not well-versed in.
"So our mission is to find these people and get them out? Good." he confirms.
”Roger dat!”, Kosh replies.
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Third listens intently to the discussion of local geopolitics. They've certainly made an effort to learn it since being stranded on this planet, but the history here is so subject to the whims of the winners that every reading requires a further delving into the historiography of the account.
Like a good student, they remain quiet as the more knowledgeable speak, and then ask a simple question though in a surprising way. They broadcast telepathically to the party and the Venture Captain, both to acquaint them with this mode of communication and to ensure that the question is heard beyond the din of the army's preparations.
Venture Captain, you said we are to check on three locations. What locations exactly, and what can we expect to encounter at each?
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As you're about to leave, a studious, impeccably dressed goblin carrying several scrolls and wearing silver jewelry hurries toward the venture-captain. Warbal Bumblebrasher is worried about missing members of the Bumblebrasher goblin tribe that until recently lived in Citadel Altaerein. Most of the tribe escaped to town, but some remained in the citadel.
"The Pathfinder Society and Venture-Captain Brackett, yes? Jorsk Hinterclaw said to speak with you. My name is Warbal, ambassador for the Bumblebrashers of Citadel Altaerein to Breachill. Most Bumblebrashers fled when the Hellknights came, but Chief Helba and a few others remained behind. With the battle about to start, is there anything you can do to help them?"
The venture-captain grimaces at the complication. "I can’t make any promises, but I’ll ensure my agents know to watch for your people once we’re past the walls." He turns to the departing team. "While you’re out there, keep your ears open for anything that might help the Bumblebrashers." Warbal thanks the Pathfinders and tells them to say "Cousin Warbal" sent them if they meet Chief Helba or other Bumblebrashers, so they know the Pathfinders are friends.
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"Ambassador Warbal" Fjorn goes to shake his hand with both of his own - his grip neither too weak nor too forceful: "just right" in terms of pressure, pump speed, and total duration "We will keep an eye out for your people - and bring them in if we can locate them"
He makes a mental note to address himself as "a friend of Cousin Warbal" at such a time...
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"They're from the citadel. Most of them got out when the Hellknights came but some of them, including Chief Helba got stuck inside!"
About Cheliax:
About Breachill and Citadel Altaerein:
About Devils:
About HellKnights:
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You travel across Breach Creek into the north half of Breachill, where signs of the Hellknight occupation and fighting that followed are more evident.
Past the barricades and Eagle Knight patrols, the town is quieter, holding its breath. Signs of skirmishes litter the streets, a few broken pieces of armor here, discarded weapons there. Windows are shuttered, doors barricaded with only the occasional glimpse of people still inside. A few doors are broken open, other buildings gutted with fire. Notices posted by the Hellknights tell of the crimes of the former occupants. The empty gallows in the nearby square casts a long shadow.
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You head to the first location. Cayden’s Keg is a favored spot for a meal and pint of ale in Breachill and doubles as a temple to Cayden Cailean.
The stout, well-kept tavern is fortified and battle-scarred. Arrows are scattered around the street, and a battering ram lies discarded outside the door. The sounds of celebration and laughter mock the writ of closure hung there. A shout from above precedes an arrow bouncing off the cobbles.
"Brynne! The cowards have come back for more!" A woman’s head peeks out at the Pathfinders below, then briefly disappears back inside before a loud smack echoes from within. "Roger Woodall! No Hellknight company has ever looked like that lot." The woman’s head reappears, this time wearing a beaming smile. "Hello and welcome to the Keg! If you’re friends, come in for a drink, and if not, you’re welcome to a fight!"
As you enter the bar, the barkeep greets you "Well met and welcome! I am Brynne Taithe, proprietor and head priestess of Cayden Cailean. Welcome to Cayden’s Keg!"
The townspeople inside drove back the Hellknights sent to arrest them and are rowdy and determined. They do not realize the danger approaching.
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"Thank you for the offer, but I will have to forgo imbibing your alcohol, as it does not agree with my alien physiology."
As they enter the bar, they cast a simple spell to help them navigate the social situation.
"And you you are correct, Priestess Taithe, no member of my species has ever been a Hellknight, and we are indeed friends," Third says as they float through the door. They turn slightly to the fresh-faced youth reloading his crossbow and give a salutary bobble before moving on.
"And that is exactly why we are there today. The Pathfinder Society has been asked by the Eagle Knights to help evacuate civilians from the city. Both they and the Hellknights are amassing large armies, and this city will become even more of a battleground than it already has been. We urge you to come with us to a safer area south of the river, at least just until the fighting is over."
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"Hi, Fi!" Basag greets the barkeep with a spirited high five, his enthusiasm spilling over as he trades more high fives with the townsfolk celebrating their hard-won, if temporary, victory.
"Aside from what they said, I’m also here for a drink!" he declares, gladly accepting a mug of ale from the barkeep.
After downing the mug, Basag wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and leans in slightly. "You should come with us, you know. Their forces are far beyond your ken, I’ll tell you that. Stay here, and you’ll regret it—this victory won’t last." He taps his empty mug and gestures for another.
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"Hold one moment. It's in there somewhere" psychedelia delivers our hero unto the web of collective conscioussness itself... ...grasping for straws about Cheliax, Breachill, Citadel Altaerein, Devils, and HellKnights...
~) Constant effect of Moderate Serene Mutagen
Medicine, Nature, Religion, Survival w/ Untrained Improv (-) +6
Spewing the contents of his stomach to prematurely end the trip, he administers himself another powerful mind-altering substance, and returns to the subject of Cheliax, Breachill, Citadel Altaerein, Devils, and HellKnights from a more erudite and mutagen-enhanced reverie...
◆◆) Quick Alchemy and Inbibe Moderate Cognitive Mutagen
Crafting (*) +10
Lore: Sailing (*) +10
Society (*) +10
Arcana, Occultism, Lore, other INT-based skills w/ Untrained Improv (-) +6
✝️✝️✝️ ✝️✝️✝️
◆◆) Quick Alchemy and Inbibe Moderate Juggernaut Mutagen
"Hi Fi!" Fjorn joins in the local custom, cheers heartily with Basag, and tossing in a spiking agent of his own, pounds sizzling-orange the draught in nary one sip!
WOMP
Overdoing it a little, the ulfen man passes chin-first out as his body rejects the round robin cocktail of substances...
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Third and Kosh easily convince the locals that they need to go ... NOW!
With X and Y leading the groups, making sure they stay together, you head for the next location.
A large stone monastery towers over the block. The open doors lead to corridors and gardens crowded with injured and discouraged townspeople, looking to the fresco murals of the night sky and icons of Desna for hope. Weary priests tend to the overwhelming numbers.
An elven priest in blue and purple robes bound with a butterfly clasp makes the rounds, offering words of encouragement. He moves to greet the Pathfinders upon seeing them. "Welcome to the Great Dreamhouse, travelers. Perhaps our luck has turned at last."
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"Get behind my allies and they'll lead you to safety!" Basag calls out, motioning to his allies in guiding the civilians toward their next destination while he goes to the front with shield raised and his trusty stick at the ready.
Once they arrive and he spots more townsfolk in need of evacuation, Basag quickly stows his weapon and shield. Seeing how injured and disheartened they are, he steps forward without hesitation.
"Let me help you." Basag borrows a healer’s toolkit and begins tending to the wounded townspeople.
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Third finds themself being followed by several of the Caydenites and initially finds the experience quite strange. Usually, Golarianites flee or scream or throw rocks at one such as them. But this group seems quite nice. They engage in a lively conversation about the tenets of Cayden Cailean with the priestess Brynne Taithe, discuss the various types of alcohols with the bartender, and even answer young Roger Woodall's many questions about Akiton. It seems that there are at least some on this planet who can accept a contemplative as they are.
At the Great Dreamhouse, Third initially remains outside to keep an eye on the Caydenites. After Priestess Taithe takes command of them for a few minutes, Third is freed to attempt to find ways to boost the healing magics with more arcane methods. This is exactly the kind of research they came here to do - meta-mixing and inter-crossing of the existing magical traditions!
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Kosh and Basag get to work treating the sick and injured. Before long, two groups of civilians are ready to move.
You head to the last location on your list.
Clouds of smoke and ash billow near Breachill’s northwest gate. Calls for water echo from multiple areas, and confused townspeople rush about haphazardly with slopping buckets.
A leathery tradesman with large, gnarled hands shouts orders between holding a wet cloth over his face to block the smoke pouring from burning buildings. A nearby sign says Vusker’s Carts & Wheels, though the few wagons remaining in the wainwright’s yard are broken. "You there! Don’t just stand about! Grab a bucket and help!"
Fadelby Vusker leads the effort to douse the fires around his business. The retreating Hellknights commandeered or broke his wagons before setting fires to slow pursuers.
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Fjorn gulps an anti-cognoten which brutes his arms foreward, pronouncing his knuckles like "feet" capable of supporting his full (not inconsiderable) bodyweight, causes a tremendous spurt of hair to sprout up from every pore across his body - including lengthening his half-handsome half-knotty dreadlocks by a scale factor of about 2.5! - and, too, from his rear section, fosters a tiny growth of bone and cartiledge to poke out from his pants which... wags!
He punches all the fire out.