Amelius Blacktower's page

Amelius whispers something to Skitterfoot too low to be heard by the others.

The young sorcerer then follows quietly with the rest of his friends, though he can't help but furrow his brows in confusion as he hears the conversation taking place. Sounds like someone's playing tag, or rough-housing over there. Wonder if it's ogres? Amelius listens intently as the group scurries ahead, trying to determine if the voices sound similar to the ogre raiding party that had made a mess of the caravan previously.

Amelius ponders his navel for a moment, the spindly fingers of his right hand rubbing his chin as he loses himself in thought at Ilir's query.

Knowledge (History): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18
Trying to recall any tidbits of information about castles of this type/timeframe being known for secret passages and the like. Granted, that might not glean me any knowledge about the hows and wheres, but it might be enough incentive to keep an eye out.

Sometimes I think Paizo's servers are sticks of butter wrapped in the hopes and dreams of a company. That it's worked at all is still a wonder.

"What the... hey, I'm not a bad guy! Skitterfoot is... well, he's not the prettiest fellow, but he means well. I think. He's not been up to any people-eating, at least." Amelius shoots the little rat an appreciative look, but stops himself from giving his familiar a pat on the head.

"Oh! Skitterfoot found some treasure in the—or what was—light house. And there was a key. I'm not sure I would use it in this shape, though, looks like it might snap in half as quick as open anything." Curiosity having taken hold as quickly as he lends his voice to the revelation of the key and the treasure, the young sorcerer's eyes snap up and he rushes over to the bowl that Spivey had mentioned. Taking out his waterskin, he pours the stuff into the bowl and observes what happens. As he does so, he calls out the room, "Say, Spivey. Where did the Ulfen raiders get off to? Are they still here?"

In regards to the painting, Amelius will ask Sandru, then Koya, then other caravan members in no particular order to see if there is someone intimately familiar with Crying Leaf; enough so that they could help him render the place accurately with a paintbrush

As the reefclaws surge forward from the larger carcass, Amelius helps Skitterfoot down from his shoulder and instructs his familiar hastily, "Mr. Skitterfoot, go up to that light house and see if you can spot anything important." Trusting in the prowess of his companions however, Amelius begins continuing up the trail ahead towards the ulfen longboat, eager to determine how old the ship is—could it be long abandoned, or is it a recent arrival responsible for the maimed condition of the creature in the waters? He hefts his spear before him as he approaches, for all the good it would do him if the vessel still contains any of the burly warriors the Linnorm Kingdoms are famous for. As he passes Eliaera, he calls out, "I'm going to secure the boat; see if any one's still onboard."

Total tangent incoming: if any one didn't notice, paizo added a huge lineup of new pictures to their icon/avatar selection. Not taken the time to see if there's a better Amelius quite yet, but if any of you find your current ones less than stellar, may be worth taking a look.

Amelius' time spent in Sandpoint before the caravan's departure is wasted in usual fashion: sampling the best of what The Dragon has to offer amidst a neverending train of absent-minded antics. Overeager imbibement results in the usual slurred speech and wobbly legs, though as the alcohol seems to be bringing the sorcerer low, he becomes overly fascinated with his own reflection in his mug. Worry washes over his face as he does so, though he slowly begins succumbing to the drink. His head lowers as if in slow motion, his heavy eye lids following suit, until his forehead presses against the wooden table, his right hand still grasping the handle of his flagon.

_________________________

The trip from Sandpoint to parts unknown is one of wide-eyed bewilderment—like a kid in a candy store. He had read of some of these places, but the books—even the ones with illustrations—did not do them justice. His wonderment was nearly cut short as the ogres appeared to visit destruction upon Sandru's procession; the sorcerer attempted to politely introduce himself and others to the brutes before their twisted clubs and meaty fists began siezing and breaking everything they could find.

Much like Garridan, Amelius seems to spend the majority of his time conveniently nearby to their elven ranger-scout when she is present. As Shalelu partly laments her feelings about home and present circumstances, Amelius remains quiet, simply nodding at Garridan's blushing stab at consolation. As she retreats back into the wilderness ahead of rest of them, Amelius meekly saunters up to Garridan and lays out a plan. "I think she misses it, even if she doesn't want to visit. I kindof envy the two of you. Having a home—a real home. I... I think I know what it's like to long for it, even if I can't go back." Amelius, in a rare and candid mood, leans in closer to the previous militiaman and continues, "I think we may be able to do something that might make the trip a little easier on her, but... I'm not sure I can do it alone. Do you think you can get us within sight of Crying Leaf?"

Amelius' intent is to steal away from the caravan when it's passing close to Crying Leaf with a bundle of his artist supplies and paint a picture of it for Shalelu.
Craft (Painting): Taking 20 if that's feasible; not certain on what kind of timeframe we'd be working with (if it's even possible)

_________________________

When Ameiko succumbs to a calamity that defies immediate identification, Amelius shuffles down from his wagon and over to see what all the noise is about. He peers over Koya's shoulder as she investigates the young girl, and his mind races to recall any shred of information that might shed some light on their new dilemma. That she is speaking in a language and a dialect that bears remarkable resemblance to the same he has spoken briefly when encountering one of his spells, if not the same language itself, strikes Amelius as immediately worrisome and important. Failing to find a means of dealing with Ameiko's situation here, Amelius agrees with the decision to investigate Brinewall for clues. "Maybe... maybe if we find out what's wrong with her, we can figure out what..." He lets his words trail off, and feels a pang of guilt for thinking of himself with one of their own unconscious.

Knowledge (Arcana): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (8) + 7 = 15
Knowledge (History): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

Amelius isn't much of an outdoorsman or leader of men so he's just going to defer to the party's judgment on where to begin their investigation.

You can have this one, but when we find that +5 adamantine flaming burst waffle-maker, that's all Amelius.

"Well done, vermin. Now return to your perch, and disperse that unsightly knot of plagueborn menaces." Amelius catches himself after having given the command, and his brow furrows. He shakes his head twice, as if trying to disperse water from his unkempt, black hair. Dark, congealed blood remains caked on the tip of his spear, and Amelius sets to trying to remove the stains by swiping the spear tip on particularly thick tufts of grassy reeds and the muddy patches of bog around the sinspawn's lair. "That is, I... uh... if you want to, Mr. Skitterfoot." What on Golarion was that? The green-clad sorcerer glances his reflection in the stilling, muddy waters before him. He could almost swear the reflection was grinning back at him.

Though obviously aghast at whatever compulsion had conquered him during the thick of the fighting, Amelius' own panic is overtaken by concern for Shalelu. He takes a step forward as if to ofter a consoling word or two, but ultimately perishes the thought when he concludes he has nothing to offer. Words failing him, he can only choke out a half-hearted appraisal of Shalelu's prowess in the recently won fight. "Thanks for covering our tails back there. We... or I, maybe... just not sure it would have went as well without you here. Speaking of here, maybe we should stop being here and find a nice there to be instead."

Thin wisps of black hair begin to twitch and flail about almost of their own volition as Amelius hefts his spear once more; his laughably unsure posture seems to melt, replaced by a foreboding confidence, and is accompanied by a wicked scowl. Eyebrows suddenly seem fiercer and more pointed and a frown deeper than any that has been seen before flashes across his face. The air around the sorcerer's eyes seems to darken a bit as he spits through clenched teeth, "Verdiløs stakkarene bør kjenne sin plass! Rotte-ting; Skitterfoot den andre ikke hindrer oss eller du vil bli med dem i å bli flådd-sikre!." His speaking becomes booming and crude, certainly unbefitting the scrawny man they issue from. (He's speaking in Giant, though it is heavily laden with a thick Tian accent)

Amelius is going to make use of flanking on the sinspawn on Garridan and give a mighty thrust o' the ole spear.
Attack Roll: 1d20 + 1 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 1 + 2 = 19
Damage Roll: 1d8 ⇒ 5

Nodding frantically in agreement, Amelius draws familiar arcane gestures in the air before him, summoning a protective circle of energy to deflect any blows that threaten the sorcerer. Obeying Shalelu's suggestion, he then surges forward to the back side of the sinspawn engaged with Garridan, his spear raised before him in as threatening a posture as the scrawny young man can manage. As he approaches the loathsome beast, he calls out to Skitterfoot, not entirely sure of where the ratling is currently hiding, "Summon your rats on that one over there, Skitterfoot!" Amelius points the head of his spear towards the creature that remains beyond Garridan and his current foe.

Casting shield and moving to the square NW of the sinspawn (setting up a flank for Garridan) and asking Skitterfoot to summon rat swarm on the other sinspawn on the northern side of the scuffle.

Terse post for now, Amelius is going to protect Shalelu from any opponents by taking up an oh so intimidating posture in front of her. I'll get something worthwhile up after work tonight.

"Maybe I should just stay back here for now. Skitterfoot is sneaky-sneaky, though; he can get a closer look! If he agrees, I mean. I don't want him to be soggy monster food." His eyes look expectantly to the little ratling creature, the risk this gambit poses his familiar completely lost on him.

"There's a head on the table." Amelius lets the phrase hang in the air for a moment, though the very matter of fact delivery serves as stark contrast to the other remarks of exclamation and disgust around the table. "Hey, Skitterfoot. Do you see that? It has claws on its face! That's unusual, right? Or is it usual? I hope it's not usual; that's pretty ugly. Oh, what's the problem?"

1d6 ⇒ 3

I'm a sucker for rolling. Haha! Suppose leveling up might be a good idea, afore I forget.

Amelius instinctively grabs at the wand, admiring the worked length of meticulously carved wood with a distant sense of wonder. "I can put this to use for us. Once I work out the command word, I mean. Shouldn't take me too long though, I always had a knack for these things in the tower. If I'm right, this should make it way easier for us to figure out any magical properties on any items or trinkets we come across. Skitterfoot! Stop gnawing on it!" The young sorcerer swats—too softly to be of any actual danger to the ratling creature—at Skitterfoot's head, taking back the wand before the creature's crude appraisal causes any real damage.

General consistencies are as follows, barring any unexpected developments. I am on Eastern time, btw.

Sunday: After 6:00pm.
Monday: Before 4:00pm (Mondays are my typical tabletop gaming night—one which I'm currently the DM for—so if possible I'd like to avoid Mondays. If it ends up being the only day we can get to work though, I am fine with it.)
Tuesday: Before 4:00pm.
Wednesday: Before 4:00pm.
Thursday: Can't swing Thursdays.
Friday: Before 4:00pm.
Saturday: Can't swing Saturdays.

I have a birthday party and a bachelor party keeping me busy all day. If you need to NPC my action, I had intended to ask Skitterfoot to dimension door me behind the skeletons on Garridan (to provide him with flanking and actually stand a chance of hitting one!).

Haha, man... ain't a lot I can do with undead.

Amelius, seeing Hiro crumple from the undead samurai's vicious strike, resolves to protect himself from a similar fate, and begins uttering quickly the words to draw forth a measure of protection from the primal energies at his disposal. A protective shield materializes for the briefest of moments before shimmering into nothingness once more. He then raises his spear, his face about as grim as a kitten, and he surges forward to Garridan's rear, intent on assisting the militiaman in any way he can.

Casting shield and moving up behind Garridan (where Eli had been prior).

Amelius attempts to pin the skeleton to the ground through an eye socket, laying his scant weight into the thrust with a little more zeal than he should. The attack flies wide however, and does little more than chip a tiny piece of the creature's temple. "crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!"

Attack Roll: 1d20 ⇒ 8
Damage: 1d8 ⇒ 8

Remembering the shallow gash across his forehead, Amelius is inclined to agree with the Desnan Paladin. "Yeah, better now than when they're standing up, right? Standing... upright." The sorcerer snickers to himself at the accidental joke. "Guess it works either way!"

So true.

Flying by impulse alone, Amelius steps forward to the waters edge and attempts to heave his spear at the bubble monster that is making its way towards Eliaera.

Amelius is throwing his spear at the thing. This should end well.

Ranged Attack Roll: 1d20 ⇒ 15
Damage?: 1d8 ⇒ 3

"Do they get that big?" Amelius absentmindedly pokes one of the taut strands of webbing, which becomes firmly attaches to the end of his spear. He begins shaking and whirling the weapon in frustration, ultimately to no avail. Amelius settles on removing the sticky webs with the mostly decayed cloth pouch he sees nearby, coins spilling out and onto the cavern floor as he does so. "Oh, hey! There's money in here." He shakes the remainder loose into his hands, collects the coins that fell, and hands them to Garridan for safekeeping. He seems to have completely forgotten about the unwanted pennant at the tip of his spear that still sways slightly with the cavern's draft.

The enormous spider that scuttles about the room with vile intent for his companions does not make Amelius as uneasy as the rest, though he does acknowledge the immense danger it poses to those present. Thinking quickly, he begins summoning up a small torrent of arcane power to bend to his will. Hands move through practiced forms, and eight shimmering globes appear above each of the spider's eyes, flashing into view and disappearing abruptly in a similar fashion. "I'll try to confuse it! Use your pointy things before it recovers!"

Amelius is casting daze on the spider—Will DC 14.

Seeming a bit detached ever since the skirmish with the undead, Amelius only half chuckles at the proposed plan of action within the caves. "Sure, right sounds good." He seems hesitant, if not afraid, to even look at Hiro at the moment.

5/7 HP

Amelius turns to regard the approaching undead with cowlike indifference, as if he doesn't understand the creature's intent as the blade raises and lashes out at Amelius' forehead—thankfully just short of the skeleton's intended effect. As thin trickles of black blood dance before the sorcerer's vision, he stumbles back in shock, aghast at the first injury he has ever suffered in his existence. The darkness in the fringe of his psyche seeks to gain footing once more, however, and as his consciousness becomes muddled and despondent, the other takes over, forcing incantations from his lips and a flourish of movement that causes a familiar field of energy to briefly appear and fade directly in front of the young man. The terror vanishes, replaced not by Amelius' usual enthusiastic visage, but a wicked grin and furrowed brow. The frayed ends of his hair begin dancing of their own volition.

Casting Defensively (shield; DC 17): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21

As the spell's effects take hold, Amelius slides quickly behind Garridan, hissing out instructions to their new companion as he does so, "Annihilate this pest, Hiro-san!"

5-ft. stepping behind Garridan so Hiro can move in (if he chooses to).

Amelius seems more enthused by the map itself than the discussion about where to begin their second sweep of the swamps. As the conversation trends towards starting with the ships and finishing with the unknown location, he perks up a bit, then turns his head to meet Skitterfoot's devious face. "Hey, Skitterfoot, do you know anything more about these places? Or did Megus ever talk about the things outside of the room where she... y'know... botched a transmutation?"

Fine with me.

I would be willing to do some Sorcerer/Oracle to Mystic Theurge down the road if we want a little bit of reliable healing on the side.

Amelius' eyes glaze over like a cow as the recounting of the tale unfold. It seems the charms and flare of a bardic restructuring are lost and futile upon the young man's imagination. As she concludes, and accolades are showered and applauded, Amelius seems a bit perturbed. "Wait. She's talking about us? Oh!" He tries to mask the confusion with a knowing smile, but for all within sight it is an easy ruse to see through.

He turns to Garridan afterwards and whispers lowly, "It was fun and all, but... I didn't like having to stab those creatures. I don't think Eli liked it either..."

The brief moment of severity lapses in short order, and Amelius begins bobbing bows and greetings to the new introductions with as much enthusiasm as everyone expects from him. "Ilir, Ilir! Good, good! I'm sad to see Ostar go, but you're from the church too, right? Seems fitting! Fitting like a glove. Sorry! I didn't mean to call you a glove. But if you were a glove, you are a well-dressed glove, I must say. I think with all these new faces, we need new rounds of drinks. I will be back!" The sorcerer once more retreats to the bar and returns, drinks on hand for both newcomers and those who have finished their previous round.

Amelius beams brightly as Hiro's introductions are made, and he begins bobbing up and down a bit as he waits for an opportunity to introduce himself. "Hey there! I'm Amelius. Everyone calls me Amelius Blacktower, but that's not really my last name. I came from a black tower, but no one believed me, and... man, that's not very original is it? Anyways, I'm sure you've seen me at the end of the bar a lot, but I don't think we've ever spoken directly. So... hi!" He returns—very poorly—the bow Hiro offered the party, his mop of dark hair now irredeemably obscuring what little vision it afforded him before. He swats it away frantically to little effect.

Turning to Sandru and Koya, Amelius somehow manages to maintain his impossibly perked spirits as he speaks through a prolonged smile, "Sign me up! Truth be told, until today I had never left Sandpoint. But I liked it out there! Even the nasty swamp. Didn't like poking the goblins so much, but I guess it's better than being poked by the goblins. And besides, the Dragon Empires seem neat. I hear they eat all kinds of weird things over there, and one time I tried something called sake." Amelius shivers a bit and shakes his head as he recalls the ordeal. "Yeah, I don't like sake. I hope the food is better."

Rather than allowing a formal response, Amelius gazes down at the empty depths of his mug. Ameiko's offer rings once more in his ears, and the young sorcerer sprints off to the bar again. He returns later with another round of mead, though he takes Eliaera's advice this time and manages not to spill most of the contents.

Amelius bounds through Sandpoint with a permanent smile beaming back towards any of the gathered, cheering throngs of residents and passersby. Looking at him, one wouldn't suspect he had just returned from a harrowing clash with goblins and worse in the muck and mire of the nearby marshes. For most, he appears every bit as much the naive, carefree, and maybe a little odd young man with an overfondness of The Rusty Dragon; a fact punctuated all the more by the party's ultimate destination for the evening. As Eliaera mentions a bath, the marsh's parting gifts to the assembly of would-be-heroes becomes painfully apparent to both Amelius and his nose—mud, slime, and worse. The sorcerer chants something too low to make out entirely, though his rapidly gesturing hands betray the spell in short order.

"Don't exactly look the part right now, do we?" Amelius shoots an unfavorable look to the nasty stains and soils that mar his previously pristine green robes. "This won't do!" He begins swatting his hands at his garments, as if attempting to swat away insects that are buzzing about too close. As he does so, the stains and debris still clinging to his attire begin to dislodge and clean themselves. Before long, Amelius strides behind the group with confidence—a much cleaner man.

Amelius casts prestidigitation and spends the majority of the walk through town cleaning himself off.

Drinks are on the house for all of you tonight. . . Amelius' eyes widen and his lips begin to purse slightly as Ameiko says it. It is only moments before he sprints to the bar in a flurry of motion, as if Ameiko might rescind her offer before he can drink his fill. A few minutes later, he comes sauntering over to the table where everyone has begun to assemble, his arms gingerly cradling a medley of drinks; several mugs of the Kalsgard Mead Ameiko had suggested, the head of which sloshes over the mouth of the mugs that contain it in rhythm with the sorcerer's steps; a thin glass finger of some sort of golden-hued liquor; and a traditional wine glass nearly full of a pleasant looking crimson libation.

Dexterity Check: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (2) + 0 = 2

Amelius precariously places the drinks on the table in a huff before pressing a mug of the mead into both Garridan and Ostar's hands. The mugs are noticeably less full than they would have otherwise been, owing to Amelius' ambition in retrieving and delivering the drinks, though he did manage not to drop any of them or fall on his hasty approach. He slides the golden liquid over to Eliaera, not sure if she will even accept it. He just shrugs as he does so and speaks meekly, "It's called Peach 'Nops I think. Sounded neat, anyways." The last mug of mead he keeps for himself, although he grabs the wineglass and meanders over to where Shalelu stands. He proffers the glass to the elf with eager eyes before asking, "Redberry wine, right?"

At some point during the looting in the goblin village, Amelius saunters up to the rest of the group, and clears his throat feebly before speaking. "I don't suppose any of you know why there's so much stuff from the far East here, do you? First the skeletons wearing samurai armor, and now this box and the gold-ivory-fan-map?"

Amelius leans forward and whispers quietly to everyone, despite the painfully apparent fact that no one else is there to hear in the first place, "You don't think Ameiko is involved in any of this, do you?"

Amelius steps away from the chieftain, aiming to buy Garridan the opportunity to land a killing blow against the wretch. The noise didn't bother him—let's see how he likes this one! He waves his arms above him, a current of arcane, azure streams flitting about his head like silk ribbons as strange syllables roll off of his tongue, "ເຄົ້າຂ້າງເທິງປະທ້ວງລ່ວງຫນ້າ. ໃຫ້ຂ້າພະເຈົ້າສາຍນ້ໍຫາເຂົ້າຕາ.."

He gestures towards Gutwad with outstretched hands, and the blue streaks of energy coalesce and strike the goblin in the face, resulting in a puff of strange-smelling smoke that lingers about the chieftain for mere moments.

Casting daze on the chieftain again (DC 14 Will).

Amelius audibly clicks his tongue in frustration. They never told me goblins were so resistant to magic! Oh well. It worked last time—here goes...

Stepping forward and to the left, the young sorcerer makes to skewer the smaller goblin in the corner.

Attack Roll: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (15) + 1 = 16
Damage: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (6) + 1 = 7

Amelius steps in behind Ostar and Garridan, his fingers already locking in and out of various shapes and forms as he calls forth a minor incantation to inflict upon the goblin chieftain. After mere seconds, he snaps both of his fingers, a resounding clarity echoing strange noises in the ears of the chieftain that attempt to muddle his thoughts into a bewildered stupor.

Amelius is casting daze on the goblin chief, which is a DC 14 Will Save.

I'll try to get an action post up tonight before bed; doing table top gaming tonight though, so currently involved.

Amelius smiles down at Skitterfoot. "Nice work! You're quite the boon, Mr. Rat."

Turning to the rest of the party and occasionally shooting a wary glance towards the goblin chief's dwelling, he lays another option. "I think I might be able to cause enough of a distraction at the front door to give us a shot at sneaking in the back. If you all think that would be best, I mean. Maybe if we convince them that we're trying to break down the front door, they won't stop to consider that we're coming up behind them."

Amelius lets his spear linger a bit in the dead champion's gut, twisting it with a wicked scowl—likely the first that had ever crept across the young man's face. The heat of the moment overwhelmed and numbed him to the fact that somewhere on the fringe of his psyche, he enjoyed ending the miserable goblin's life. There was a shred of revelry in the slaying that was entirely foreign to him. The thought was fleeting, and Amelius found himself recoiling from the unwanted sensation. Though the goblin meant he and his companions harm, he could not fathom harboring such malice and contempt for the small creature, and yet...

Amelius shakes his head to rid his mind of the malaise. He looks to the rest of the village, and back to his friends. "So, uh... where to next?"

Frowning as the goblin champion manages to overcome his compelling gaze, the expression deepens as he sees the goblin's blade bite into Caerwyn on the rogue's pass. Rage courses through his small frame, and though the sensation is decidedly foreign to the youngster, Amelius shifts forward with spear raised, bellowing out the most unintimidating battlecry any present have ever heard, "Y-you... you snotter!"

____________
Bless (+1 attack); Inspire Courage (+1 attack/damage); Flanking (+2 attack)
5-ft. Step: Amelius is (perhaps foolishly) taking a 5-ft step towards the Goblin Champion and attacking with his spear.

Attack Roll: 1d20 + 1 + 1 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 1 + 1 + 2 = 23 (I think we are flanking him now - disregard the +2 if this is not the case)
Damage Roll: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6

The fact that 90% of Amelius' combat capacity is to yell "look at me, look at me!" to the enemies as they approach is cracking me up.

Amelius plants his feet firmly behind the encircling barricade of allies and raises both hands to either side of his face. Thumbs pointed skyward and fingers splayed just in front of his ears, his eyes begin to emit a pale, crimson glow. He locks eyes with the goblin champion, and waits. Thin locks of his black mop of hair begin to suspend into the air of their own volition, and the air seems to darken around Amelius' head.

As the the goblin champion charges forward, the youth's eyes flash brightly and undulate in a hypnotic pattern. He whispers in an angry tone, "ເຂົ້າຮ່ວມໃນກອງກັບຂ້າພະເຈົ້າໃນປັດຈຸບັນ.."

Ready an Action: Amelius is readying an action for the charging goblin champion; casting lock gaze on him as he begins his charge into the group. That's a DC 15 Will Save.

Amelius snaps upright at the growing war chant and Ostar's warning. He gestures frantically in concentric circles for but a moment before sweeping his hands apart in a vertical flourish. At the tail end of this flourish, he mutters a single incantation: "ເຄື່ອງບັງຫນ້າ"

A small disk of green light shimmers into view before the sorcerer, accompanied by a brief hum before it ripples and is gone again. As the circular field of energy fades from view, he begins to make his way towards his nearby companion.

Amelius is casting shield on himself before making a beeline to either Ostar or Garridan - whichever is closest to him.

Amelius walks over to the decapitated skeleton and crouches nearby. He prods the remains with the blunt end of his spear, and attempts to roll the body over onto its back. He eyes the strange armor closely as he does so, trying both to see if the armor has seen any recent damage and to remember if he has ever read of anything similar in Sigurd's massive collection of volumes and tomes.

Perception Check: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (2) - 1 = 1
Knowledge (History) Check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (16) + 4 = 20

"I'm not sure I can make it over the wall, to be honest. It might be better if I head up front with the others. Oh! And the ground here is pretty soggy, right? Maybe if they all left we can see which way they went." Amelius grasps the shaft of his spear and makes ready to follow the group's lead, using the weapon as a walking stick as he goes.

Amelius starts making to climb the tree and join the others, though quickly realizes it is a futile endeavor for one as untested as he. He turns around and scans the ground for the party's new ratling friend.

"Mr. Skitterfoot," Amelius begins inquisitively, "I don't suppose you could scurry up above and help the others get a good look at things, could you?"

Amelius fetches a large scroll from his satchel and a couple of paintbrushes. As she traces lines in the dirt, he does his best to keep up with a crude, but perhaps more detailed, version of Shalelu's layout.

Craft (Painting): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (13) + 7 = 20

Seemingly satisfied with the result, he rushes over eagerly to wave the map in Shalelu's face, nearly scuffing over her lines in the dirt as he skids to a halt before her. His face is all grin as he beams up towards the elven woman. "Does this look about right? I know it's not as good as yours, but I thought maybe we could... I dunno. I just thought we could take it with us this way, y'know, so we don't forget."

Amelius continues staring at Shalelu awaiting her response, intently hanging on her words as if they held eternal salvation for the young man.

Attempting a Charisma check from the Childhood Crush Trait here, if that's alright -- Charisma Check: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (9) + 4 = 13

To the group, in regards to the village assault:

"If we can talk to the goblins, can we try that? It worked for Skitterfoot, after all!" Amelius punctuates the remark by looking down at the little ratling and smiling fondly. "If not, maybe we can lure some of the goblins out like Eliaera said. I don't know - I've never dealt with a goblin before. Ostar thinks a frontal assault is a bad idea though, and he seems like he knows what he's talking about."

Skitterfoot. :P

Amelius squats down beside Skitterfoot, and awkwardly extends his right hand as if he means to give the vermin a polite handshake. After considering the size difference between he and the creature he is regarding, he thinks better of it though. Inspiration soon creeps across his face, however, and he begins rummaging through his pack again while his companions pore over the map of the marsh. The young sorcerer soon sets a strip of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell off to the side before holding out a piece of half-eaten cheese in Skitterfoot's direction.

"I've not met any rodent-men before, but I know they like cheese! The rodents I mean, not the rodent-men - who I've never met until now. Oh, right! Yes. Sigurd had a servant in the tower - a flying cat named Huxstin who didn't like to be touched. I think he had a contract with it. Huxstin and I didn't get along well. But maybe you and I could get along well." Amelius regards the ratling with an earnest stare, apparently oblivious to the very unusual nature of the creature.

The quill begins scratching swiftly across the strip of parchment, and Amelius seems quite proud of the result. He blows on it softly, encouraging the ink to dry, then presents it before Skitterfoot with a very proud look.

Amelius reverently proffers the inkpen before the ratling, much like a knight would offer his or her sword to a liege.