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Armistead looks around, thinking some great beasts worthy of his strength must have arrived to challenge him. A deep scowl rapidly appears on his face. "RRRRRRAAAAAAAHHHH! Puny bat-faces annoy Armistead! Go away so big beasts fight!" Armistead mutters something under his breath (it sounds like something about a "charge lane") then rushes up to the closest "bat-face," taking a mighty swing.
"Long-hair man steal thoughts out of Armistead's head! Armistead want to go to beast room. He says we go to beast room. He hungry, want meat. Beasts give good meat." Armistead starts walking off towards the "beast room." "Shuffling"--in the manner of ape of course--might be a better word though. He drags his sword against the ground behind him.
As Armistead breathes in the air, a sickly palor comes over his face. "Doesn't smell so good to me." He drops his sword and stumbles over to the wall, and Armistead shoots a glare at The Agent. "Ugh...course that guy would be okay. Probably does worse stuff than this." Armistead covers his mouth like he's about to vomit. "Ain't feelin' so hot here...." Underneath his armor, his body begins convulsing. He makes a few macho grunts, but otherwise doesn't cry out. Suddenly, the convulsions stop. Hee picks up his sword and pulls out a fresh cigar, and for a moment--just a moment--it seems like nothing has changed. He then begins peeling the cigar like a banana. "Hungry." He begins quite literally chomping on the cigar.
Behind the visor of his helmet, Armistead raises an eyebrow at The Agent. "Hmm? Smells like food?" The ominous portents of his companions apparently being for naught, Armistead opens his visor and takes out the piece of cloth so he can take a sniff of the fog. GM: I'm guessing that requires one of these
Armistead nods in agreement with The Agent. "And I heah there's a buncha senior Pathfinders getting sent to eat at some fancy Tien restaurant in the Ivy District on the Ten's coin." Armistead adjusts his cigar, now more than half burnt to ash. He looks over The Agent and himself, noting the former's "casual" attire and his own intimidating mien, and he gives a deep chuckle. "Guess I can't blame 'em for not sending us to that one."
Greetings P.J.! Hrothdane is the handle I use for the Paizo site/forums, and for...just about everything else, too, but you can also call me Ethan. I've only been playing Pathfinder for a little longer than you, actually. I've played/run a lot of PFS during that time, including this scenario in normal mode (which I played at least a year ago I think). I'm in school right now, so I can generally post once a day at least, but my schedule fluctuates depending on my assignment schedule. I will be at a convention all weekend, so I probably won't be posting then.
Over the course of The Agent's recount of the information he found, Armistead's expression drifts into a deep frown. "This sounds like some kinda weird magic B.S.. Bad juju, that's what it is." He cocks his mouth to the side and begins shuffling through his bag. "Dammit. Shoulda got some good-luck-charms."
Armistead's deep, slow chuckling feels strangely unsettling, but his demeanor is nothing if not friendly. The light of his cigar flashes in time with the puffs of air from his laughter. "Yeah. Probably best to just call it a 'thing' and be done with it." Armistead takes a seat, the chair creaking loudly under the weight of the massive man and his armor. "Can't say I've had the luck to get up to Riddleport yet. All this globe-trotting stuff's new to me. Sounds like a fine place for a man to enjoy himself." As The Agent turns to the museum, Armistead leans back in his chair, its groans even louder than before. "Somethin' low-risk sounds nice, but Colson says these missions never turn out that way. I don't know how long you've been with these heah Pathfinders, Mr--wait, is your name again? I don't think you mentioned it." ------- When Athera enters, Armistead immediately stands up, giving a regarding nod. After she introduces herself, he takes his cigar out of his mouth. "Why hello there, little missy. Colson mentioned there'd be some finer company along today." He folds his arms, cigar still in his hand, tilting his head back in a pose full of machismo. "Don't you worry none about Armistead. You walk from the west side a' the Aspodell Mountains to east edge of the Verduran Forest, and every faithful Calistrian workin' girl you meet would tell you that Armistead Pike is nothing if not a gentleman."
"Robbed a spice caravan on the Taldor border." He taps his cigar against his armor. "Well, got caught robbin' one. Robbed a hell of a lot more than the one. Beat a few caravan guards. Not to death, of course. They take a man's head for felony murder." Armistead sniffs the air as he catches a waft of The Agent's drink. "That one a' those White Irrisenis? Didn't know we were allowed to bring 'liquid refreshments' on these missions." He shifts his cigar in his mouth. "I tell you what: why don't you make up one a' those for 'Armie' here, and I'll pay you back with one when we get back from the library."
A giant of a man saunters into the room, his heavy blue metal armor making a loud KHACHUNK with each step, a sound like a safe door locking shut. Each of his shoulderplates has a picture of a woman in a classy pin-up pose: Calistria on one and Desna on the other. He pulls up his visor, revealing a shaved, leathery head. His five o'clock is so pronounced that his cheeks seem to turn steel grey. "Well, what's this we got goin' on heah." While many Andorans are said to have a bit of an accent, the particularly deep and deliberate tone of this man's voice cannot be called anything other than a drawl. In fact, calling anything else a drawl suddenly feels disingenuous. "Name's Armistead. My boy Colson tells me there's work for a man out this way." He pulls out a cigar, cuts the head off by wedging it between the edges of the plates on his armor, then lights it as he puts it in his mouth. He continues speaking, now out of the corner of his mouth, never removing the cigar. "I trust none a' you are gonna have issues workin' with a hardened criminal." He grins and folds his arms, giving the illusion that the women on his shoulderplates are leaning into him.
"No fightin' goin' on heah. Just givin' out some friendly advice." Armistead straightens his back, leaning his head back as he crosses his arms. He suddenly seems even larger. "When ah'm fightin', you'll know." With an agonizing series of KHACHUNKs, Armistead and his armor make their way over to a seat across from Hakuzo. He has to pull the chair far out from the table as his plates legs would not fit under it. He looks directly at Hakuzo as he speaks, but clearly intends his words for everyone but the kitsune. A minor note of concern tails his words. "What's goin' on with Mistah Fox heah? He shoot past the limit, or is this some kinda fox person...thing."
Armistead turns, the metal of his boots making two dull clunks against the ground. The turn leaves the torches of the lodge behind him, dropping his face into shadow. Only the pulsing orange heat of his cigar gives any token light to his face. "That wasn't an invitation to start up a bunch a' small talk." His head inclines down then up again, presumably giving Eveladane the once-over behind the shadows covering his face. "If ya had any idea what you're askin', you wouldnta asked it." Armistead taps his cigar against one of the plates on his arm, an ashy discoloration indicating this gesture is a common occurrence. "Stick your hand in the cage, you're liable to lose it, Boy" He returns the cigar to his mouth, the burning tip flaring brighter as breath flows through it once more. "Before you say anythin', those pointy ears a' yours might mark you as old by the standards a' us humans, but you look like you just crawled from out between your mama's legs, so best get used to gettin' called 'boy,' Boy."
A giant of a man saunters into the room, his heavy blue metal armor making a loud KHACHUNK with each step, a sound like a safe door locking shut. Each of his shoulderplates has a picture of a woman in a pin-up pose: Calistria on one and Desna on the other. He pulls up his visor, revealing a shaved, leathery head. His five o'clock is so pronounced that his cheeks seem to turn steel grey. "Well, what's this we got goin' on heah." While many Andorans are said to have a bit of an accent, the particularly deep and deliberate tone of this man's voice cannot be called anything other than a drawl. In fact, calling anything else a drawl suddenly feels disingenuous. He pulls out a cigar, cuts the head off by wedging it between the edges of the plates on his armor, then lights it as he puts it in his mouth. He speaks out of the corner of his mouth, never removing the cigar. "Name's Armistead. My boy Colson tells me this is the place to find some work." He folds his arms, giving the illusion that the women on his shoulderplates are leaning into him. "Hope you folks don't mind workin' with someone just outta lockup."
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