Arrius's page

"A dangerous path," Ibn Taaib says. He studies the traveler.

Can I sense motive to know if it's a trap?

"Be not sorrowful," Ibn Taaib says calmly, propped up and observing the entire exchange silently. "For thy story has not yet ended. To Wish is to gamble with Fate, and to ask a misty, capricious Presence for aid where cold steel cleaves cleanly in a clear field."

In other words; wishing for something incurs a lot of risk for an unknown answer, while doing it yourself is clearer and more gratifying.

Ibn Taaib considers the discussion, and picks up a rock, and tosses it at one of the cacti.

Last Fadilah mentioned, she refused to surrender the astrolabe until we know the genies inside the proverbial bottle.
I.e. after we use divination magic to identify all the genies within so we don't inadvertently release Jaafar just in time for Aladdin 2: Zakhara Boogaloo.

Ibn Taaib learns the forms and how to parry.

The sheikh blinks the frost out of his eyelashes, as he pushes himself up slowly, holding his blasted chest. He stands up, tapping Frackit's shoulder in silent thanks as he breathes out. His wipes his frost-rimmed sword with a piece of his turban, sheathing it, and looks up to see the dead bloodied sorceress.
The man's eyes lower, shaking his head in shame and disappointment at how this all ended.

"I must thank thee for thy aid, great giant," the sheikh says, looking up to the giant. "Indeed, if thou hast chosen to side with the sorceress, we would have truly been doomed."

Ienmar sets out into the cleared wilderness, careful to keep the trident head-up and pointing away from dwarf-flesh. As the world seems cleaner, he begins to sing a merry travel-tune.

"O'er the hills, o'er the streams,
"To homes warmed and hearths fired,
"Into stout halls with wooden beams,
"Our minds are wary, our feet tired,
"At home we we rest and sleep and fix our seams,
"and sink our armchairs mired!"

First time I tell my character's full story and it's to an NPC. xD

Ibn Taaib speaks loudly enough to properly tell the story, so everyone probably managed to hear it.

Shafazal says, "You seek my counsel."

Her ploppy belly jiggles a bit as she moves

She is a bit guarded and says, "Well, I am intrigued, I cannot say I am well versed in cursed especially major ones. I have known varying sorcerers to place the Evil Eye on people from time to time but. So, my honored Sheikh, please ask away."

The sheikh nods, and sits down before the giant and the sorcerous veiled lady, and begins to tell a strange tale.

Part 1: The Long Shadow music
"All good stories have a beginning, my lady, and my story begins with the Long Shadow, Qassim, and it took place once upon a time.
"Qassim [Distributor], or Sheikh Qassim as he was known in the Haunted Lands, was a hard-eyed and cruel man, a despoiler. Heart filled with resentment towards all other tribes and peoples, he observed no ancient rite or tradition, followed no gods and obeyed no Caliph. He was a slaver, a bandit, and a thief who terrorized travelers of the region from Utaqa to Halawa. He drove his tribe to join him on his hateful crusade, and although many refused, such as his blind eldest brother Aabid [Devoutee], many more joined him. As Aabid was his brother and equal in the tribe, Qassim left his family, his wife, and his two sons, Aasim and Amr, and lived in the mountains with his gang, leaving the innocents and righteous of his tribe to fend for themselves."

The man looks into the fire at the oasis, giving a long pause. A shadow lurked behind his eyes, which were narrowed with pain.

"It mattered not to Qassim if the travelers were Men or of other races, if they were religious pilgrims, nobles, or escaped slaves. He would strike, rob, enslave, or murder, and disappear into the desert with the rest of his band. Sixty ruthless men and women of his tribe and of other exiles and sa'luks, who were known as the Carrion Eaters, or Aakili-Aljeeaf.
"It was said that he, or someone among the band could employ birds somehow--vultures, crows, and eagles. How else would he knew the pathway caravans take, and whether they were too protected to assault? How would he avoid random free city patrols, and avoid falling into ambushes? He never struck where retribution would be too great? Did he employ dark magic? Was he driven by dark idols and gods, or was he possessed by demons?
"Many pursued and hunted him; heroes, relatives of enslaved men and women, mamlukes to avenge their brethren, agents of robbed merchants and nobles, and free city commanders and their forces. If he could defeat his foes, he lured them into traps and pounced upon them. Those he could not defeat, he would evade, escape, and exhaust. He would ride deep into strange ruins and abandoned cities, into innumerable caverns in unknown mountain paths, or into unknown valleys. As he knew his foes but they knew him not, he was called "The Long Shadow", and the Carrion Eaters, were feared and hated for their depravity.
"One night, he returned to his estranged family with only six of his band. Qassim approached his blind brother Aabid, who said, "What would you want of me, younger brother? I will not partake in wicked deeds or stray from the righteous path. Your children I raised as my own, and gods willing, they shall not follow the path you set."
"Verily, my brother," said Qassim. "You are blind in body but are clear-eyed in spirit. I return to you not as Qassim, for I distributed nothing but wickedness and evil. I am Qassim no longer, but Taaib [Repented]."
"And though Aabid feared deception, it was, astonishingly, not so; it was as if Qassim was a man possessed or changed. He and his six companions donned the robes of pilgrims, abdicated rulership of his tribe to his brother, declared that the Carrion Eaters has been disbanded, and resolved to go to the Golden Mosque in Huzuz to cleanse his soul, carrying his ill-gotten gains to be returned to his victims, and perhaps meet his fate at the hands of the Caliph to complete his repentance. Perhaps paying the ultimate price would truly redeem him."

Ibn Taaib's eyes fill with tears as he fingers his wooden rosery.

Part 2: The Caravan of the Dead music

"Sheikh Qassim--nay, Taaib was my father. Three nights after he set out, a stranger visited my uncle during one of his full-night prayers. He was not of the region, and spoke in a strange voice that seemed too deep to emerge from a human throat, and asked, without introduction or word of peace, "O Blind one, speak in truth and answer me: Where is Qassim of Banu Ghurab, and where did he take his loot?" My uncle explained that Qassim was no more; Taaib left to repent of his life of wickedness, and his loot would be returned to its true owners. Upon waiting for a reply, Aabid heard nothing. Being blind, could not see where the stranger with the terrible voice went.
I learned upon my own pilgrimage years ago that he died en route and never reached Huzuz. His stolen goods and his six companions never reached the city either. My uncle Aabid abdicated the leadership of the tribe to my brother Aasim, who abdicated it to me, for he feared becoming as my father, and was more like my uncle in disposition. I led my people for years since, trying to purge the resentment and hatred my father implanted into my people, and many of Banu Ghurab have obeyed and became good men and women, while others left, never be heard of again.
Lately, however, there has been something stirring in the haunted lands. A presence that brushes against the dreams of the sleeping and minds of beasts and children, striking fear to the waking and nightmares to the sleeping. A strange red sandstorm appears and disappears, red in the color of blood, not sand. It appears and disappears suddenly, contrary to the Laws of the World, and leaves travelers dead, robbed of their valuables, and desiccated in its wake, with marks and fatal wounds that appear like..."

His eyes harden, as he says, "Human teeth."
He pauses, and then adds, "I fear this storm of death. Mashael, my little girl, once woke up and told to me that she saw in her dream a stream of white snakes swimming in eerily calm waters, following the shadow of a great dying tree tipped with red leaves. That held portents and signs, and my uncle interpreted the dream. The red sandstorm heralds a caravan of dead men, who will restlessly march in the Haunted Lands, murdering all in its wake. The land has become cursed, struck by the darkest ritual or Evil Eye."

Ibn Taaib reaches to his side, where two empty sword scabbards lie. The first looks valuable and once held the blade that belonged to Azaltin. The second was simpler and was rough and cheap. He carries up the empty sheathe, and says, "My men found this in the wake of the Caravan of the Dead. It belonged to one of the Carrion Eaters who refused to join my father when he repented. I do not know what happened on that fateful day my father turned from Qassim into Taaib, what my father stole or did for this to happen, what the secrets of the Caravan is, or the fate of my other tribesmen who persisted in the path of Evil. I have set out on this journey to seek the aid of those who might help me."

He then lowers the empty scabbard.

"So," he says with a small smile. "What wisdom may you offer me, Lady Shafazal?"

Ibn Taaib was thankful for the breakfast, and expressed as much.
During their journey, he reflected on the empty scabbard of the bronze scimitar he found. Now he carried two empty scabbards, and only his tribal sword remained with him.

When they stopped for noon, he milked his camel and fed her ground date cores, and observed the trail.

Survival 14: 1d20 ⇒ 1
Perfect result

Ienmar lifts his shield and holds firm against the minotaur's fetid barrage. He hefts his hammer over the dark waters and strikes with furious anger, augmented with Johnny Boy's music.

Attack!: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (4) + 6 = 10
Attack w/Advantage: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 6 = 26
Damage!: 1d8 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9
Extra Damage!: 1d8 ⇒ 7
Total 16!

Alright, in that case here is my post.

Round 5: 3/2
The dancing blade began shaking after the rapid series of cuts. Noticing this, Ibn Taaib sheathed his other sword, and reached out to the bronze scimitar, grabbing it and turning to slash an enemy with a full body strike.

+1: 15 - 1d20 - 1 ⇒ 15 - (1) - 1 = 13
The blade flew out of his hand, however, shaking with the magic within.

The sheikh went after it.

Hold the phone, what's attacking us?
@Zairiah: Noted, I'll put a mark indicating you have it.

"Amber makes a good point, but tha trails lead ta 'ere," Ienmar says.

We're going down the long hallways of door 2, but blindly, in fact, until someone can succeed on the DC 15 Perception check.

The descriptions really are *chef's kiss*.

Do we have a date and calendar? I remember reading that this was year 1367, but I don't know the month or day.

I ask because since this campaign has been going on for a while (and will hopefully continue for a while yet), I thought it might be prudent to make an in-character campaign log. Maybe in the form of letters scribed by the sheikh describing his travels in story form (1001 nights?)
I'll provide a link, but rest assured I will try to make it have the most use possible (for tracking other things, such as Raschad's service pledge to Fadilah and Nura, which is apparently a year and a day), as well as any required trading elements.

I allowed commenting by everyone. If you want to add anything to the doc, just write it in, and I'll incorporate it as soon as I can.

Really liking how the party is coming together. Everyone seems so interesting, and GMEDWIN (GM Edwin?) seems to have done a great job so far.

Johnny Boy winces as the talk inevitably turns to an underground bunker. 'Just when I think I'm out they briiing me back in!'

Not going to lie, that elicited a lol from me. He doesn't like cramped spaces much, does he?

Ienmar surges ahead after felling one of the frogmen, feinting with his shield, before sending another hammer-blow to crush another invader, moving to flank with Johnny-boy as his blood pumped with the war-chant.

Nice pick of music!

Attack!: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (4) + 6 = 10
Damage: 1d8 + 6 ⇒ (7) + 6 = 13
Ienmar flanks if possible. If so, I think he receives advantage on attack. If so, here is the roll.
Attack!: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (14) + 6 = 20

Viridel's Epilogue Music

Viridel visits Ambassador Perishial office, giving him a brief of the events, and thanking him for his prayers to Desna and Calistra. He sent another a report to his father Theawynn, the head of the Ashel'Dalore household, as well as a report to Queen Telandia of Kyonin (something, he noted with wry amusement, that his father would appreciate, suspecting it as a ploy of some kind), as well as briefed them that he will visit the clan-hold of Grymwold to witness the safe deposit of the clan's lost artifact.

Viridel was not surprised to learn that the Headmaster mismanaged finances--what value does gold have when he mismanaged the futures (and souls) of his students? He took his share of 19,664 golden sails, and with some of the reward money, erected a monument outside the Academae's walls, dedicated to the fallen students and to show the resilience of humankind. He visited the Grand Cathedral of Pharasma, asking for them to bless the monument once it was completed, and to assure the victims that the souls of their loved ones have passed on to their after-lives.

In the Forgehammer Clanhold
Viridel assists in relaying the tales along with Grym, but his soft-spoken voice is more often than not drowned over by the cheers of happy dwarves and the clanging of metal tankards on tables. More in tune when the more somber ceremony takes place, Viridel knows enough of dwarf-lore that he says all the right things at the right time in impeccable dwarven, correctly using dwarf-lore and sayings of old, and observing the dedications to the mighty Lord of the Dwarf-folk, Torag. He congratulated the clan, Grymwold's family, and Grymwold himself, and affirming the continued friendship between the elder races of the world.

Viridel's Epilogue: Monument to Youthful Passion
The following weeks pass with surprising energy for one to whom time passes as the blink of an eye. Viridel stayed as a guest with the Ambassador during his stay in Korvosa, trying to help where he could. When the monument was completed, Viridel witnessed the unveiling.

The cold stone-carved faces of the students bore expressions of resilience, youth, and heroism. Their faces headed eastwards to receive the sun as the veil fell, wands, staves, and hands raised against a horde of horned shadows. The heroes stood high above the great pedestal that bore their names, and upon the white stone pedestal, carved in letters of silver, were the names of the victims of Belzeragna. Below the names, on a plaque, was a dedication penned by the arch-mage.

"It is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succor of those years within we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule."

Under the plaque, barely visible except in dim light (which elven and half-elven eyes see the best), was something written in Elven.

The trauma of the reveal of the Breaching Trial would shake Korvosa for years if not decades, the diviner knew, eyes misting. The families that have grieved for centuries can finally find relief to their pain and confusion in the light of truth. Justice has been done, but not always is that enough. Time would heal some hearts, and kindle hatred of Evil in others to birth new champions of Good, he knew--for some in the crowd seemed to be travelers and soldiers. Paladins, people of good hearts, and noble adventurers would come to see the site, perhaps visit it as pilgrimage, and remind themselves that evil is relentless and insidious, and only by working together (even if one's party is unconventional) would we be saved from Evil. Perhaps the true dedication could be gleaned by students and their masters, for it is a strange bond they share.

Viridel's eyes could not leave the carved names of his students even as he stepped back and others approached to place ever-lit candles and flowers below the statue. Three flowers were already there, one below each of his students' names. It was a monument to youthful passion extinguished by ancient evils, and a monument to students whose masters were not there for them when they needed guidance the most.
Oh how it shone in the sunlight... he thought. It appeared misty in his eyes--and it shone the further he looked until a tear slipped down his cheek.
With a wave of his staff and a broken heart, he disappeared with a ripple of fey sorcery.

I've been on and off this forum since 2012 or so, and it feels like there's less traffic now than a few years back. Still plenty of activity; just, less than there was a few years back.

This is just an impression, but... does anyone else see it too? (And is anyone tracking or keeping statistics that could confirm or refute it?)

We don't have that kind of data on traffic or user statistics, but I've noticed it as well. You can jump to any number of previous pages and find much more activity.

I have no data to prove it, but the fandom split between PF1e and PF2e might have also contributed.

Since only the epilogue remains (and Anethra's post, assuming Bayard doesn't chime in one last time), I wanted to give my review.
I loved this adventure. Well done, everyone!

I had Viridel as a character concept for who knows how long (maybe 2005, before I even knew D&D). He was the quintessential wise elven wizard, inspired by Lord of the Rings's Elrond and Warcraft III's Kael'Thas Sunstrider (of all people, though to be fair he was wise in the beginning before Burning Crusade).
I'm therefore happy I finally managed to close an adventure with him, especially with excellent interactions with other excellent and flavorful other characters, such as Grymwold and Laree! The fact that we turned the elf-dwarf rivalry on its head was just icing on the cake, and the master-student/family-friend relationship was masterfully done.

I loved Anethra's roleplay as well, she really nailed such a hard character concept to pull off in these circumstances (an evil devil-worshipper helping overthrow a devil-home), but what else should I expect from an actual published author? Bayard felt like a rock and a counterweight, and I'm sure, had we all played more, we would come to enjoy the party's dyanmics more than we already did.

Our DM made everything feel impactful, really played on the dread aspect from the beginning to the end, and made exploring the world feel mysterious and dangerous, so that when we were heroes, we really acted heroic. I don't know how much you planned ahead, DM, but knowing our history and your quality of DMing, it is impossible to know what was planned and what was improvised.

The fights were also excellently-run (despite Pathfinder's tendencies to swing too much to the player's side, especially at high levels). The tactical choices we had to make sometimes were tough, and when we dismissed the threats we got punished. In short, we felt like big damn heroes who fought big damn villains. It was very good. The mental image of the skull staff floating around and casting spells was especially evocative, and the serious impact our adventure had in-universe (with us possibly reforming or closing the Academae, with the ripples of consequences in the game-world) is something that makes this a little bit more real for me. The school definitely had enough victims.

I wonder (on the side) if the mark Viridel got disappeared once the demiplane collapsed, or if it's still there a la Frodo's morgul blade scar. Either make sense, really. A blind oracle is a nice theme, as is a forehead mark.

Ultimately, this is one of the best adventures I went through, in no small part due to how high-level we are. I'm glad we got the good and avoided the bads involved.

To the Professors/Audience

Viridel nods slowly, and he dips his head in a corresponding gesture. Perhaps it was just the nature of wizards to be more curious than angry, but Viridel wanted to know exactly who was behind this.

"I will agree to engage with the Academae to get to the bottom of this," he declares. "Though the souls that were once trapped in that realm are now freed, they do not continue to the Beyond unscarred."

He could not help a small smile from coming to his face as Grymwold's vice grip held the headmaster in place. He, for one, will get what he came for.

To Laree

Laree dragged her brother with her (as if devils might swoop in and spirit him away) and held Maganrad's hand. Noticing this, Viridel approached the trio, and said, "I will do my best to solve this. You must retire and rest; care for yourselves and one another."
"And Laree," He said, pausing, and then smiled, adding, "You did exceedingly well. Give my best to your family."

That is, assuming Laree isn't going to invite Viridel (or the party) to a family dinner :)

To Bayard
"You have done honor to your faith, executioner," Viridel says with resepct to the armored warrior of the faith. "I might need you once more as we uncover the secrets of the Academae. Do I have your axe if fiends once more threaten the realm?"

To Grymwold
"I think congratulations are in order," said the mage as he approached the dwarf, before switching to speaking dwarven. "Othok Zal gen zahk honzar ruk tu Kazamar, en E Umri Kal', Nar kol E vat-a eron ukavilth bil da sirk. Hal Tha ru ruk sa tur othok ath E thane ov E giml ter-kargol ov tul anek khazad a par Yoth dahur a-Khazad?"

To Anethra
Viridel approached the devil-blooded priestess, studying her.

Sense Motive for Insight: 1d20 + 21 ⇒ (1) + 21 = 22

He said coldly in Infernal, "N de jeh sbmna nidea n de jeh rmwl. N flbnlwl hrni zpghrlgld oepg mnai mjd hrmh ez oepg dlwnb-ved mh ieal wenjh."

A thought passed his mind like an electric shock. Used Prescience to roll twice
Sense Motive for Insight: 1d20 + 21 ⇒ (16) + 21 = 37

His countenance softened as his eyes turned to the skull staff. He knew something was trapped in it, and Anethra claimed it for some reason. Perhaps there was more to her than meets the eye, and he added, this time in Common, "But as I said, I do not claim wisdom I do not have. You helped free hundreds of souls, and saved us more than once from a terrible death in that hell-pit. For that, Lady Anethra, I thank you."

This was fun. I was satisfied by how I managed to salvage or create a character arc for Grothog (DM helped a lot). His pacifism gave way to despair, which gave way to bloodlust (and PTSD), which ultimately gave away for a realization that a hero is defined by their actions and not out of self-perception. Clowns to heroes!

I also loved that Katala was the anchor and unofficial leader/spokescat of our team, and how Pandir was a positive actor that always added a unique and funny twist (especially loved the plant-like descriptions and flavor of how she consumed potions, rested, etc.), and Finch was a great fun to read and interact with (especially with her using Grog as a prop/umbrella/coat stand/totem pole/etc.)
I think this crew/party was perfectly fit to have one another.

I likewise don't find that 2e is a perfect fit for me. Maybe it's the multiclassing, maybe it's how the action system and the wide choices of reaction (which doesn't fit PBP), or maybe it's something else.

The game, storytelling, and the stories we had along the way is what kept me here.

I still grin when I remember Finch's psychotic bluff with the fire elementals...
Threatening hostages only works if you care about them, huh? XD

See you guys around.

Groggy out.

the feast is loud and colorful as the Wayward Wonders' members lighten the mood. The sense of goodwill and happiness and dancing people and laughing children is a little alien to the large orc, who sits on the floor, marveling on how their gratitude over his aid blinded them to what he was. He smiled, the tension from before relieved.

Yes, he killed again. Perhaps, however, heroes can kill if there is a good reason to. The happiness of common folk, settling of old feuds, was surely good. It surely felt that way for him, a stranger exiled from a stranger land.

When Grothog slinked away from the festivities to visit Myron's grave, he lowered himself to touch the fresh soil, and pulled his employment contract. On the paper was his rough signature--gently invited out by the good circus manager. The orc wrapped it up into a scroll, and placed it on under a stone.

"'fanks," he said roughly. He could still hear the cheer and impromptu feast from the distance, and smiled. Perhaps the world was not so dark after all.

After all, a wise dwarf once said, "If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world."

Medicine to Heal: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (19) + 9 = 28

Critical heal for 4d8
HP restored: 4d8 ⇒ (2, 4, 1, 6) = 13

Grothog gets up, munching on some weeds from Pandir's healing plaster, and hangs his pick and shield on his body, before hauling several victims over his shoulder as if they were potato sacks.

"Lez go."

Grothog marches out the hermitage, with a strange budding feeling in him now that the rage has faded. He didn't consider it yet. Perhaps they were all just a bunch of clowns, but they were all Abberton had. Abberton did not have any heroes--but the fact that the clowns did the rescuing maybe meant they became the heroes.
An orc whom not even his own people wanted, an unnammed rigger on a small traveling circus has somehow became...

Grothog emerges into the day with his comrades with the rescued victims over his shoulders.

--a hero.

The axeman descends on bright angelic wings, which dissipate as his heavy boots hit the disintegrating ground. He leaves without looking back as the world collapses, reciting a short obedience to Damerrich, as his shield flew to his open hand.

The Executioner left with confident ease, leaving a world he executed.

Theatric exit somehow :)

Grog says nothing for a long moment, observing the gate of the sanctum with the pearl in his hand.

He then turns to his party. He takes a deep breath, and looks at their faces.

"Ow'aight," he starts, voice starting with its usual gruffness but rising. "Wez nervous yez? Wez confus'd yez? But nobodyz elz iz 'ere yez? No more 'eroes; itz just uz."

He turns to the gate and back again, and adds, "If dis waz a story, a right shoiny knight shou'v been 'ere, aww right'us and 'oly, but all 'dem are dead. No more 'eroes. Iz jus' us. Wez got no godz or gre't destiny, but we 'ave ourselves. Da's wut Myron sayz: 'Everyone cud be interestin', and I trus' in Myron"

He raises his fingers carrying the pearl, and says, "Fer Myron."

He then pushes the pearl forward, and readies himself for battle.

@GM: I open the door.

Grymwold joins the onslaught, repeatedly sending his shield to batter the other osyluth, the corpse of which is soon flung back through Anethra's blades.

That's some dank Mortal Kombat imagery. I absolutely love it.

Once the cleaver flew, a shadow fell over the orc's face.

Action 1: Activate a very appropriate Rage

With a dark grimmness to his expression, Grothog methodically strikes at the woman with bloody intent, aiming squarely at her head.

"You made me do dis!" he declares darkly, moving his body with a surge of violence, his efficient blows concealing a scream for deliverance and salvation. "Iz your fault! Iz your fault!"

Action 2: Attack 1: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (17) + 11 = 28
Damage: 2d6 + 4 + 2 ⇒ (6, 4) + 4 + 2 = 16
If a critical hit, it's this roll instead
4d10 + 8 + 1d10 + 2 ⇒ (2, 6, 10, 1) + 8 + (6) + 2 = 35

Action 3: Attack 2: 1d20 + 11 - 5 ⇒ (17) + 11 - 5 = 23
Damage: 2d6 + 4 + 2 ⇒ (6, 4) + 4 + 2 = 16

| ◆ Flurry of Whiffs against Green

XD

Katala, if you're uncomfortable roleplaying this scene just give me a heads-up and I will retcon it.

Viridel shook his head.
"We left behind the Hall of Shaping." Viridel said. "It might be too dangerous, and the key-lights we found might take us far enough."

He closed his eyes for a moment.
"Besides, we might be too drained to tackle the real threat later...that thing that is the true test of the Breaching Festival."

He remembered the blackness, and the disappearance of all those souls as moths who touched and succumbed to an invisible flame.

@Pandir
I thought Pandir might benefit as well, but it messes with the monk's action economy and combat rotation.

@Finch
While you are concealed from a creature, such as in a thick fog, you are difficult for that creature to see. You can still be observed, but you're tougher to target. A creature that you're concealed from must succeed at a DC 5 flat check when targeting you with an attack, spell, or other effect. Area effects aren't subject to this flat check. If the check fails, the attack, spell, or effect doesn't affect you.

It's a 25% miss chance that takes an action and a successful perform (dance) check. I think we can flavor that as TACTICAL CLOWNING TUMBLING AROUND.

Of course it could also help Katala as well.

"Also, by the by," she adds in a chillingly nonchalant tone, "before you open your stupid mouth to threaten me again... Hostage-Takin' 101: they only work if the other side cares about whether they live or die—I couldn't give less of a sh*t, so long as we can haul back whatever charred-to-bone mangled mess is left. Now, I'll give you one chance to get the f*ck outta here before we come up there and I start gettin' creative. What'll it be?"

The fact that Finch is rolling intimidate to convince the elemental(?) and not bluff scares me on a meta level.

Grog, after pushing off Viktor, walks over to the other side (to the Menagerie) and crouches, setting up (in front of the entire audience) a prop; pulling up a giant slab of wood as if a target wheel, and effortlessly turning it around behind Katala's target, grunting a circus theme.

Athletics: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (10) + 9 = 19

Aid requires DC 20, so that's one hero point on my part

Athletics: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (13) + 9 = 22

@Anethra:
I love it. We took some time for Bloodsworn Vale, but this time we hit the ground running. The mood is heavy, the stakes are high, and the characters involved are looking great.

Behold: The Compact of the Hammer

Scary but fair in its own way. If you want me to change anything, point it out, but I feel this is a good balance between dense and focused.
Also, the fact that is is of 9 pages exactly is entirely a coincidence, Ms. Hell-Lady.
Bonus points to whoever finds the most references. :D
Also, if anyone is a master of photoshop, I can toss the raw word file their way for better presentation.

Music I was hearing while writing that had no effect on how I wrote contract.

@DM:
I think the headmaster has nothing much to hide, but if there is something I don't know or understood wrong, drop me a PM to change any clause.

@Grymwold:
The contract is up for you to sign. It's pretty fair, giving you some abilities (ensuring he will comply), and noticeably, you don't NEED to survive exiting the Hall of Wards, but have to enter it by your own Will.
So if Grymwold feels that the sacrifice of his life to bring back honor to his clan and to his god, that is a very real possibility.

This is what I mean by the stakes are high.

Grog was quiet during the entire exchange until it was over. His thick lips turned up in a small grin.

"Wot a nail-biting exchange."

"I will not give you counsel, saying do this, or do that. For not in doing or contriving, nor in choosing between this course and another, can I avail; but only in knowing what was and is, and in part also what shall be."

Viridel enters the ring. A support specialist diviner wizard, he can support with a foretelling (luck bonuses), more often than not act first on initiative with a defensive spell, and can support with telekinetic charges for the front-liner to close the distance quick and zip around the battlefield. This does not include classic high-level wizardry like hastes, slows, dispel magics, prismatic sprays, legend lore, and the most powerful spell of them all--Grease.

Viridel enters the academy to discover the meaning behind the portents and dreams he has been having, and to discover what lies beyond even his far sight, learning the fate of some students who entered the Breaching Festival but never survived it.

A limit on aid would be a more graceful solution, I would think, instead of overcorrection.

Err...
I mean...

A limi' on aid would makez a mawe gracefol solu'ion, i fink, instead uv diz overcawrec'ion, gov'naw.

Pandir agitates when Grog hears her mumbling. Oh, Mister Grog! Okay, smile. "Reincarnation. When you... eh, die... you are simply moved into a new body. Most don't recall their previous lives, so this is very hard to prove unless you are in tune with your past. Or a Samsaran. ...

Grog seems unusually focused at this speech. He hunches forward in focus. Something sparked in him. Pandir never spoke of this before...

[b]"I... I believe everyone will reincarnate. But I do not want it to happen preemptively." She smells the incense from Myron's tent. "Myron's time... was not today." She glares at the insane halfling. "That's not right."

At Pandir's words that Myron was unready, something seems to leave the orc's eyes. The curiosity--a very un-orc-like shade seems to fade and die.

"So--daz it den," he murmurs. Something wilts in him. "'e'z gone fer ne reason."

He pauses. "Even orks? Da reinkarnashin."

The blood of the giant rat and the halfling finally mixed. The color was grotesque.
Grog reacts dully to the discussion of a murderous cult of Gozreh. That would probably mean more killing. Sitting still on the ground before the murderer of his boss.

"War," he murmured to himself.

Killing Myron, a wandering circus ringmaster for esoteric fears of intangible corruption seemed so strange to the orc. Myron didn't hurt anyone. He was unable of harming even himself.

"'E woz good," Grog said to himself.

"--reincarnation will not halt that way."

The orc blinked.

"Wot?" he asked. He rises to the leshy. "Wot'd you say?"

If we're continuing after rest or moving on to show burial rites, Grog will look for an opportunity to ask Pandir about reincarnation.

Grothog stomps into the tent--before the enchantment strikes a chord with the fading high. He stomps left and right, huge body shaking the ground. Not completely enchanted nor completely clear-of-mind, Grog sways.

Grog is hanging in the back for support.

This is hilarious! xDD

After doing some reading, it looks like Pf2e shed off previous editions’ idea of encounter-balance-by-attrition (i.e. the old pathfinder and 3.5 adage of 6-8 encounters per day). In the old design paradigm, hp was an attrition-able resource (as well as a lot of other daily powers that recharged slowly or which consumed other resources), but most of those were changed so that the only daily resource (and effectively attrition point) is daily spell slots.

Design-wise, the game now assumes (and enables) the party to start each encounter with full hp and all resources—hence deadlier and swingier combat and traps. More frequent TPKs might be a result of this design choice, but I’ll need more experience in the system to judge that.

The wounded condition is also mechanically tied to this to prevent wack-a-mole that is in pf1 and 5e (if you drop to 0 hp, your one ‘failed death save’ per drop causes a serious threat of death, compared to lack of counting low negative hp in previous editions).

So really, we should always enter combat with full hp, and take the time to top off. It’s not a recommendation anymore.

Grog's lazy and watery eyes very slowly track Ceija, "If i 'it myself an' am 'urt am i weak or am i pin' pong?"

As an aside--this medicine to heal is absolutely busted. I'm not used to consistent nonmagical healing.

Grog hulks ahead, before he looks on the floor with sudden interest. He stops, and those behind him bump into the giant figure. He leans forward, before stooping to look closer.

"Ye--da floor iz made of floor."

Natural 1 Perception. I'm beginning to feel we need to hire adventurers for this XD

“Got some extra coin from these idiots. They seriously thought those drunkards had a chance. Here, your share. Oh, some idiot bet a stupid berry. You can have that too.”

Grog reaches for the coins, slipping them into his shirt pouch--before they clattered on the floor and slipping through the ripped pocket. He gathered them up again, and followed into the tent, clutching his coin in a huge fist. He begins counting on the way.

Backstage
Grog enters the backstage, and sees the gathered performers. The wind is taken out of his sails, and once the euphoria of a hard-won brawl fades, he remembers that his boss is dead.

Turning to Grog, she slowly shakes her head. "Cap'n, you're in rough shape. What was going on out there?"

He grunts as she handles his wounds. She says something about hot water, which Grog thinks might be a nice drink to reflect upon--whatever tinkture is, it must make a good cuppa.

Skilled as Ceija is in medicine, she is no match for an orc who doesn't know what she is doing and begins picking at scabs and pressing bruises to see how the color shifts once she looks away. He occasionally looks to where Myron was found. He then speaks up, asking, "Find someth'n?"

Oi, I kill’et, I munch’it

'ey, lovely jubly dungeon master.
Kindly advoise if grothog 'ad the chuffin' necessary actions ter perform 'is submitted turn activities fer da combat round.
Also, can I use me 'ero points ter impose misfortune on the bloody cockatrice attack (just as I could get fortune--but in reverse).

Dis' iz fun.

I used the map's front page to show Grog's employee ID picture. feel free to remove it if it's out of place.