I've a Reign of Winter PC that made it through the first book that I'd love to revive as a 5E arcane trickster. I've been looking for a chance to try out the system for a while also.
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Bastagar will move to H13 and hide, beckoning the others to take up their positions.
"Ill-luck to linger in doorways." Bastagar snaps, his battered walking stick echoing down the hallway, smoke pellet in hand. He casts his eyes downward as he enters the hall, not daring to so much glance at his reflection. "... and to glance in mirrors in dead-men's-halls, he a wicked-fate befalls. These things and more Bastagar knows, yesss." It is unclear who he is talking to, if anybody at all. Once he reaches the open door he falls quiet as a mouse, peering around the corner.
"Invite us in these mortals have,
Bastagar will apply a double dosage of greenblood oil to one of his daggers, eyes glinting at the sight of the gold. He dogs Kelgar's heels, taking long, stomping strides in time with the dwarf's. "Much gold whitebeard has, yes..." the gnome begins, looking uncertain. Having never had much success acquiring gold and jewels, the creature seems uncertain what to actually do with them. "What will... what will this one do with it, yesss?" Once they enter harms way Bastagar will slink to the shadows, ready to launch a ray of frost sneak attack at any nasties.
Bastagar will snap to attention, gleefully rifling through the corpses.
Ever the opportunist, Bastagar moves to K10 and launches another blast of frost, this time at the injured man.
Bastagar lies unmoving, but suddenly bounds to his feet like a flimsy marionette, sending shards of ice soaring at the crossbowman.
Struggling futilely against the Trow's grasp, Bastagar makes a sickening crack as the monster tightens his grip, falling limp in it's grasp.
One Last Shot: "It sees through Bastagar's disguise." he croaks, realization dawning. "'twas to fool the eyes of men, not for those of winter's ken."
Bastagar does not resist as he's plucked from his feet, steadying his breath and meeting the troll in the eye. He crosses his fingers, entreating the Lantern King for aid. "Bastagar indeed serves another master. Baba Yaga has foretold of the tower's fall, and Bastagar wishes to part these humans from their gold before the Old Crone's servants claim it all. Has it not heard of the boundless treasures that Nazhena has hidden here? I wonder does witch-queen pay it in more than scraps?" he hints, face curling into a grin.
"If this one turns a blind eye it might walk away with more gold than it can carry, provided it lets wily Bastagar run free it shall not have to lift a finger."
Hushed Tones and Quiet Whispers:
Bastagar looks up with grin, not dropping his facade for a second. "Oho, this one may fool the eyes of men, but as expected the eyes of trow are greater still. There are things this one must say, yes. Whispers for the ears of winter children." Bastagar's eyes flicker in the direction of the guards for a moment, as well as his companions. "But not here, no. These are not words for men to hear. Even now they watch. We must go to the fáinne sí, yes, where mortal eyes cannot see. It is hidden, but this one knows the secret way. We can be gone and back within the hour."
Sylvan: fáinne sí = Fairy Circle
Bastagar turns a blind eye to the guard's protests. He approaches the towering jötun like a coiled spring, not taking it's eyes off of it for a moment. His gnarled fingers fidget at the charms on his rucksack, closing around a small black pellet. OOC:
"Bastagar pushes his luck, yessss. Hopes he does not add to tally of troll-related-deaths."
Bastagar grins in answer, setting his sights on the icy troll. Knowing the game is almost up, Bastagar hobbles across the yard toward the trow, concealing his face with a sweeping bow. His voice drops to a near whisper so that the guardsman at the gate cannot hear. "Have you not heard the fairie summons, oh mighty trow? Nazhena is pleased with your work, sends us to relieve you, yesss. Her fairie thralls have prepared a feast. The offerings burn in the Sí iúir gheimhridh, six kid goats and manflesh also, yessss." Sylvan: Winteryew Circle (Hoarwood)
"News of Queen of Queens, Old Crone, Old Knobbly Legs. Of Bright Morning, Red Sun, Black Midnight... news of Baba Yaga's return." he grins, clutching the keys to the hut that he filched several nights ago. "Now let us in, before this one takes its eyes."
Bastagar sits each of the party down in the kennels, gripping their faces in his gnarled hands, apparently deep in thought. After several lengths of uncharacteristic silence, he begins cackling gleefully and gets to work. Disguises:
Enlisting the aid of a disgruntled Hatch, he painstakingly reproduces the colours of the white tower from the furs and linens that Nadya provides, with surprising skill at needlework. From a distance, at least, they should be indistinguishable.
"No Duergar either." Bastagar says irritably to Kelgar. "... and too short to be a trow, either." he complains, as if this were the dwarf's fault. After much deliberation, and several tugs on the Dwarf's beard, he makes of him an ensorceled Ulfen raider, eyes glowing blue with a fairie glamer () For the Halfhand (), he drapes him in the colours of the tower guard, trimming at his beard and hair to match that of the Jadwiga and their Kellid subjects. He snatches at the man's wrist and encases his ruined hand in ice. He tightens his grip, and the ice forms into a crystalline hand. For Snjórinn he eagerly snatches at his fetish mask, insisting that the witch remove it and reveal what lies beneath. "Faerie, man, or ox, or troll, Bastagar's hands shall hide it all." For his mistress, Bastagar dares not lay a finger on her, gingerly placing a bundle at her feet. The four of them garbed as a hunting party of the white tower, he makes of himself a Spriggan, like those in the employ of the tower. His ashen-white face and wrinkled features making the transformation a short one at best.
"Radosek sends us, we hunts a rider for the master for many weeks." he hisses at the man above. ( ). "This one asks for shelter and comes bearing news."
"Bastagar can do this thing, yesss. The eyes of men are easily tricked."
"What do the chilly-nips wear, mistress? Bastagar knows not..."
"Bastagar has but one..." he says, clutching the earthenware pot. "But one pot of burn-bright."
Keeper of Ravens?
Bastagar gleefully pats himself on the back for a job well done.
"Or if her call it fails to heed,
Bastagar, satisfied that he has contributed what knowledge he can, does not tarry to see the woman's reaction. He slinks back toward the house in hopes of finding Hatch.
"Broken apart, they did! Broke her apart to tiny little pieces." he says, shrilly. He looks around, wide-eyed and bewildered, as if wondering why everybody else gathered isn't enjoying this as much as him.
Bastagar slinks closer to the kennels, eyes widening and lips twisting into a smile. "Bastagar knows! Bastagar knows where woman's child is." he offers, cheerfully, pointing a finger at Caerb. "He took her!"
Bastagar skirts along the treeline, staring from the boughs of the great pines. He watches the compassionate gestures of the party with some curiosity, as if he can't quite comprehend them.
Bastagar can put the featherstep to use, and given the trouble us 20speed gnomes have had in the deep snow, I say we definitely should keep the feather step
Bastagar watches the exchange from his perch atop a nearby cupboard, creaking under his weight. His raspy voice appears in the ears of those gathered. ""a Puck's shrewd eye,
Bastagar knows,
If left unattended, Bastagar will wander about the house, peering into cupboards and creeping around corners. Despite his usual behaviour, Bastagar takes great care not to disturb or pilfer any of Nadya's belongings, out of respect for his fey hosts. Bastagar whistles a tune, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive spirit.
I'd planned to have Bastagar learn vanish from the household fey and tail Nadya today. I'd forgotten how underwhelming Sorcerer 2 is as a level... I guess they can teach me mending instead? It's only a few more levels two before Bastagar could drug her, alter self to steal her shape, and go in her stead. I'm kind of wishing I'd picked up a scroll of that rather than glitterdust now. I'd forgotten it allows a save/round now and it didnt really manage to save our skin against that troll like I would have hoped...
All that's left is my feat choice. Probably any one of Improved Initiative, Toughness or Arcane Armour Training. They're not sexy, but they'll keep Bastagar alive for future mischief. As for stocking up on gear, what have we looted since Heldren?
Bastagar cackles gleefully at the weasel's distress, pleased with what he sees as a job well done. He shakes off his filthy furs, and with it several items roll across the floor: a ball of twine, a pouch of what seem to be animal bones, the last of the days-old chicken from Heldren, Caerb's whetstone, Kelgar's smoking pouch and the Halfhand's hunting knife. Freezing in place, Bastagar stiffly walks away from the scene of the crime, his attempts to act natural making him seem more akin to a wooden windup doll. He gleefully picks up the ill-fitting coat in his hands, marvelling at the frayed, patchy surface as one might the finest velvet. He pulls it over his head, his wirebrush hair even more disheveled than usual. The coat drags along the ground as he fumbles with the sleeves, which hang several inches too long. If anything, the gnome is more likely to draw stares.
Bastagar lets out a wicked grin as he notes The Halfhand's discomfort. "See how it trembles at the shadows..." he says, trailing into Sylvan and cackling. "Lig dúinn a thabhairt dó rud éigin a léim ag ... guthanna fairie déanta as aer, fuaimeanna tricksy nach bhfuil ann ..." Sylvan:
Let us give him something to jump at...
fairie voices made from air,/tricksy sounds that are not there... Perception DC 17:
[ooc]Bastagar's hands are quite obviously weaving a spell of some kind, taking 10 the Halfhand can easily recognise a ghost sound Suddenly, chittering voices begin to echo from atop the high shelves and under cupboards, whispering cruel threats at the Halfhand and his pet.
Bastagar scurries to the doorstep, ahead of the others. He notes an iron horseshoe over the door, gingerly lifting it off it's hook with the tip of his shillelagh and flinging it into the trees. His haste does not carry him across the threshhold of the door however, until Nadya beckons him inside. His pale eyes follow the twin boys up the stairs and into their rooms, a strangely curious look on his face. He warms his gnarled fingers, red raw from the storm, by the fireside, wimpering slightly as he tries to massage some life back into them. Despite the warmth of the hearth, he shudders involuntarily at the mention of the Pale Tower.
"Musn't say 'witches' aloud in this land. Bad luck it is, bad luck and ill fortune." Bastagar spits, hobbling alongside Caerb. He covers his mouth in fright as he notices that he has done that very thing, knocking his staff on a nearby trunk three times before clambering onto Hilde's shoulder. From atop his perch, he gives Caerb a knowing look. "... and we thinks the winter-queens eats their sons. Cook them in a pot and gobble them up." the gnome says, a little too cheerily. He turns to Nadya. "Musn't worry. Sled-dog-woman has daughter. Won't be cooked up in a pot. Bastagar too has... rescued a child before. Musn't worry."
Bastagar gnashes his teeth, snarling at the newcomer from behind Hilde's cloak. "Does the horned one threaten Bastagar?"
Bastagar, not liking what he's hearing, snarls and retreats back into his pile of furs.
"A tale, a song, or fel enchantment?" Bastagar says, suspiciously. "Forlarren swears not to bewitch poor Bastagar, and we tells it why we come from Grungir's boughs." the gnome slips, starting and covering his mouth in fright. He makes an apologetic glance at his companions, his pale watery eyes wide with fright.
Bastagar rocks on his heels, unable to cope with the heavy silence cast over the tent. He leans in close to Kelgar, wrapping a gnarled hand around his shoulder and leaning on tip-toes to hiss into his ear. "What does bearded one think? It does not answer Bastagar's question. A spy, does it think?"
"Forlarren, fiendblood, claws that rend.
Bastagar emerges from his hidey-hole, standing hesitantly by Hilde's side. He bows, so stiffly you can almost hear the creaking of his bones, eyes not leaving the horned woman. "This one is Bastagar."
Bastagar sits sullenly eyeing the stew-pot from beneath the furs. Sullenly, he reaches into his pack, nearly breaking his teeth on a raw turnip. Tears in his eyes, he tuns to their new visitor, shrinking back into hiding, his crooked nose all that is visible from beneath the covers as he sniffs the air, trying to determine what the strange creature that entered may be.
As Hilde speaks, Bastagar gleefully leaps to his feet, scurrying into the camp and diving under the furs, stubbornly refusing to come out again. Invitations hold great weight to the fairie-kind, and cannot be withdrawn once given.
Standing for a moment in stunned silence, Bastagar lets out a triumphant shout, skipping across the creature's carapace to land beside Caerb in the snow. He leans over his gnarled walking stick with a smirk before offering a hand. "Up it gets. Long way to go yet. Long way to go."
Bastagar, stumbling about in the snow trying not to be trodden on, grins as he sees his window of opportunity, brandishing his shillelagh and striking the creatures leg with a crack.
Bastagar will weave through the snow to H-9 as Hilde draws its attention, , curling his gnarled fingers into a claw and unleashing a wicked blast of white light at the creature's carapace.
Before departing, Bastagar will creep toward what remains of Olaf's possessions, scavenging his coins, ioun torch, snowshoes, grappling hook, 100ft of silk rope and flint and steel. He picks up the mirror, letting out a fearful shout, dropping it clattering to the ground. "Bastagar does not steal from dead men. It leaves something behind, yes. We trade, like they does in Grungir-court." he stammers, producing a turnip from his rucksack and placing it at the skald's feet, spinning three times and tapping his wooden staff on the hard-packed ground. With one last warding gesture against his comrades angry spirit, he hastily follows the others through the portal. Shivering as they make their way through the portal, Bastagar draws his furs tighter around his skinny frame. "Does it see the lights? What magic is that, lady Hilde?"
Bastagar blinks at the Halfhand as he collapses in the snow and gives him a few ponderous nudges with his walking-stick. "... Maimed-one does not stir." he says, matter-of-factly.
Bastagar's dabs his gnarled fingers where the creature's blood touches him, bringing it down to his lips and leaving long streaks through his whiskers. His furrowed brow suggests that just what this creature is lays well beyond his narrow expertise. He hastily assists his mistress in constructing the bier, proving more a hindrance then help, before rejoining the others. He first turns to Hilde, and then, reluctantly, to the Halfhand. "What does it make of the Shadow Man? Bastagar knows... Bastagar knows not." At Kelgar's grumbling he stares up at the dwarf with child-like curiosity. "How many winters has longbeard seen? Bastagar has seen seven-score and three and Bastagar is fit as a fiddle. P'raps longbeard grumbles too much." Black-Blood:
As the others each speak up in turn, a shrill voice follows. "What is in it... for Bastagar?"
"Grandmother." says Bastagar, eyes widening. As the others crowd around the knight, Bastagar is quick to join them, rubbing his gnarled hands together, listening intently. "Witch-Queen, Old Crone, Old Knobby Legs, yes, yessss..."
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