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Well that settles it! Underwhelming mechanics it is! I already died once, so... yeah nothing from me either. I kind of wish there were more traits and feats that had dying as a prerequisite. That would be cool. You could level up as a reincarnated medium!
Brogol used his haunt siphon, a CLW and CMW potion, and a holy water. He has the mw thieves' tools, handaxe +1 on him. I'll be bringing in an alchemist, by the way. 5th wheel character, a little melee, a little ranged, trapfinding, some limited buffing. Can pick up a +7 diplomacy mod or put those resources somewhere else.
Stuff Aw, this is f%%!ing great. I'm not gonna lie, this one hurt to write. I've been waffling back and forth on killing Brogol since the idea first occurred to me. But, RP-wise, Brogol was too introverted, too mired in self-doubt. I've been having a little trouble with playing him lately. And more importantly, I've been feeling for a little while that the story demands Brogol's death. Brogol was in his weird way innocent, and innocence has no place in Ustalev. Thanks for a good sendoff, everyone, and especially to GM R0B0, for giving Brogol's death meaning. But, I'm still around! Working on another PC now...
The boy coughs, once, then again, and shudders a bit, his legs spasming. His pupils grow large, the grimace on Brogol's face turning to a smile. Staring up, unfocused, Brogol's breath comes ragged, and his voice is weak. One hand waves weakly, just brushing Esta's hair, gesturing you all closer. "Friends..." the boy says, and coughs. Shaking hands pull the apprentice monster hunter's cloakhood down over his face, and then fall to his side, his fingers tightening just so slightly. His chest rises once, then again, and then lays still, the last words of Brogol Stockl remaining forever unspoken.
Without thought, without care, without a plan, those two words echoing in his head, Brogol steps over the rat and elbows Dashil aside, and then with a firm hand, pushes by Radag. Slipping over the rubble as he goes, Brogol is barely able to get in front of Aduard in time. Ferramin would have to go around the boy. Or through him.
I've got one, but I attack with a -4 nonproficency penalty with it :) No worries, I didn't even realize it until this fight started. Otherwise I would've asked for you to memorize another one of those nifty magic weapon spells.
Brogol apprentice monster hunter, frets, frozen with indecision; he had no badge, nor a spellbook or a means to physically harm Ferramin - or at least a means with a discernible chance of success. Vesorianna gripped the ghost, Esta sprinted towards them, the others stood defiant. The boy hops from foot to foot, mind empty but of one thought, over and over. Do something!
All reason was gone from the boy's mind. Battered by painful magic, harried by a ghostly rat, and with a mind gripped by fear and blunted by exhaustion, Brogol swung his magic hatchet again and again at the rat. His unease with the weapon and the boy's new bulk caused no harm to the rat, however; Brogol's attack was rushed and off-balance, his hatchet merely clattering along the floor. Shaking the panic off, Brogol stepped backwards and drew his falchion with his free hand, one particular thought circling Brogol's mind: Esta had not been harmed by the Splatterman's magic. "Master Bookman! Behind me! Use me as your shield!"
Brogol growls as the ghost slips away from his grasp before the boy can even move. Reaching into his satchel, Brogol brings forth a stoppered vial, the contents of which - an amber liquid - seems to expand and contract within its prison. Popping the cork, Brogol tips the vial back and gags as the draught goes down, but it works - the boy immediately grows to be twice his size. Stumbling a bit, unused to his new bulk, the boy puts himself between Aduard and Hean. It was apparent now; the Bookman was the key, and Brogol would keep the Splatterman from him at all costs.
Grunting as the force bolt slams into him, Brogol slips for a moment to one knee, only to be brought back to his feet by Esta's magic. Grunting again - "Thank yers" - the boy drops his greataxe and draws his handaxe. Stepping forward, even though it wasn't directed at him, Brogol heeds the Bookman's advice.
Brogol is hounded by pain, first from the walls, then, from a rat, sinking its fangs into the boy's leg. Turning, the apprentice monster hunter swings his greataxe down upon the rat, fury clouding the boy's mind. "Radag! Smash tha' bastard! IN THA FACE!"
Having used his only haunt siphon, his only holy water, and having concoctions only useful to himself, Brogol hops from foot to foot as the blood runs down the walls. The boy suspected his worst fears were true, that he would be little use against ghosts. Letting loose a moan of frustration, Brogol steps forward and swings his axe at the nearest bloody wall.
^ Thank you!
Brogol is quiet as the group walks through the woods, the boy's cloak wrapped tightly around himself, to ward off the frigid early morning chill. It would be a cold winter, by Brogol's estimation, even for this blighted land they all called home. Once more, Brogol finds himself wishing for the Doctor, who would certainly know what to do with the Splatterman. But just as quickly, Brogol forces the thought from his head. The Doctor wasn't coming back from wherever he'd gone, that much was apparent. Brogol would have to face this threat alone. The boy listens to his boots walking across the frost-rimed grass, the grass breaking underfoot. Well, not alone, Brogol thought, as they made their way into Nevermore. There was Dashil, always on-point and fearless. And, there was Aduard, with a preternatural intelligence, developed well beyond his years. Esta, with her perception, and good heart. And Radag, man's vengeance made manifest, and with a wickedly keen sense of humor to boot. They would be enough, the boy reassured himself. But what do I have to offer? the boy mused, unstrapping his greataxe and stepping close to Dashil, as she offered up her prayer. Brogol had neither Dashil's tenacity, Aduard's education, Esta's perception, or Radag's strength. A shiver crawled up the boy's back. My life. Brogol thought, gripping his axe tightly, and inching towards the oubilette. I can offer my life.
Oh gosh, I'm sorry. I'm good. I'm at the farthest south you can be in Texas and still be in the states (indeed, one of the campuses that I work at is the last right turn before the border crossing). Harvey made landfall further north and we barely saw much weather at all - certainly nothing like Houston and SE Texas got. We were also on the "dry" side of the hurricane, which not having been through one before, I didn't know is a thing. Apparently, the spinning action of the storm drags moisture up from the water and then dumps it onland in the north/northeast portion of the storm (which is why Houston got hit so bad). We were on the southwestern edge, which sees much less rainfall, because much of the storm's energy is spent by the time those winds get to us - before picking up again, and grabbing more moisture over the gulf and then dumping it to the north, again and so on. I've just been silent because Brogol hasn't had much to add to the roleplay. Sorry for the worry!
I'm in the path of Harvey (southern end of the storm, not a direct hit). If I'm incommunicado these next few days, I'm internetless. Please bot if needed.
Brogol looks to his feet, pulling nervously on his cloak. "Wer good as dead, not being prepared for wha' ta come. Wer should go by the church, wake a priest, get some water, an be on our way. They'll help us, Aye'm sure. Tha priesthood's full of tha enemies of tha unliving."
You can never post to much, Aduard!
Brogol wakes feeling ragged, spent. The horror of the last evening had taken too much from the boy. He sits silently and sips his tea as the others prepare, while looking through his forumla book for anything - an extract, a half-remembered and recorded conversation, a snipped of lore -
Sighing, he closes the book and prepares his extracts for the day. A curative, a size enhancer, and another to enhance the senses. The boy leaves his last vial unmuddied with regeants. He'd prefer to keep his options open, if needed, on the fly. "Perhaps wer can visit tha church on tha way," the boy mumbles. "Meybe a priest'll take pity on us an' let us take some holy water wit us." Extracts: Cure light wounds, enlarge person, heightened awareness, open
Brogol grunts in affirmation. The Bookman was, once again, thinking well ahead of himself. Taking his locksmith's tools, Brogol checks each door and window, and satisfied that everything is shut tight, begins to hammer nails into the sills of the windows, each and every one in the house. Kendra could get the work undone later. For now, at least anything trying to come through a window would need to break it.
Brogol stuffs the empty holy water vial into his satchel, blushing red that he missed the chain, and thankful that it didn't matter. The boy breathes a sigh of relief as Aduard appears on the stairs. "Everyone's still here. Tha' corpse attacked us, then it took Ms. Dashil..." - casting a fleeting glance towards Dashil, an uncomfortable thought occurs to Brogol - "...somewhere. Tha Lady Kendra fainted when she saw tha body. It looks familiar, but I can't place it." Though deep down, the boy knew his suspicions were correct, he needed to hear it. "Is it tha professor?"
RadEstBro:
Dropping his axe, Brogol fishes in his pack for his flask of holy water, and then kneeling next to Esta, pours the water over the chain attached to Dashil.
[/spoiler]
Work is being mean and expecting me to do things like, work, a lot, at the moment. Please bot as needed. I hope to dig myself out by tomorrow/Friday.
RadEstBrog: Unsure of what else to do, the apprentice monster hunter swings his axe again at the chain clamped around Dashil's neck. To Esta, he barks, "Again! Do it again!"
RadEstBro: Brogol stands stunned, looking from the body to the chains. The chains were obviously the work of Father Corvin, aka Father Charlatan. The body though... Brogol just couldn't put his finger on it.
Lacking any other plan of action, the boy swung his axe at one of the spectral chains, hoping to sever it, all the while his mind running. Who was the body? Was there a way to make the Father give up Dashil?
Brogol gasps, then yells, his strained voice echoing throughout the manor, GM ROBO: Something about the man's clothes worry the boy, and his mind chews on the familiarity, even as Brogol's greataxe slices towards the dead man.
Brogol nods, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and mouths to his companions: Open it!
I'm headed out of the country until Monday, and I'm not sure how easy it will be to check in. Please bot if needed.
Brogol pulled his cloakhood tight, biting his lip. The boy hated conflict, and the Sheriff wasn't such a bad guy after all. He'd certainly shown that to the Irefist and Brogol that night of the festival. On the other hand, the Bookman and Ms. Masozi didn't witness that, and there was likely a cult that was gunning for them, so... Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, Brogol watched the whole scene play out, unable to intervene. Useless. Sighing, Brogol turned to Esta. "Tha Bookman's got a good handle on it. Tha ghosts are beyond Harrowstone now, and some of tha town may be in on it... though Aye'm sure the sheriff is a good man." Looking at his feet, Brogol trailed off. "Wer should get to bed then. Aye'll take watch in tha middle of tha night."
So, I've been reading Esta's name all this time as Estra. Apologies, Esta, I'll make sure to spell your name correctly from here on out :) If anyone else has done it, maybe we can claim the Mandela effect?
Gasping, Brogol sits up, a large string of drool falling from his lips. The boy smiles as Estra's healing magic washes over him, grateful. "Aye'll be careful, Ms. Estra. Thank yer." Reaching into his satchel, the apprentice mixes a few regeants in a vial, and then gulps it down, sighing contentedly... until the boy sees his clothes. Ripped, slimy, and dirty, Brogol's clothes are in tatters. But, Irefist was right. He'd kept his pants. "Aye'm OK. Shall wer move on?"
The boy screams, first in fright, then in pain, and then, with a strangled gurgle, goes silent.
"Sticks. Got it." Stepping forward, Brogol draws his greataxe and swings at the creature, grunting as he brings the axehead down.
Torch lit, Brogol tosses it at the ooze and draws his greataxe. The quick lurch by the ooze startles the boy, however, and the torch sails high and wide, landing five feet from the ooze with a clatter.
Brogol nods. "Burn it. Aye." Pulling a torch and flint from his pack, the boy kneels, and begins striking the flint, looking up momentarily to see what Dashil's arrow does.
Slowly, so as not to distract the puddle, Brogol removes his notebook from his pack, with the intent to flip through it, if the puddle allows it. Perhaps the doctor's lessons provided some clue as to the puddle's origins. "Maybe wer can burn it?" Brogol offered, his voice quivering with doubt.
Swiveling from the boy's examination of the wooden tank, Brogol hurries towards the iron maiden, gripping the greataxe with white knuckles. Whatever was in there, couldn't be alive. Passing Estra, the boy grunts. "Hnng. Good. Let's kill whatever that is dead and get behind the forge."
The others similarily occupied, Brogol approaches the wooden tank and peers in, but not before drawing his greataxe. Just in case.
Deluged at the moment - I hope to be up for air tomorrow or the next. Please bot as necessary.
Oolgol: "Don't yer dare think about it," Brogol whispers to the little fox, the boy sensing the familiar could be brave enough to go into the cellblock on its own.
Grabbing the edge of his cloak, Brogol reaches up and tries to wipe the soot off the nameplate, hoping it will garner some information as to the occupants, former or otherwise. Regardless of what he finds, Brogol looks for an opening mechanism, and barring that, kneels and withdraws his tools, and gets to work. 14 vs. traps
"Hnng." Brogol nods, stowing his lockpicks quickly. "Sorry, master Bookman." Wrapping his cloak tightly about himself, as if to ward off the elder's disapproval, Brogol makes his way down the hallway after Oolong, staying at the edge of his companions' torchlight. Moving quietly in the near dark proves difficult; the boy slips on a damp flagstone, his cloak brushes the wall, sending a rustling down the hall. But Brogol's senses are primed; it is just enough light that the boy can pick out the contours in the floor clearly. The boy's hand, trailing alongside him as he walks, brushes the wall as if it is a lover, Brogol picking up every bump and nook that stretches alongside him.
Dropping the used haunt siphon, Brogol's eye is drawn immediately to the south wall. Approaching, head stooped, the boy pulls his cloakhood back, and ears swivelling in concentration, Brogol begins tracing the form of a door along the wall. "Hnng. Here - a cleverly hidden door." Looking for traps and a lever, Brogol does what he can to open the door...
Rushing past the doorway, Brogol squeezes along the wall, the boy's cloak trailing behind him, wisplike. Twisting the top on the vial, Brogol shoves the haunt siphon at the apparition. "Bugger, dwarf!"
Ha! We're just larger than life.
"Hnnng." Brogol grits his teeth as the headache pounds its way into his head. Drawing his haunt siphon, the boy prepares to unleash it on the sobbing dwarf.
Drawing his greataxe, Brogol looks to the table. "Smash 'em!" he yells, his voice cracking with adrenaline. Ready for the skulls to fly at him and bite, or shoot flame, or something, the apprentice monster-hunter grips his weapon tightly and watches the skulls for any signs of strangeness.
GM R0B0: Brogol's got this curse where he can't give up the axe. Is it lifted with the death of the wraith?
Brogol grimaces as the creature wails and then bubbles away. The boy, suddenly tired, falls back onto his rump and sits, breathing heavily. Staring up at Dashil, Brogol blinks three times, not sure if he's imagining his friend or not. When did she get here? Looking back to the puddle of ichor where the wraith died its final death, the apprentice monster hunter shakes his head. "Aye'm alright. Yer get what yer went fer?"
^OOOOOOOooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh. I'll have to see if inspiration strikes. |
