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I sort of view the feat as being like monk's flurry of blows, except replacing "monk weapons" with "light/one-handed melee weapons". Maybe make it only be usable when you've got an empty offhand? As for expanding things into a full-on campaign setting book... You need a pitch, something unique that would make people be like "Oh, damn, yes, I want to play here". European fantasy settings are a dime a dozen... what would make someone like Louwildar in particular?
With the realisation that his dear old donkey would have to be sent away, Caelin sighs in resigned sadness. He spends a good ten minutes talking to the mule, ruffling his mane and scratching him behind the ears just where Brandy liked it. (For what it's worth, the donkey just continued to chew on a plant he'd found all through his affections.) It is with much lament that he selects only the "bare essentials", leaving behind an entourage of tools and gear... (His backpack is still pretty damn stuffed with all kinds of stuff, though.) Gear Caelin keeps with him:
* Backpack
* Bedroll * Belt pouch * Grooming kit * Waterproof hooded lantern * Vial of ink * Journal * Oil (2) * Scrivener's kit * Shaving kit * Spell component pouch * Spellbook * Survival kit The wizard resists the urge to glug one of the potions down right away, rubbing at the sore spot in his belly (the pain had dulled somewhat overnight, but he still wasn't feeling too hot). "I will keep one tucked away, just in case," he says quietly, putting it in his pocket for safe keeping. The close shave with death had left Caelin rather shellshocked as well.
Caelin wobbles on his feet, looking around for the so-called priest. He remembers there's some kind of decorum required here, but determines that Rizzo is probably doing a good job of it right now anyway. "I am all for showing this guy the what-for," he says stubbornly. "I cannot believe that he would treat my spellbook and staff so flippantly... oh... oh, my stuff...!!" Caelin suddenly realises that he's now free and he can reclaim his oh-so-important magical equipment, and dashes over to the pile of weaponry to reclaim it. He hugs the book and staff close, sighing in relief.
Despite his complaints, Caelin's staff was roughly taken from his grasp, his spellbook tossed away and left to rot. He got served a couple of harsh knocks over the head for the trouble, as well, his upper lip bleeding and his eye blackened and bruised. Caelin was in utter despair the entire time he was tied up, staring dumbly at the ground and simply wishing these brigands would put them down and end this misery. Were they going to be sold into slavery...? The wizard shuddered at the thought. Then, suddenly, soldiers! What a sight for sore eyes. The wizard perks up excitedly, hoping that he might be let free--only to score an arrow right in the gut. Caelin's eyes go wide, his face draining of blood as the projectile digs deep into him; oh... the pain... the pain! He had never before felt such pain! "Augghhh," he groans, weakly clutching at the arrow. Were you supposed to pull them out in cases like this? Or keep them in? Ahhh, the painnnnnnnn... He tries dumbly to get to his feet, gasping at the exertion. "I... I'm gonna dieeee..." Caelin wails pathetically.
Caelin visibly pales at the sight of his former companions, and thus does whatever he's told (unless it involves giving away his staff or spellbook).
Whatever's cool with me.
With two of the party down, and Sera barely not dying through the power of her magic, Caelin glances around, sighs, and puts his hands up in the air. (He does step away from the man who engaged him, though, not trusting that one bit.) "You're going to kill us all if you persist with this nonsense," he says, trying his best to hold back his frustration at the situation. Where on earth had Tomm and Berion gotten to? "But the rock is still not yours to claim. How, perchance, do you propose you take it away from here?"
Caelin finishes his long incantation with a loud, strong "... ikliss!" He gestures at the leader of the enemies, trying to keep his focus on the task at hand without lending too much concern to his fallen ally. (If he did that, there was no chance any of them would be getting out of this alive, after all.) From a circle of white light that appears in the air above Griff appears a golden eagle--quite literally, as its feathers are coloured shining gold. The regal and majestic falcon swoops down towards the leader and tears a nasty chunk out of him with its powerful beak.
If Griff is dead:
Caelin then points at the two club-wielding men -- or rather, the ground beneath them. "Svanan!" he intones as the land turns to muck beneath them, much as it had with the hobgoblins previously.
If Griff still lives:
Caelin then points at Griff's bow. "Qyhora!" he intones as the man's grip becomes sweaty and slippery.
Wisely, the mage then moves out of the firing line and shelters behind Sera.
Caelin heaves a sigh as the men come to arms, but eventually puts his spellbook on the ground. He clicks his fingers, and immediately teleports--one moment, he's sitting beneath the oak tree, and the next he's standing on his feet beside Sera. Gathering up his robes' heavy sleeves, he begins to chant a long array of arcane words, and strange sigils of light appear on the ground around him.
"Ah, and what makes you think you can just come in here and claim that, Griff wasn't it?" Caelin says, barely looking up from his studies to do so. "I think you underestimate what you're up against, friend." He quietly begins to intone a protective spell, surrounding himself with a chain shirt made of invisible links of force...
Caelin spent the morning as... well... as he usually did: studying, and shirking anything that might resemble legitimate hard work. Brandy was enjoying the time outside not pulling carts, the young mule's tail flicking as he dalliances with the full-blooded horses. He actually doesn't notice the new crowd until well after Seraphyna has lapsed into her long-winded ramble when he finally looks up from his spellbook. "It's quite a fascinating specimen, really," Caelin adds with a vague smile, not bothering to get up from his comfy position underneath a large oak tree. "But, as the lady says, we've got it under control. Thanks!"
... What is the Ethereal Dumpster rule...? I almost feel like I don't want to know...
Well... I guess all I can say is the most important thing is to keep the game moving. If Tomm's disappeared, then allow another of us to notice the humans as well so we can keep rolling. The biggest killer of PbP is game stagnation in cases like this.
Caelin retires to bed early, curling up in his cart underneath a thick blanket and using his donkey's emergency feed bales as a pillow. All things considered, it's not all that uncomfortable. Come the morning, he spends breakfast largely not eating. Instead, his nose is buried in his spellbook. Occasionally, brief sparks of magic or strange lights emit from the end of his bejewelled staff. Given an hour or so he emerges from within the (rather pathetically thin) tome that is his spellbook, refreshed and ready for the... er... rock baby sitting job. "Mmm... a shame that I do not know a spell to warn us should an intruder enter the area," Caelin sighs to himself. "I think that watching from multiple angles seems wise, although I'm not quite sure myself of this kind of stategising. But you know, that way there's a fail-safe plan, so to speak. Even if an intruder were to get past, err, me, for example, then perhaps someone else would spy them anyway."
Caelin takes up a comfy spot on the ground beneath a tree, quill and journal at hand. He seems to be making sketches and preliminary notes about the fallen starmetal, including that which Gilbert had told them as well as some of his own theories. He waves at Tessara as she heads off, but quickly lowers his hand, seeing her tormented expression. "Well," the mage begins cheerfully, "I'm not much of a storyteller, but perhaps I can try? I am quite the fan of history, you see... great heroes and masters of the past are fascinating."
He begins to recite a (rather enthralling, shockingly!) tale of a mythical warrior that was one of the most beloved and famed heroes from the time of Bernhold's establishment. Slaying dragons, rescuing innocents from grave danger, putting to rest ancient evil that had risen from the darkness... the story has it all!
Caelin approaches Tessara and, although he hesitates for a moment, he eventually offers her a comforting smile. (He probably has to look up to do so, mind you; he's not the tallest of the bunch here, not by a long shot.) "Just try not to dwell too much on it. It's sad... but the alternative would be you lying in the dirt instead of it. Take a deep breath and try and think of something else, maybe?" The more practical plans of how to deal with the gigantic meteorite, well, Caelin leaves that to those of the group who are indeed more practical than he. He shrugs his shoulders in general acquiescence to the plan at hand.
Caelin continues to follow after Krath while trying to figure out just which part of his spells he's getting wrong. "Maybe it's not the pronunciation but the gesture? Perhaps not a flick but a shake, and three up instead of two..."
Bzzt. No luck.
"Oh, this is so silly," Caelin mutters to himself with a shake of his head. "Uvelucol!" he declares once more, but the small orb of acid that appears in his hand immediately dissipates into the air. "Oh, drat. Lucal, not lucol." He nods to Tomm with a bemused smile, "Good morning sire! Good to see you're not going to push up the pansies around here."
With Berion dealing with the fallen hobgoblin, Caelin turns his attention to the archer on the rock. "Uvelucal!" he intones, flicking another small droplet of water the way of Krath. Except it's not water this time, but rather clear-coloured acid that sizzles the flesh. "I think I need more than one droplet," he mutters to himself. "Did I not enunciate the lucal suffix properly...?"
"I'm not sure that's a wise plan," Caelin says cheerfully to Krath, taking a few slow steps towards the fleeing hobgoblin. "Svanan!" With a flick of his hand and a choice, arcane word, a small droplet of filthy water flies across the clearing and splatters on the ground beneath the hob to the north, forming an immediate mud slick beneath its boots.
Despite his obvious enthusiasm, Caelin's lack of practical experience shows plain of day. However, there isn't much time to linger on his failures - soon enough, a strange being appears spouting apparent nonsense. Caelin arches an eyebrow and puts his hand on his hip, feeling for his spell component pouch if things should come to blows.
The talk of taking a watch is basically white noise to Caelin, although if any suggest it to him he will (rather patiently) explain (in rather excruciating detail) the limitations of being a magic user and the toll it takes on the mind and the rest required to maintain mental stamina and... yeah, pretty much everyone who makes that mistake has likely tuned out before Caelin realises nobody's listening. Luckily, the night is calm, and not too long into the next day they discover their target. Caelin's eyes widen in surprise as he gauges up the precious gift from the gods; it was not every day one got to see such a sight! With the others organising more practical concerns (someone watching? Caelin idly wonders why a single person would be at all concerning) he takes the opportunity to join Gilbert in examining the stone up close. "Not sure what I can tell you, but oh, I'd love to learn," Caelin says to the other man with a smile. "Is it common for them to still be warm, even after this long?" He watches Gilbert going about his task with rapt curiosity.
"As far as mining goes, I'm not an expert," he adds, "but I may have some tools that might come in handy."
Sorry, I've been particularly bad with keeping up with this game in general. >_<
Caelin yawns as they arrive at the inn, sliding rather awkwardly off his horse and stretching his legs. "I'll wait here and watch the horses," he says, leading his donkey cart out of the road and tying his horse's bridle to it. He then takes a seat on his cart, pulling out a large, thick journal and starting to scribble some notes in it. Skymetal... Adamantium... a fallen star...
Caelin shivers as he passes through the portal, pulling his only moderately unwilling donkey along with him. The feeling was somewhat familiar--the sharp twang of coldness that accompanied his own quick flashes of teleportation--but this portal was clearly much more powerful than his minor tricks. He glances back at Brendle as he passes through, making a mental note to request the wizard teach him a few tricks, perhaps, in the future... "What was the name of that man we had to find... Gilligan? Gilbert? Something of the sort," Caelin asks the group as they progress down the gentle country roads towards Hemridan. "I wonder where we'd find him? I've never even heard of this town!" Truth be told, Caelin had not really heard of many of the small towns that dot the countryside... but that's beside the point.
I usually go with no XP myself. Saves tracking the numbers!
Caelin hurries off back to the inn where they all first met. He's a little excited, but also nervous, a thousand questions going a million miles per hour through his mind. He hurriedly collects all his belongings, tips the innkeeper, and... approaches the stables. The wizard eyes up his donkey with some trepidation. That elf, Tessara, was pretty scary about not being able to bring ol' Brandywine with him. Too slow, she said. Caelin gently strokes the mule's muzzle with a smile. In the end, he winds up fixing the donkey to his cart and directing it to the parade ground. When Brendle appears, Caelin will speak to him. "I can't just leave Brandy here with no-one to feed him or care for him! Not to mention all my belongings. Well... master's belongings, mostly." The young smith eyes up his meagre possessions with a smile of mirth. "What should I do with it all?"
"I have a donkey?" Caelin offers weakly. "And a cart!"
Ever since Berion confirmed that he, too, would be required to attend the feast with all the nobles of the area, Caelin has been really, really quiet—and really, really jumpy. He continually places himself behind the taller party members, occasionally ducking his head or pointedly staring in the opposite direction as they move past some of them. Sitting at the dining table, the others may notice he seems particularly pale and doesn't seem at all interested in the story-telling going on. Truth be told, Caelin has heard the story of the King and Amgar the Tyrant before. In fact, he could probably recite that damn tale himself, the number of times his early-year tutors rammed it in to him. A child of the court could not be ignorant of the formation of the capital, after all, nor could a child of wizardry be ignorant of such powerful magics. But more to the point—his father was sitting two tables away. And Caelin was 99.94% sure that Alistair had spotted him. His ears burned with the sensation of someone watching him quite closely. Considering their last shared words, Caelin suspects that his father—given the chance—would not be happy to see him here. Or, worse, would demand he remain here at the castle again... The sudden flash of light and apparently crashed falling star gives Caelin a moment to catch his breath, and he too must admit that the event piqued his curiosity. He actually gets up to investigate with Sera and Tessara, but quickly snaps back to attention with the telepathic orders of the wizard. ...Though he quickly wilts soon after, not wanting to face the royal table in front of his father and the rest of the nobles he knew. (At least the royal family would likely not know him from a slice of bread.) Surprisingly, though, the words from the king and his wizard are really quite fascinating. Skymetal! Adamantium! Star steel! Caelin's eyes shimmer with excitement upon hearing these words, rumours of which he'd read about in his studies but—of course—had never seen such things in real life. In a moment, the stress and trepidation hanging about Caelin's form melts away. "You would really let us have some of the skymetal? Really? Oh, how I would love to study it! The famous scholar Shaiyn Essendin wrote of the process of forging star steel, but I can't help but think that his methods were wasteful and that we could make much better use of such a rare resource with different processes… uh," Caelin pauses mid ramble and flushes, bowing his head ever-so-slightly to the royal table. "Forgive me for going on like that!" He glances at the group, "My interest in this is purely academic, and I am by no means suited to a quick and stealthy strike force, but if I can assist with anything I am happy to do so."
At work so can't post IC right now, but Derek, would Caelin perhaps see his father and/or any other familiar faces here? He's certainly going to be lying low, but doubly so if he spots anyone he knows... triply so if his father is around.
Despite Sera droning on and on and on and on and on and on and on about the races, and despite the unwholesome boredom being compounded upon itself now, Caelin surprisingly enough manages to keep his cool to some extent. Drawing on techniques his mentor had taught him during his wizarding classes about how to handle stress in the environment while calling on magical spells (classes mostly involving the old coot jabbing him with his staff as Caelin recited spell pronunciations), he manages to completely tune himself out from his surroundings. Instead, he begins to focus on counting things. There are nine-hundred and thirty-seven clover flowers in the grass in front of the stands. There are twenty-seven freckles on the face of that woman with the red dress on over there. There are one-hundred and eighteen elements in the Table of Arcane Elements. Hydroga, Hellion, Lithuum, Berylla, Boronic, Carbint, Nitros... Thankfully the pain is all over soon enough, just before he has to start remembering which comes first - Caesis or Berrum. Caelin offers a weak smile and a wave to the victors, but mostly he's just glad that the hyperactive elfess has found something else to do. "How nice," Caelin offers weakly, "to see the king!... I guess? I mean, I presume that it's offered only to these brave, brave souls who did all that, uhh, amazing stuff out there..." He gestures vaguely to the obstacle course.
At some point during the fight, Caelin nodded off and didn't even realise there was a second event coming up right after. He's starting to snore. Loudly. And there are some nearby festival-goers giving him quite the stink-eye because of it.
Caelin watches the prince's challenges with a mixture of boredom and... well, drowsiness. "Watching" being used in the most loose of terms, because the wizard's attention wavers often from the display of martial and physical prowess. He wonders once again (and quite often thereafter) how he managed to get dragged along to such an event. The only thing that keeps him from dozing off from time to time is the fact that Seraphyna beside him is hyperactive as a four year old child in a candy store and keeps accidentally elbowing him in her excitement. When the crowd rises to its feet to cheer, he's one of the few left in his seat, awkwardly joining the rest a few moments after and making a pathetic attempt at clapping too. And then he's back in his seat to watch countless more hours of utterly mind-boring displays of how big armoured lads and ladies waltzing around whacking each other with big sticks. And finally, finally, there's more...! ... Now he has to help people get better at whacking each other. Wonderful. "Right, right, umm, who was it again that wanted everything..." Caelin grabs up his staff, one that he's been carrying around everywhere the entire time now. Up close, one might notice that it is actually quite well made - albeit showy, not for combat - with various minor jewels inlaid in patterned bands around the top.
Oracles in general are pretty easy to understand. Think sorcerers, but they cast cleric spells instead of wizard spells. Each oracle gets its own "bloodline" (aka mystery) that gives it flavourful little abilities, and they get bonus spells based on that mystery as they level up.
I don't care either way really, but you know well that I have an extra-large loathing for colour spray. ;P I'd put Heavens Oracles on the same level as witches who spam Slumber Hex, incidentally. A one-trick pony with a really good trick. Provided you don't over-use it I think it would be fine, but the problem is that it's often too good not to use!
Heavens oracles basically have an "I win" button at will, particularly at higher levels. Probably one of the strongest classes you can play. :P
Yup. I know how Heavens oracles work, usually stupidly OP :)
I hate colour spray and sleep so I refuse to use them :P
Does Caelin have an ability or feat that boosts Mage armor, or was that a miss type? Chainmail is +6, it's Chainshirt that's +4. If you do give +6, that's amazing and I want one for all my spellcasters! Nope, that's just a derp on my behalf. :) Pretend it said chain shirt! Yay, someone else who thinks the Enlarge person is more of a hindrance than a help. That -2 AC is just brutal, even with the reach and +2 STR I like it on some characters in some situations. I think it's amazing, but certainly not a one-size-fits-all spell that some people make it out to be! If people are wearing no armour, though, a -2 to AC isn't really going to hurt much more than it already is.
"Ah, four of us! What a shame, what a shame, that means I'll have to sit out, ha ha ha..." Caelin all-too-happily steps back from the firing line with an incredibly fake laugh. He does, however, pause for thought when preparation is mentioned. "So magic is allowed," he says bemusedly, mostly to Sera, "but only beforehand? What a strange ruling. And something I might actually be able to have a hand in." "... Ahem," he addresses the more fightery types once they've finished discussion with the lieutenant, "I may be able to offer you some assistance..." "If you've a need to go armourless, I can provide one of you with a magical force-shield. It's about as strong as chainmail, but invisible - at least until it gets hit. Then it flashes with colour. In retrospect, perhaps I should work on trying to get rid of that aspect of the spell... it pleases me aesthetically speaking, but perhaps it would be more effective if it did not alert an enemy that you had a spell cast on you. Hmm." Caelin strokes his chin thoughtfully, before snapping out of his reverie and continuing. "Oh! I can also make you as large as an ogre, although probably only half as strong as one, if that seems more your thing. It only lasts for a short while, though, so make the battle quick. Alas, my studies have been lacking lately... I am not too proficient with it yet."
--------- Somehow caught up in this excitable mess, Caelin stumbles along with the others, occasionally protesting his uselessness in a contest of arms and other such things. He even goes so far to explain that he only possesses 'useless' magic that helps him with business and trades, but clearly that goes above the heads of most of the others here. Eventually, the mage sighs in resignation and allows himself to be dragged along to the fair. Along the way, Caelin takes a particular interest in any vendors hawking crafted goods - jewellery and the like in particular, but anything particularly unique catches his eye. He's looking for inspiration, perhaps, as he's already offloaded the trade goods he was sent to this city to offload in the first place... "By the by," he says enroute to the Green, suddenly realising his manners, "my name is Caelin. Caelin Ferrier. A... pleasure. I suppose." Upon arrival, Berion pulls he and Sera aside to conspire. Caelin frowns darkly at the suggestion. "I suspect that is against the rules," he responds somewhat indignantly. "Also, if you must know, a giant log like those would certainly be far too heavy for a minor cantrip to affect. It's got to be something lighter, nothing much heavier than a bucket of water you know, perhaps a little less than that..." Realising he's rambling, Caelin drags himself back to the main point. "I-In any case, it depends on the rules of this competition. I don't intend on getting myself arrested!" Besides - Father would kill me!
Caelin seems to be happy enough silently listening to the bubbly conversation going on about him, until it hits him like a sack of bricks. We? He blinks, looking around at the other grouped young people. Oh, don't tell me... "I, uh, don't think I would be of much use, you know, whirling death blades and whatnot aside," he stutters nervously. "Swords and whatnot are quite fascinating, sure enough, but it's one thing to scrape out the fuller or consider the ideal angle of the blade for its purpose and another to... uh... actually stab someone with it. You know? ... No? Umm."
Noting the reaction, Caelin hurriedly stifles a laugh, and offers her a wink in return.
Caelin immediately feels the presence of magic in the air, and glances curiously over to the third elf - just in time to see her splash water over the ground.
Curious indeed. She must not be a learned mage - something innate, perhaps? He stares at her (rather obviously so) for a few moments, before realising he's being quite rude and hurriedly turning his attention back to the innkeeper.
With all the sudden noise and ruckus, Caelin eventually realises he's not going to have an opportunity to continue his work. With a light sigh, he packs up his ledgers and slips them away inside a small backpack beside his chair. Not too far away from the more boisterous group of people, he overhears the innkeeper's chatter and listens in on it while sipping on his glass of water. Familiar names indeed... and not particularly pleasant ones at that. I wonder if Father will be officiating any of the events... Caelin wonders idly, and then sighs again. Standing up from the table and slinging his pack over his shoulder, Caelin approaches the others with a polite nod. "Are there perhaps games that are not of such a... ahem, violent nature?" It's clear from a single glance that this young man would have practically zero chance of besting a militia captain in any kind of physical battle.
Well before the sleepy-eyed elven lass emerges from her quarters, or the rowdy houndsman barges in with his dogs at his side, a young man staying at the inn takes advantage of the brief moment of quietude downstairs. Too busy with a thick, leather-bound ledger of what appears to be accounting, he barely notices other patrons coming in - although Tomm's dogs do cause him to briefly look up from his notes and frown. Nevertheless, he seems all business amidst the cheer from the Founder's Day. The young man is somewhat short and a little chubby around the cheeks, seeming rather youthful for one so focused on his work. His flaxen hair is in well need of a cut, tied back in a short ponytail. His sea green eyes are hidden behind a pair of wire-frame glasses, and he seems to wear a fair amount of minor jewellery - simple copper bangles, an amulet inlaid with minor costume jewels, and the like. If a server comes round, he calls out to them in an absent-minded way, not even bothering to look up as he does so: "Ah, can I get a glass of water, please?"
Hey guys, finally able to post! Paizo's been down a lot lately, hasn't it? Thanks for inviting me, Derek.
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