Caerlei's page

I'm thinking an Iobarian witch who belongs to a coven descended from ex-Jadwiga; some branch of a Jadwiga family that was nearly massacred to the last man/woman/child for either A.) opposing the Queen at the time, or B.) proving disloyal to Baba Yaga herself and incurring the wrath of one of her Riders.

As to a build? No idea yet. I can always emphasize healing a bit more if necessary, though witches aren't the best at it. Not doing a Winter Witch, though. Done it before. Want to explore another style of character.

Considering swapping to a witch.

I tend to struggle to get this one updated as well, unfortunately. A huge part of that is settling back into the Caerlei-crazy mindset. I find myself deleting a lot of would-be posts when they end up being way too tame to come from her. I'm typically pretty meh overall on the AP subsystem mechanics as presented: caravans in Jade Regent, Kingdom Building in Kingmaker, etc. The pace of PbPs makes pulling it off about a hundred times harder too. In that regard, I'm probably in the camp of sliding the game closer to the DM's own homebrew alternative/reality shift, simply because I'll wager it's far more engaging and less "RAW". I am content to continue as is, also. I'll try to stop dragging my feet on getting updates either way.

Do note that I'm not knocking Crustypeanut in the slightest. And this AP has been fun for me, even with my lack of enthusiasm with the ship action economy. It just gets hard to separate the meta from the game (for me) sometimes when the style of play changes specifically while handling certain types of actions in APs.

I drank more moonshine than advisable over the weekend. Still recovering. Getting too old for this s$!&.

Sociopaths make terrible chefs.

Caerlei affords little attention to Kroop. By now, she's heard the majority of his slurred stories, and the annoying buzz of the man's yammering in the background is a headache she has no interest in attending today. Fortunately, a group of sea turtles seem to be in the midst of a mating season, which calls Caerlei to work outside of the cook's quarters. About as enthralled with the idea of hunting turtles as scraping her gums with splinters from the ship's railing, it is still an opportunity to escape Fishgut's unceasing ranting. To help pass the time, Caerlei decides to cut her rum ration with water instead of sneaking it into the cook's cup again, bearing the unfortunate consequence of a drunk Caerlei who has utterly no clue as to how to catch a turtle.

As night rolls around, the kyton-spawn elects to ply her wiles on an unlikely target: 'Ears' Ortov. Noticing the macabre decorations the hobgoblin seems to favor, she thinks to impress him with her vast knowledge of tortures learned under the tutelage of Zon-Kuthite priests as a child. Methods intended to prolong the pleasure for heightened effect to both flayer and flayed alike.

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Survival (Turtle Hunting): 1d20 ⇒ 1 (lawls)
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24 (enhanced diplomacy)

Got a job interview today, but updates will be forthcoming over the course of late-tonight and early-tomorrow.

Caerlei finds herself treating Fishguts a fair deal nicer than she has previously. No longer teasing him with empty flirtations or menacing threats of pain firmly in the realm of perverse, she has realized that having Grok on her side as a firm ally is far preferable to the alternative; if keeping the half-orc happy meant treating Kroops fairly, it was a small price to pay. That Caerlei had witnessed thus far, it simply meant watching the man drink and listening to his stories while offering the occasional praise to his prize chicken. Kroops' state of general drunkenness also afforded the kyton-spawn no shortage of easy opportunities to disperse her rum ration without fear of reprisal.

Part of Caerlei would have liked to admit a pang of remorse over the loss of Sareivat and Runolf. Truth be told, she truly didn't give a s%%$, however. They were foolish to be caught unawares; whether they died to treachery or their own ineptitude in the fighting, it was probably for the better that it happen so soon rather than later. New alliances could still be forged. Caerlei's eggs were not all in the same basket yet, and she would be damned if she'd let the seas claim her after all she had survived up until this point. Too many necks deserved a blade on the Wormwood, and she aimed to deliver—all in good time. For now, she busies herself preparing a meal actually fit for consumption.

The hammerhead she had managed to lance from atop the jolly boat's prow proves a boon beyond compare to Caerlei's admittedly lacking culinary acumen. She has heard of shark fin soup before, but has never found occasion to attempt the dish. While what she creates bears absolutely no resemblance to the dish at all, it does manage to prove appetizing regardless. Unfortunately, the general crew will never taste it; she reserves 'Caerlei's Shark Fin Soup' for the officers, but hacks the rest of the shark into fillets that she marinades and cooks in her share of the rum—plus some other random assortments of spices. The end result is a meal that many on the boat would no doubt remember for weeks to come: shark steaks and shark broth, all expertly prepared against all odds.

After dinner, Caerlei retires early. Given the ordeal out at sea and the frenzy in the kitchen, she finds herself too exhausted to ply her wiles on any of the other crew.
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Stealth Check (ditch rum ration): 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (15) + 2 = 17
Profession (Cooking): 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (18) + 0 = 18
Night Time Action: Sleep.

Who are you!?

Get out of my head—GET OUT OF MY HEAD.

In the shadow cast by the considerable length of The Wormwood Caerlei turns around and offers reprieve to the grueling pace she has set the rowers to. Her eyes coldly regard the newcomers, each earning a prolonged glance perched above an unsettling smile. Finally, she stretches her arm out to the side to point up at the ship they're about to become familiar with. "See that big wooden hunk of carnies and piss stains? That's the infamous Wormwood. Cheerful as a zombie and twice as smelly. Here's some advice to keep your insides where they belong: if you don't fancy a good scourging like Mabelode here, don't let 'em catch you ditching your rum ration. Cut it with water. And make plenty of friends. I'd recommend starting with me! Otherwise, I might have to serve you up to the crew to give us a break from Fishgut's rancid stew. I'm Caerlei, by the way. Ever so thrilled to make your acquaintance!"

Caerlei shows little reaction to the corpses of her recent pals being tossed overboard, merely offering a pensive 'hmm.' It had been a lot of work making what few friends she had here, and now most of them had been skewered by fish-men. She hopes the next wave prove a little more resilient. The thought that they were allowed to die does not escape her either. She would have to tread carefully that a similar fate does not befall her.

"You may want to hold your thanks for now; we're not taking you to a picnic, love. The Wormwood is a flotsam-circus without the thrills. Buncha roustabout eunuchs with a mancrush on their Captain and little more, to be honest." Caerlei turns to regard the small handful of men who had accompanied her on the jolly boat, which in turn elicits a quick sigh and a roll of her eyes. "I guess these clowns aren't so bad, though. They're good with an oar." Shooting Osir an appraising look, she concludes, "...and with a poker, apparently."

Smiling broader than the situation warrants, she nudges the dead sahuagin out of her path, placing her left foot above the prow and leaning on her thigh as she strains to hear anything beyond the fog banks that have enclosed their mighty vessel. The length of barbed chain protruding from her tailbone whips down into the boat and wraps itself around the oar she had previously employed in their daring rescue of the three sea-stranded individuals—the strange, scaled woman included. Turning to look at the new blood, Caerlei graps the oar momentarily and tosses the thing in Saranaja's direction. "Rescuing the others sounds like a great idea! Get to rowing." Caerlei turns around and begins slapping out a rhythm again. With any luck, the others aboard the Wormwood had found an opportunity to bury something sharp in a few choice selections among the rest of the crew. Given her luck recently, however, she doubts it severely. She would have to settle for collecting a couple more salt-kissed sods to torment.

"Boss" fight incoming. Cue the pirate music!

As fog undulates and teases along the surface of the water, Caerlei begins to grow more aggravated by the moment. That the boat seems mostly impervious to the would-be assailants is all well and good, but she considers that it may well be but a matter of moments until the aquatic terrors are turned upon the men drifting on flotsam up ahead. The floundering efforts of her crewman to continue chopping through the waters is equally vexing, and she finds herself faced with precious few options beyond taking charge of the small vessel again.

"I can see the salt of the sea's spray is playing havoc on your tw*ts, so I guess we'll be rowing again after all! Now stop swinging the oars around like it's your manhood and row together ya fools. Row!" Slamming down into her former seat, she retrieves her own position once again and begins slapping out another rhythm with her tail. She'd rather be leaning over the prow lancing the gnashing bastards below, but there was some reason to Mabelode's strategy even if the man refused to accept their situation. While they were certainly safe enough for the moment, the de facto rafts of those they sought to rescue would likely fair much more poorly against an attack. With any luck, they'd get to the floating morsels ahead before their attackers.

"Row harder, twits! First one whose arms give out is bunking with me tonight, you got it?" There was an unsettling thought.

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Just to refresh the proposed route;
Round One: I16 -> I15 -> I14
Round Two: I13 -> I12 -> I11 [Trevor]

Intimidate Check (Cap'n!): 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (13) + 11 = 24

Post will be up this evening. Caerlei intends to get the boat rowing again, given protests and sharks lack of threat to the boat.

Whoops! CURSE YE GOZREH!

"Here, fishy, fishy, fishy! Come give momma a nice big..." Caerlei's words are interrupted by a well placed thrust towards the shark just off the port side of the jolly boat, "...kiss!" A sway in the boat pitches her slightly off balance and ruins what might have been a killing blow. Caerlei clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth in vexation. Her weapon finds its mark, albeit with a less deadly precision than she had intended. Finding her feet again quickly, Caerlei hops back into the relative safety of the boat, glaive raised in anticipation of the shark's next approach.

Sparing a quick glance over her shoulder at her crew, Caerlei scoffs at the relative lack of results availed her brief survey. "Stop playing with yourselves and kill these chum-guzzling pests already!"

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Standard Action: Attacking the shark located at H16, then taking a 5-ft. step back to I17; Lower Right.
Ending Location: I17; Lower Right.
Glaive Attack: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 2 = 21
Damage: 1d10 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4

any chance of slinging the skewered shark into the boat for cooking later?

I concur. (I should have concurred!)

Hahaha, wow! Feel free to roll all of my attacks for me Crusty.

Caerlei sails (Sorry, couldn't resist) to a position just above the prow of the jolly boat, eyes peering out into the surrounding waters to regard the approaching threat that is the four small hammerheads currently cutting a path through the waters to their vessel. Much as she had done the previous morning, the pale woman pinches one of the myriad silvery shards of metal protruding from her skin and begins to rip the metal sliver out of her forearm. As she continues yanking the object free, as one might a sword from a sheath, it becomes apparent that she is manifesting a fully metal glaive with wicked barbs and hooks adorning the blade's head. She whirls the weapon around with a familiar flourish that manages to avoid hitting any one else on the boat before yelling over her shoulder, "Prepare your weapons, fools! We're about to have some company."

Planting her feet firmly and defiantly, she hefts her weapon before her as the dark shapes beneath the water's surface skim towards her mighty ship.

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Moving up to make better use of the Reach weapon she's now wielding.

Move Action: 5 ft. stepping forward onto the front of the boat.
Standard Action: Using the Iron Weapon revelation to manifest a glaive.
Ending Location: I17, NE quadrant.

Caerlei continues setting a relentless pace for those unlucky enough to find themselves under her direction, keeping time with the oars by slapping the tip of her barbed-chain tail against the floorboard she sits above. Her small frame conceals more strength and endurance than it shows outwardly, and she keeps pace with her own harsh direction admirably. Seeing the flotsam suspended fools floating in the water beyond, she elects to loop around and approach from the burning ship's aft, strafing alongside the ruined vessel as they collect survivors. Passing so close to the much larger vessel might avail them further assessment of any valuables to be hoisted from the ship's carcass. "There! We'll pick up the woman first, then the pitiful looking fellas afterwards. Keep an eye out for that wreckage. I have a feeling if we don't bring back something besides bruised sailors, Harrigan will add a few bruises of his own to our lot. Best we try and win over the new bloods to our cause, I suppose. Safety in numbers, and all that, right?"

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For the sake of convenience and clutter avoidance, I'll be Taking 10 on the Intimidation checks (10+11=21) until we're officially declared in combat. Also plotting out a square-by-square approach, specific emphasis being placed on which Square we are picking up survivors in.

Round One: D15 -> D16 -> D17
Round Two: E18 -> F18 -> G18
Round Three: H18 -> I17 -> I16 [Saranaja]
Round Four: I15 -> I14 -> I13
Round Five: I12 -> J11 -> J10 [Trevor]
Round Six: J9 -> J8 -> J7
Round Seven: J6 [Zenu]

Stopping long enough to give a sarcastic salute to Plugg as the man barks orders to the Wormwood's new bloods, Caerlei nimbly glides onto the jollyboat behind the others. As the issue of who might pilot the small vessel comes up, Caerlei grins deviously at the rear of the boat. A gale of wind whips through her small frame and kicks locks the color of obsidian into a frenzy about the pale woman's head. Drawing a left hand over her face, she restrains the bulk of her hair behind ears, then shoots a cold look to Robinton that could still a heart.

"Up to me, huh? I suppose I can be the captain of the illustrious vessel beneath us. That is, unless Robinton here has any objections?" Caerlei pulls on a gauntlet as she poses the question to the gathering, cruel and wicked spikes rising from the knuckles and forehands of the dark steel to promise pain its owner would show no hesitation in delivering.

"Good! Now, get to rowing, dogs! First one to miss a beat loses his teeth."

Yo-ho, scallywags!
(enhanced diplomacy) Intimidate Check: 1d20 + 11 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 11 + 2 = 22

This evening post shall manifest. Tried to the other night but Paizo was down.

A quest for perhaps the most powerful literary work in all of creation? Sounds like a job for a goblin barbarian to me.

Set sail for Azlant immediately!

I think Crusty's made some heavy modifications to the Wormwood's roster, but there should be a link to a spreadsheet somewhere upthread.

The more the merrier...

...to kill!

Don't worry, my character in this game isn't a psychopath—she is only a sociopath!

<--- Dwunderbran!

I have enjoyed the game, but I'm afraid I'll have to echo what the other two have said: while I would totally like to press on, I won't be offended nor put off if you would rather call it off entirely. If running this becomes a tedious distraction rather than a welcome diversion, odds are it is going to stall out down the road regardless.

That being said, if you would rather press on, I'm all for putting the gameplay thread on a tentative hiatus until we gather up some new recruits.

Caerlei watches Mabelode's punishment with an unsettling level of enjoyment. She wishes no particular calamity upon the man, especially nothing that would result in his slaying, but as strip after strip of flesh is scourged away with the crack of a whip, the shackleborn lady begins making some very decidedly not ladylike moans of subdued pleasure. As Scourge concludes and makes to stride past those gathered to his quarters, Caerlei calls out to the man with a deepening grin, "Maybe I'll let you wear me out with your whip some day, love."

As Caerlei's magnificent feast of poorly assembled stew is commenced, she finds her way to where the newest batch of press-gangees are located. Daintily consuming her provided bowl, Caerlei waits until the rolling murmur of sea and other conversations is sufficient enough to lend aid to her chosen party's discretion. Smiling with self-satisfaction, she regards everyone with her unsettling eyes, "As you will all come to find out in our short period of service under the current Captain and his cronies, I am a resourceful creature. Owing to that fact, I've managed to secure the quartermaster's devotion. We'll be meeting with her this night shortly. I will be the first to leave, then the rest of you will excuse yourselves one at a time... discreetly. That is, unless you don't want your belongings back." That grin flashes across her face again. The same grin she showed Scourge when she had the man stammering on the deck during the race and the same grin she offered during the brief scuffle below decks at morning.

Rising with a small flourish, she empties the remainder of her broth into Robinton's share before allowing her finger tips to tease along the length of Mabelode's shoulders on her way below deck. One is left with an incontrovertible impression as her pleasant backside sways past and out of side: something is wrong with that one.
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Rum Ration: Diluting with water, as suggested.
Night-time Action: Set up a meet with Grok for the other guys—going to assist the others with their Diplomacy checks to influence Grok: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (20) + 7 = 27 (enhanced diplomacy).

Going to be taking a trip out of state for the weekend, and will be inactive during this time. Probably gonna be out from Friday night until Monday morning.

I will manage a gameplay update tonight most likely. Going to bring everyone up to speed on the deal with the Quartermaster at the very least.

I haven't officially, but I do intend to, so you should be fine to assume as much.

Kinda sucks that dhampir don't get some sort of blood-sipping benefits. Caerlei would totally be game for opening a vein or two, otherwise.

Mama Caerlei will make it all better. (She really, really won't)

Rolling her eyes as she enters to find Fishguts drunk off his ass, Caerlei takes a seat next to the fool and rests her elbow on the table, chin perched atop her hand as he begins regaling her with what is no doubt an assault of exhilarating tales of adventure and ne'er-do-welling. Not wishing to earn the ire of the officers still in possession of their balls, however, she elects to prepare the crew's meals for the day. She utters a favorable blessing as she undertakes the endeavor, hoping that the divine energies will get her through the day without incident. Having absolutely no clue as to what she's doing in the kitchen, she resolves to throw a random assortment of broth, meats, and spices into the pot and hope for the best. Waiting for moments when she thinks Fishguts isn't looking, Caerlei pours small doses of her rum into his cup, hoping the man will eventually pass out and leave her to finish cooking in peace. Unfortunately, he seems to be a man of considerable constitution where imbibing alcohol is concerned...

Stealth Check: 1d20 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (12) + 2 + 1 = 15 (guidance)

Remembering that a spiteful demeanor got her nowhere with the man on the previous day, Caerlei instead spends this day warming up to Kroop. Not having a lot to go on, she focuses on the one thing the man has shown any amount of pride in: the chicken. The day dwindles away with myriad praises floating his way: "Oh, she is quite a magnificent bird!", "You simply must teach me how you keep her feathers so immaculately groomed."

Diplomacy Check: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (10) + 7 = 17 (enhanced diplomacy)
Cooking Check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (9) + 1 = 10 (guidance)

As Fishguts makes to leave and relieve himself, Caerlei fetches a bowl of the broth with choice bits of meat and starts tracking down Grok, passing Osir on her way out of the room. She gives the man a sly wink and grin as she saunters towards the Galley. After finding the half-orc, Caerlei presses the bowl into the woman's hands before finding a delicate perch on a nearby crate. "You strike me as one of the few sensible persons on this floating catastrophe, so I thought I'd go ahead and make some formal introductions sooner than later." Caerlei flashes a wicked grin as she watches the surprise wash over Grok's face.

"I think I get how things work around here; favors for favors and finding enough people to watch your back that you don't end up as mince meat in Fishgut's foodstores. As such, consider this the first of many favors and a pact—from one half breed to another—to keep any one from managing to sneak something sharp into your back when they come trying to pilfer their belongings back. Speaking of which, I'll make sure the new faces don't try anything so brazen or stupid in the near future." Caerlei slides gracefully forward to stand creepily close to the much larger Grok, beaming upwards with a toothy grin as she offers a brief curtsy. "Caerlei, at your service!"

Diplomacy Check:1d20 + 7 ⇒ (20) + 7 = 27 (enhanced diplomacy)

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So, to summarize;
Rum Ration: attempting a Stealth check to avoid drinking the stuff.
First Daytime Action: Influencing Fishguts with a Diplomacy check.
Second Daytime Action: Influencing Grok with a Diplomacy check.

I'm back and horribly sunburnt, but I'll catch up on the thread over the course of this evening and rejoin the fray tonight when able.

As posted elsewhere: Been swamped this week and have a vacation weekend coming up. I will be sure to update Caerlei's action in the interim, likely when I get home tonight. I'm hoping that by the time I'm back on Monday, things will calm down around here. Summer's supposed to be slow, and isn't cooperating.

Caerlei pauses warily beside Fipps as he clutches in futility at his newfound injury. Inaudibly she utters an incantation, then approaches the rum-splashed fool. "Listen here, sweet thing. We can keep at eachother until none of us are getting any sleep from fearing a knife in the night—and I assure you, I can pull plenty of those out as well—or we can dispense with the posturing and go back to only wanting to kill one another instead of trying to kill one another." As she concludes her ultimatum, she rests a hand on his shoulder, allowing the spell she had worked to course through Fipps and into his injury.

Cure light wounds: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5

"Now let's be good little crewmen and get above deck before your Poisonous Cap'n 'Arrigan flays the lot o' us! And remember what I said." Caerlei leans in a bit closer as she finishes speaking. "I can't say what Harrigan's capable of, but I can promise you that I am very intimate with what the Kuthites of Nidal consider pleasure." With that, she smiles over an almost childish giggle and begins bounding up the stairs, her chain-tail flitting about playfully as she goes.

Caerlei lowers her head so that shadows envelop her face, leaving only the faint glow of her blue eyes which currently stare daggers at Fipps. The darkness that has washed over Caerlei's face conceals a wicked, toothy smile. "Silly, silly boys. If you're going to bring so much sausage to the table, I suppose I'll have to use my finest silverware." As Caerlei speaks, one of the metal shards protruding from her left forearm begins to lengthen and detach into the grasp of her waiting right hand. Grasping the sliver tightly, she wrenches it free from her arm—all seven blade-capped feet of it. She whips the glaive she now holds in her hand behind her with a practiced grace and regards the goons before her with a look of maddened glee. "Who's ready for breakfast?"

Using the Iron Weapon Metal Oracle ability to create a glaive (two-handed; 1d10; x3; Reach). And on the off chance you'll allow me to make an Intimidate as part of the action: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (12) + 11 = 23.

Wheeling around to face the catfolk crewman with a subdued smile, Caerlei rises to the tips of her toes and leans in close so her eyes are mere inches away from J'Zarrgo's. Her smile does not abate as she whispers lowly, "Caerlei is what this one calls herself. And this one is pleased that that one is pleased with this one's extremities." Much as she had done with Scourge, she swings around to J'Zarrgo's side and hooks her right hand through the fold in the catfolk's elbow. "This one would be more pleased if that one could help this one stay afloat on..." Caerlei imitates Fishgut's voice as she says the next part, "...Cap'n 'Arrigan's poisonous ship circus!" Her grin fades into a more businesslike demeanor, and she leans closely against J'Zarrgo so that their conversation is not as easily overheard.

"Caerlei would be interested in knowing who can be trusted on this glorified bit of flotsam; who can be plied, and who cannot. And most importantly, Caerlei would be indebted to J'Zarrgo for his discretion." Her eyes roam the deck full of drunken gamblers and games that are on open display. "Maybe we can start with the clueless berks in this room. The men they brought me on board with seem... receptive to the idea of working together. How about the rest of them?"

Caerlei observes, but does not participate in, the gambling that takes place during the night. Instead, she looks to finding a way to water down her rum ration to avoid suffering from the overly potent effects of imbibing the stuff. She manages to flirt—if you can call it that—with any brave enough to approach or interact with her, though her advances seem to lend themselves more to those of a masochistic disposition.

I'm not quite familiar enough with most of the crew yet, so she'll take any one she can get (random selection from the roster of gambling shipmates, perhaps?) for an influence attempt.
Diplomacy Check (+2 from enhanced diplomacy): 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 5 + 2 = 15

Caerlei spends her evening in the vicinity of, though initially part from, the bulk of the newly pressed shipmates up on the poopdeck. She meekly considers her food, though a few mouthfuls of the stuff are enough for a lifetime. An exasperated sigh escapes her lips as she complains aloud, "A seaborn circus that can't even manage to serve a fish without blundering. How quaint!" She twirls about to lean her back against the rails, enjoying the wind as it whips her hair—and more alarmingly, her tail—about violently. Her elbows rest comfortably on gnarled wood as she turns around to look directly at Mabelode, Osir, and Robinton. "Don't suppose you lot fancy a less... prepared cuisine, do you? I've no intention of eating this slop every night, so maybe I'll set a fish or two aside from now on. I'm Caerlei, by the way." Her curtsy does not quite fit the innately sadistic grin that splits her face, nor the cold blue that emanates from her eyes.

She slides a bit closer to the trio before saying in a more hushed voice, "The ship's cook seems like he's had his manhood nipped. Ain't got an ounce of a spine on him. Seems terrified of the Captain and his first mate."

I'm gonna look over the ship areas tonight and figure out what Caerlei is doing for her Night Action. Currently leaning towards figuring out what the Wormwood is hauling.

Noticeably put off by the task of spending the day tending to nets and fish, Caerlei nevertheless makes no vocal complaint about the assignment given her. Instead, she slaps her heels together and gives a greatly exaggerated salute to the chicken on Fishgut's shoulder. Her voice drops several octaves in an attempt to imitate a gruffer, male pirate as she half-bellows, "Aye-aye, Black Hearted Bezebel! I'll fish 'er empty, I will!" She then bounds through the ship and sets to doing her work.

Though at first she seems content to apply herself to the task assigned, her wanderlust takes hold quickly, and she ends up spending the majority of the day teasing Fishguts. Though harmless at first, as she continues pressing the man's buttons her overtures turn from toying to vicious, Caerlei attempting to assert herself into a position of dominance in the kitchen. Subtle threats turn overt as she recounts the myriad tortures she is well versed in, punctuating each painful scenario with a flick of her barbed "tail" across the man's leg or adding more superficial cuts to the plethora of scars that already score her body. That she groans in ecstasy as she describes the more brutal of methods (one of which being the Ulfen favorite: the Blood Eagle) only multiplies the palpable terror of hearing these unspeakable acts described in excruciating detail. The cold stare accompanying her taunts lends credence to any question of whether she would carry out said maimings.

Caerlei spends the early day attempting to fish, though does so with only a passing measure of success before returning to the Cook's Quarters to torment poor Fishguts.
Survival Check: Take 10 + 1 (guidance) = 11
Intimidate Check: 1d20 + 11 + 2 ⇒ (3) + 11 + 2 = 16 (enhanced diplomacy)
As night descends on the Wormwood, Caerlei will retire early and get a decent night's rest (hopefully).

Going to try and get caught up on my games tomorrow. Had to go out of town for my friend's wedding and didn't have internet. Going to promptly crash out, as I'm exhausted, but expect something soonish.

Caerlei eyes the pudgy man flatly, though her gaze is eventually drawn to the chicken perched atop the man's shoulders. "I'm Caerlei. And they are brave indeed if they are trusting me with the cooking." An empty smile crosses her face as she tilts her head to take in their surroundings more fully. "Well, at least I won't be starved to death. Bored to death seems more likely, from the looks of this place. Lead on, Master chef!" Caerlei offers a mocking curtsy to the rotund fellow.

What might be a giggle bursts from her lips, Caerlei raising her left forehand to her lips to stifle the response before it costs her a head. Sensing that no one shares her sense of humor, she clicks her tongue very audibly before rolling her eyse once more and lets loose an exasperated sigh. "Gods, are you sods going to be this dull the entire trip?" Caerlei scrambles back down out of the rigging and more glides than walks back over to where Scourge yet stands. She hooks her right arm around the man's left forearm and leans slightly against him, the familiar grin now firmly attached to her face again. "Come on then. Let's not keep Master Fishguts waiting."

Rolling her eyes, Caerlei casually saunters over to the main mast, waiting for the others to scramble up before she begins trying her luck.

Round 1: Full round action to move onto the rigging.

Much to everyone's dismay, the ivory skinned tiefling makes no further attempts to progress towards the crow's nest. Instead, she finds a comfortable tangle in the rigging and reclines leisurely, allowing the wind to kiss her skin coolly as the ship lurches ahead through the endless expanse of blue. Shooting an appreciative look to the men competing for the nest above, Caerlei's fingers begin working through brief but elaborate gestures as she whispers a plea to her sadistic forebears. The slivers of metal that creep along her forearms shimmer with a faint incandescence, then return to their usual silvery sheen.

Caerlei is casting enhanced diplomacy to grant herself a +2 bonus to Diplomacy checks.

The spell complete, Caerlei rolls over on her side upon the rigging into a position that accentuates her feminine assets. She fixes her sight on Scourge before calling down in as sultry a voice as she can muster, "I prefer to leave the climbing to the monkeys. I've found that my... expertise tends towards other labors."

Diplomacy Check: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (16) + 7 = 23

Caerlei rises wordless, her eyes staring daggers through their captors—an ill suited companion to the wicked grin that spreads across her face. Captain Harrigan, huh? If he's so fond of sausages, maybe I'll carve that off first. The pale girl's hands clench as she saunters quietly across the room and towards the deck. I will not be another twit's tool.

Caerlei's eyes flatly regard her new surroundings, then probes those that share her current quarters. She tests the manacles that are clapped about her wrists and soon realizes they are her own. An unusually large smile spreads across her face as this becomes apparent, and a mirthful laugh just short of a cackle follows shortly thereafter. "I wonder if it makes me a prisoner if they're my own cuffs, then?" Laughter fades soon, and the grin that had split her face turns into a faint smirk. Her eyes roam once more to the faces of the other prisoners. Looks like it's a regular freakshow down here. Have I been taken by a seafaring circus? Tigers and sharks not cuttin' it any more?

"I've shared rooms with some uglies in my day, but I think this is a new low... or is it high? Any one remember who pressed us? I'd like to know whose throat I should be unzipping." Caerlei looks on with anticipation at the approaching thump of boots. If they think slapping my manacles on me is gonna make me any less a handful. . .

I won't be able to get anything in today (niece with a birthday party then a friend with a bachelor party), but I should have a post up tomorrow afternoon/early-evening at the very least.