Cerise nods in agreement at the implied question as to whether to accept the newcomers as crew, but doesn't voice it. Being a relatively new recruit herself and the Captain being skeptical of her Harrow Reading, Cerise decides not to be too forward in her opinions at this time.
Alden maintains eye contact with the wolf. "The Stagfather's Blessing upon you and your family, Mother. I will not harm your cubs. If you let me pass, I will happily share some meat with you." He moves slowly to retrieve his trail ration package, pulling out four pieces of jerky, two for the wolf and one for each of her cubs. He tosses the two pieces to the Mother Wolf, and drops the other two, one in front of each cub.
"That make sense," Alden says, nodding in agreement with Tymos' explanation.
The growling in his stomach rouses Zomeraand Lotheed from the pleasant hallucination induced by the pages of the book resting in his hands. He marks the page with a slip of parchment, and rises from the well-stuffed armchair. "Thank you, Master Haladan," he says, handing the book to the proprieter. "I was rather enjoying that gnomish legend. If you can possibly hold that book for me, I will likely purchase it within the fortnight. I understand, of course, if you cannot. Business is business, after all." He nods to the man as he takes his leave, and makes his way through the streets of Sandpoint to his other haunt, the Rusty Dragon. As he enters the common room, his eyes find Ameiko Kaijitsu. Since his first visit to the Rusty Dragon, the woman fascinated him; not so much in a romantic way, but by her very spirit. She was beautiful, yes, but more so, she was intelligent and competent. He recalled how his approach was deftly, firmly, and politely rebuffed. It was only then that he realized she took him to be propositioning her. In retrospect, it was little wonder, as she moved about the room, deflecting the groping hands of several drunken patrons. "Good afternoon, Mistress Kaijitsu," he says to the proprietress, giving a respectful, formal, half-bow to her. He moves to an empty table and takes a seat, waiting patiently for one of the servers to take his drink request. Sandpoint is so much more peaceful than Magnimar, he thought to himself, unconsciously running a finger across the amulet around his neck. I don't regret a single day away from the Yards. In fact, I should have come here sooner. Such sweet serenity!
Do what ya gotta do. I'll be here!
I would like to submit Zomeraand, a human universalist wizard. He's a fairly recent arrival, and has been working to establish himself as a local expert and scholar.
”Don’t worry, we’ll come back and explore the area soon enough. We still need to recover the gem, if we are going to heal the world. I just want to make sure we do right by our friends.”
"Th' boys't th' Feral Dog said ol' Smenk cut thei'rations'n raised prices't'is store. They also said'is chief'eavy Goshawk's gone missin'. Thas' gott'eh jibe wi' what Miss Ilthane tol'us." Broccanese: The boys at the Feral Dog said Old Smenk cut their rations and raised prices at his store. They also said his chief heavy, Goshawk's gone missing. That's got to jibe with what Miss Ilthane told us."
Happy Birthday!!
Merry Christmas!
Broccan looks up and meets Allustan's gaze, an amount of steel infusing both his spine and his gaze. "It's'eh gift. Fer you. Sir," he replies in an uncharacteristically clipped tone. "'s thanks f'yer 'ssist'nce."
Broccan cringes internally, knowing he needs to speak up at this moment. "I've work'd f'r all'v'm 'cept Moonmeadow, not bein'n elf'n all, he finally replies quietly, his eyes downcast. "If th' Mayor confronts'm all't'th'same time, it'll set'm off. I'm think'n there'll be blood." He looks around to the rest of the group, but avoids Allustan's eyes. "We shou' talk t' the miners'n see'f any'f'm've seen any'thin skeejaw goin' on'n the mines." Broccanese: "I've worked for all of them except Moonmeadow, not being an elf and all. If the Mayor confronts them all at the same time, it will set them off. I think there will be blood. We should talk to the miners and see if any of them have seen anything skeejaw (out of sorts) going on in the mines."
Broccan looks about anxiously when he realizes he was invited in to Allustan's home. This isn't right. I'm not supposed to be in a fine place like this. I'll break something, or track-in dirt, or leave the furniture reeking of my unwashed skin. But, he told me to come in, so I can't leave without being disrespectful. Gods, I wish I was over in the Feral Dog, downing a few. He keeps his eyes lowered, and tries not to draw too much attention to himself, hoping the smarter and more articulate of his companions carry him through this moment.
"Could it be fixed, I wonder?" Dawrbrün says, examining the mirror. "If the witch knows where we are, it could be to our advantage to know where she is, also." , or
"I'd suggest any of us who don't thrive in the cold take a couple of these potions," he adds, gesturing to the pile of endure elements (*cough*vodka*cough*) bottles. "I have a feeling the weather'll get worse before it gets better." He reaches down and takes two of them for himself.
Seeing the blast of magical glitter engulf the men just outside the door, Dawrbrün drops out of his defensive stance and begins a battle chant.
"We're dwarves of the mountain, born of stone
"So we know we aren't in the land of Milk and Honey," Dawrbrün says drily. "More like the land of the ice and snow, from the Midnight Sun where the hot springs flow. Hmmm, that has a nice cadence to it...perhaps with some sort of battle cry..." he muses to himself.
Dawrbrün shouts, as he snaps his fingers in the direction of the man with the crossbow.
"Ah..er..Dour'stone wou' na work w' Smenk'f's life'n livelihood depend'd on't," Broccan replies softly. He clears his throat, and tries to speak up, clearly uncomfortable with so many of his betters looking at him. 'Smenk's a right bast'rd'n a liar. Every'one knows't, too. Miners've died'n Smenk's mine 'cause 'eh didn' warn'm of dangers 'e knew damn well wer' there. Dourstone's an 'ard boss, bu' 'e woun't truck wi' law-break'n. He e'vn thinks th' Sher'ff's soft'n too will'n t' look th' oth'r way for'eh few coins. Dourstone's been known t' go ov'r th' Sher'ff t' the Garr'son Cap'n more'n once." He looks around for something to drink, wishing he had a mug of ale. Finding none, he licks his lips and continues. Tilgast'n Parr'n don' like Smenk eith'r. Chaum's dally'n with Parr'n, now't she's'eh widow, so 'e's no' gonn'eh do any'thin' to get kick'd out'eh 'r bed. Mast'r Moonmead'eh only works wi' elves. He don' care f'r th' likes'eh th' rest've us." Having now spilled tea, both literally and figuratively, Broccan hunches inward, crosses his arms, and tries to unsuccessfully disappear into his chair. Broccanese: Read Dungeon Madam's spoiler in the previous post!
Oblivious to the subtleties of the conversation, Broccan tries one of the cookies provided with the tea. Unaccustomed to eating anything so sweet, he stifles and urge to cough it up and grabs his cup in his scarred and calloused hand and swallows its contents in one unrefined gulp. He sets the cup down, missing the saucer, causing it to rattle and roll. He quickly grabs it, sets it back in the saucer as gently as his laborer's reflexes allow. He looks around sheepishly, hoping no one noticed. He coughs once, blushes furiously, then lowers his head. Thoroughly embarrassed, he sits as still as possible, staring into his lap.
Dawrbrün begins to bang his axe against his shield in a steady, driving rhythm. "I don't know why they're flocking about,
To Battle, I cry! These crows, they must die!
Broccan enters the bath-chamber, knowing that only by being freshly bathed will his presence be tolerated by such people of high station. He removes his clothes and takes them into the bath with him, scrubbing off the dirt and blood as best he can. Once he and his clothes are as clean as he can make them, he rings them out and hangs them up to dry. He then dries himself off and dons the clothes the Jasidians have so kindly loaned him for the duration of their visit. He looks down and his the flinty roughness of his hands, the dirt no-doubt permanently imbedded in his nails. A clean pig is still a pig, he thinks to himself. Just because you don't stink for the moment and you're wearing fine clothes doesn't change who you are. Don't be presume to act as if you're one of them. You're not, Broccan. Only speak when spoken to. Don't open your mouth and make a fool of yourself. He takes a steadying breath and steps out of the bath-chambers into the hallway, and looks around to get his bearings.
Broccan takes the mattock and begins breaking the earth in parallel plots. Once the areas are roughed out, he grabs one of the shovels and begins digging. Lost in the work, he begins singing a work song quietly to himself. "Brothers of the mine rejoice,
Broccan lowers his eyes and grits his teeth. This woman was so wrong, and her tone was so condescending, but who was he to call out one of his betters? He was nobody: a poor, uneducated miner. Even if he did speak up and correct her misperceptions, what cause would she have to take anything he said seriously? He could only hope that one of the other members of the group would respond. Any one of them would have standing to do so, just not himself.
"Hard-hittin'! Shell-splittin'! Make a break like'eh mason's piton!" Dawrbrün chants as he swings his axe at the massive insect.
"Let me get this straight.
Dawrbrün draws on his power and growls at the troll in Giant Tongue. "Piss off, you flouncing, flammable, floral arrangement!"
"So you are, you frosty fusillade of fowl-feathered flatulence!" Dawrbün replies, calling on his magic.
"Th.th..thank you, m..m'de..dear," Dawrbrün stutters to Lyudmilla, as her healing magic suffuses his body with warmth. "I think I can thaw myself out the rest of the way." He hums the opening tune of Let Me Stand Next To Your Fire, a rousing tavern tune often sung on cold or rainy evenings.
For the record, that magical trap was well done!
"I won'ner why she wans'teh be buried'ere?" Broccan asks himself under his breath, only realizing he said something out loud after the words escape his lips. He lowers his head and clears his throat, hoping Venelle didn't hear him.
Broccanese: "I wonder why she wants to be buried there?"
Bummer. I understand, though. Real life has to come first. I've enjoyed this campaign, as well as the others we've been in together. I hope everything works out for you, and that we'll see you in another game in the near future!
"Maybe," Broccan says in response to Kata. "I wa'safraid tha'tlong arm'd bast'rd'n th'latrine got'er. Cann'eh thin'of'eh worse way'r place t'die alone." His voice carries a sad and somber tone. Broccanese: "Maybe. I was afraid that long armed bastard in the latrine got her. I cannot think of a worse way, or place, to die alone."
”There is currently no law pertaining to marriage in Tamlyn. Each faith conducts their ceremonies according to their respective traditions. As to whether I would take more than one wife, that answer is simple. I would do so only with the mutual, enthusiastic consent of both women. I bear enough burdens in my position. I will not invite strife by putting myself between two rivals plotting and scheming with myself caught in the No Man’s Land between them. If you want this arrangement, then I am not the one you need to persuade.”
"Snow in Midsummer? Ah ha! A sign of nefarious plotting if ever there was! What reason would anyone have to change the weather to Winter cold? That's just more work for everyone! Crops have to be hurriedly harvested, wood collected, sheep and cattle rounded up and stowed in barns. It's just the sort of thing to preface an invasion. Disrupting the supply lines is essential to defeating one's enemy. I remember the time when I...." Dawrbrun Amberbasher barrels on into another long-winded tale of his exploits as a soldier, shoulder to shoulder with his brother dwarves against the onslaught of bloodthirsty orcs.
The nice thing about Pathfinder 1E and D&D 3.5 is that they are VERY compatible. How you change the encounters in Age of Worms depends on how much internal consistency you want in your campaign with the published Paizo source material. You can run it, as is, and it may not matter since the Adventure Path runs all the way up to level 20. The PCs will most likely retire at the end of the campaign, so if some not-officially-Paizo monsters show up from time to time, what harm does it actually cause? When I ran it years ago, (pre-Pathfinder), I changed Zyrxog to a Psion, instead of a sorcerer, since the rules existed and it made more sense. I also ran the adventure path in Kingdoms of Kalamar instead of Greyhawk. Do whatever feels right. Make the Drow Duergar instead. Make Zyrxog an Aboleth, or a Lich or a Synthesist Summoner. On the off-chance one or more of your players has read the Adventure Path, any changes you decide to make will keep them on their toes.
A character concept: briefly explain who they are and what they bring to the party. A tough and tenacious young dwarf, enamored with the idea of being a hero, so much so that he's gotten really good about telling stories of exploits that he hasn't yet done. He is a Jack-of-All trades, as befitting a bard-type (Skald, Boaster archetype). He will provide buffing, some healing, front-line combat (more a tank than a damage dealer), and a fair amount of knowledges and skills. Backstory: A brief overview of your character's history, showing what motivates them. His family hailed from Kravenkus, and his parents died defending it while he was still a young. He was with a group of refugees, who lost track of him in Dalaston, and didn't look too hard to find him. He grew up on the streets, doing whatever he honest work he could for food, money or a place to sleep. He found other dwarf refugees, but none of them kept or claimed him as theirs, offering a night or two under their roofs, and a coupe of meals at most. He learned what he could of his people by listening to stories told by the elderly dwarves. He loved hearing tales of glorious battles against goblins, orcs, and giants. He decided that he would one day be a hero, and the most important part of that process was name recognition. He started practicing the art of story-telling, weaving words into imagery of his fantastic deeds. He then needed to travel. A dwarf who lived in one town his whole life wouldn't have much of a story to tell. Why Heldren: Why is your character in the small town of Heldren in southern Taldor? Heldren is just another small town Dawrbrün happens to be passing through. He's stopping long enough to tell some tales, earn some coin, re-stock his rations and be on the road to the next small town. A little crunch: This should at minimum be a race/class/archetype combo. I don't need full crunch at this time, but if that's your thing go wild. The Profile on this avatar is pretty much complete. Dwarf/Skald/Boaster, click on the Profile for the specifics.
Mad Madame Mushroom, Cerise often came to be known in her later years. Moving (or being driven off) from one small town to another, each time she repeated the process. Once her garden of mushrooms began to bloom, she began to harvest them, sometimes cooking them, sometimes eating them raw, sometimes turning them into soup. Her favorite were the long-stemmed brown ones that made her see and feel. At first the sights and sensations would be euphoric and pleasant, but eventually, those visions would inevitably turn. First would come the whispering voices, then the yellow spore-like mist settling among the rows of blooming fungi. Soon, one of the larger mushrooms would bear striking similarity to Count Lowls or the Briarstone Witch. The whispering would grow louder and more repetitive. Her desire for mushrooms would increase, but the flavor would change to something more akin to raw, bloody meat. Despite seeing a mushroom, she felt the sensation of biting into live flesh. She could even feel it writhing in pain as her teeth broke the skin, and she swore she could hear cries of pain with each mouthful. It would become too much. She would go out to her garden, and see rows and rows of tortured faces. She would call upon her power to heal them, but the divine energy would only strip away the facade, revealing the twisted demonic faces beneath. She would then unleash her fire upon the horde of demons, trying to consume them utterly in the flames. When nothing remained of her garden or her home, she would wander away in whatever she was wearing at the time. She would find somewhere else to live, somewhere where the mushrooms weren't screaming.
Here's my Ruthless Agent Investigator, still a work in progress. I haven't written his backstory yet, as I am still mulling over ideas. His crunch is done, minus a couple minor equipment purchases.
I have been yearning to try Reign of Winter. I like the idea of squaring off against Baba Yaga! I would say Rise of the Runelords, but at this point, if someone told me that AP was cursed, and no attempt to complete it as a PbP would ever succeed, I would believe it!
Idea for Disks: If anyone has Craft Wondrous Items feat, we could pervert them by adding murderous command from my spell list, so that if anyone uses the symbol to cast a blessing or healing, it prompts the recipient of the spell to attack the caster. We could also put a different trap-spell on each disk, so that each has a different effect when used. For instance, one might flip a cure wounds spell into a cause wounds, or one might cause a nearby corpse to animate, etc.
Once the have returned to the outside of the tunnel, Ahto moves to stand over the corpse of Mather Nithra, reaches for the iron key of Abadar around his neck, and intones a prayer. "Be it Abadar's will that the sins you committed in life, the same sins that condemned you to death, be consumed in the fires of justice. May that same fire give me strength, and light my way through the darkness of anarchy and chaos." As he speaks, a small white flame appears; hovering in the air mere inches before his face. An inky black, almost liquid smoke rises from the mouth of the corpse and slithers upwards, drawn as if through a hollow reed towards the flame. As the smoke is consumed, the candle-like flame becomes a torch-sized ball of fire. Ahto reaches out with his free hand and grasps the fire, cradling it in his hand. He brings it to his mouth, and inexplicably, swallows it; the licking flames flowing into his mouth as if from a drinking horn. Ahto shudders as he swallows, the light of the fire slowly diffusing across his skin.
"In the name of Abadar, Lord of the First Vault, I call upon the soul of Mather Nithra to come forth and give testimony."
"Coriandrinne Vespida, Champion of Calistria and current thrall of our mutual Master. Cori is fine, especially in dangerous situations. It's just easier to say," Cori replies. "Normally, I'd flirt, and tell you a tangle of lies and half-truths about me to keep you curious and confused, but it just doesn't seem practical to our current circumstances. If we are going to be working together, we need all need to be fully aware of each others' capabilities, especially where it pertains to dangerous situations. We've already lost a few members of our original team, no doubt why you were sent to rendezvous with us here. Anyway, as you have no doubt already guessed, I do a lot of the front-line fighting for the team, as does Stanislav, the pale fellow over there. R'yzzntyg and Vinnick are our casters. Not a lot of flash and bang magic, but no less deadly, make no mistake. Anyway, yes, I do look quite lovely out of this armor, and the clothes beneath it, if I do say so myself."
It might work. It might not, I can't make a Know Planes roll, and therefore I don't know if he teleported in, or is incorporeal, or an illusion or whatever. What I do know is the bites are continuous force damage with no save.
Ci Ci extends her rod at the shoggoth. "Pewpewpew!"
"Father Prasst once said something about soulless things casting no shadow, but a soulless wolf?!" Bohrs shrugs at his own remark, and turns his mind to more important matters. "A sea shanty you've requested, and a sea shanty you shall have! Here's a fine little ditty. Join in once you've caught the tune! Fare thee well, my lovely Dinah,
You're the girl that I adore,
Now when we're out a-sailing
Oh now the storm is raging
It's now the storm is over
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