Dragos Mirceanu's page

I'm definitely here too.

Red flashes behind Dragos' eyes for a moment, and he fights the temptation to smash the padlock with a hammer. Are you kidding me? What kind of complete idiot doesn't take keys?! "Yes, revered brother." he hisses between clenched teeth "It would be a pity to break this tool of yours."

Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4 Sic transit gloria mundi.

"Do you have the key?" asks Dragos to the acolytes. "My word of honor, we mean no disrespect to the sleeping dead."

Delfina, maybe you can try the check?

Yes, I'd say we go there right now. Then we can check the monument.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 2 = 21 Wow.

Dragos' jaw hardens at Grimburrow's words against the Professor. He remembers how Petros was fighting tooth and nail to protect Kendra from danger, the first time they met. It takes some measure of control to avoid reaching for the scruff of the priest's neck.
"I hope that you are right, revered father. And I will be sure to return any flower vase we find."
He studies the priest for a second before adding one thing. "There is no shame in asking for assistance. And no triumph to be found in inaction."

Whoops, sorry.

Dragos checks that his sacred symbols are polished and well visible before bowing to Grimburrow.
"Salutations from the Knights of Ozem to you, revered father. My name is Dragos Mirceanu, and I am an acquaintance of Kendra Lorrimor. As we were setting in order her late father's effect, we ran into a mention of a crypt in the Restlands, holding not corpses, but rather tools to assist in the destruction of the undead. I am certain that you noticed the disturbing events of these days, and although we have little evidence, I fear that necromancers are behind it. I know that the Lady of Graves is as much a fierce foe of these vile enchanters as the Inheritor, therefore I sought your permission to investigate the crypt so that such artifacts might be put to good use. I hope that such a battle would meet the favor of the Gray Lady."

Diplomacy: 1d20 ⇒ 20

"Iomedae and Pharasma are allies against the plague of undead in these lands, perhaps he shall be amenable." says Dragos, forcing his arms and head in a weathered but well-maintained scale mail. "There is also the question of who vandalized the statue. Could be a coincidence, of course, but I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't."

Dragos' brow corrugates. "Should we check on those three? If you give me time to don my armor, I shall accompany you."

"Dragos Mirceanu, at your service." Dragos has shed his armor for the evening, revealing a heavily built, bearded young man. The palms of his hands are marked with a sword and a shield, and Iomedae's sign is sewn on his vest.
"I heard there were strange circumstances surrounding the Professor's death. And I myself experienced ill omens. Would you share your discoveries?"

"No need to call me Sir, I am still but a squire."
Dragos listens to Kendra's tale and reads Lorrimor's notes, frowning. He's not sure where to start, as investigation has never been his strong suit. "I wish to introduce myself to these others, and listen to their take on the matter."

This brings back memories.
Dragos stands in a relaxed posture, one hand on his sword, and when the strange girl introduces herself, he looks at Kendra raising an eyebrow, unequivocally waiting for her to vouch for the newcomer.

Hello Delfina!

My mind is playing tricks on me. Just tricks.

"If the Whispering Way is behind it, these are hardly coincidences. They are devious, sworn enemies of my Order. And they-"
Blood on the grass. Isabella rising to her feet, her throat slit.
"I have history with them. Kendra Lorrimor, in Iomedae's name I swear my shield-arm to your defense, and my sword-arm to the destruction of these foes. I assume those who did not leave agreed to your father's terms of remaining here? Where have they gone off to?"

No sense in antagonizing the church of Pharasma right away. I will return later. Still...
Feeling a chill that has nothing to do with the cold Ustalavian air, Dragos moves towards the Lorrimor household. The uneasy feeling that had accompanied him since he left Vigil has now evolved into a full-blown premonition, but whether it is fear or memories, he cannot say.

Unless he's stopped or sees something out of the ordinary, he'll go to the Lorrimors and knock.

Dragos approaches the hut and knocks on the door, hoping that the undertaker might have some answers about the grave.

Suddenly very pale and shaky, Dragos examines the tomb, looking for any clues about who dug it. Who? How? And how do they know my name? I'll have to go back and ask the Pharasmins about it.

Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (17) + 2 = 19

"I thank you for your assistance. And I shall watch for any suspicious activity." responds Dragos, with a respectful nod.

Assuming not much more happens before we go to the grave, correct me if I'm wrong.
Dragos kneels next to the freshly-moved earth, placing a hand on the ground. "You never knew how much I owed you, old man. At the time, I didn't know either. But as sad as I am that you have left this world, I'm glad I could help you be a part of it for just a bit longer. Maybe some more lives were touched by your strange influence. Lady of Graves, Lady of Valor, Lady Luck, please guide this soul to rest and peace."
For a few moments longer, he stands there, feeling as lost as he felt eight years ago. Then, time catches up with him and memories turn back to being memories.
"Thank you again, revered brother. If you could give me directions to the household, I will bother you no more."

Waking up from bad dreams and worst memories, Dragos suppresses the shiver running through his spine as he stepped on Ustalavian ground. Eight years had passed since the last time he had been there, and if eighty more had passed without him returning, he would not have complained. But the Lady of Valor preaches steadfastness when facing one's greatest fears, so here he is, paying his respects to a man who had changed his life by being in the wrong place at the right time.

As he moves through the village, he feels glad for the emblems of Iomedae and Vigil that were impressed on his armor and shield. Anyone who knows the goddess will know that Dragos is professing his faith in bravery and justice. But how the Ustalavians feel about the neighboring crusaders of Lastwall, he's not sure.

Finally, he spots the trio in the square, discussing concitedly. Hoping for directions, he approaches them. "Excuse me, I am looking for the Lorrimor household. And is there something I can help you with?"

Hello everyone, one redeemed criminal and Knight of Ozem recruit here for your tanking needs. Thank you for this chance!

Sapiens here, this is the Knight I made. Tell me if there's any change you would have me make.

Yes, that order looks good for now

It's all right, holidays are always tough on games. Merry Christmas!

I believe that since we are in the snow, and movement is so hampered, we should group up. Rogue scouting and repositioning won't help much when you have to use 20 ft. of movement to move 5 ft.
My idea is: Me (on horsey, so I can reposition) in front as a target trailmaker, then Domitian (reach weapon, frontline), Serena and Ashley, and Garran as a rearguard (and keeping an eye on us should we need buffs).
Should a fight break out, I can lure an enemy (the whole point of my archetype) and somehow move, leaving space for you controllers.

"Don't you know? You never split the party!
Cleric's in the back to keep those fighters hale and hearty
The wizard in the middle, where she can shed some light
And you never let that damn thief out of sight..."

Why of course you would, it's just everyday business with no relation to sudden ambushes. And of course I'll have to go first, I'm clearing the trail... sigh.

Dragos pushes Cornelius forward, hoping to somehow clear the trail for the others. "I guess we can kiss the tracks goodbye. Let's keep heading this way and hope for the best."
He keeps his eyes peeled for any more traps or foes.
Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (8) + 2 = 10

"Huh. Disappointing. Let's be on our way." says Dragos, spurring Cornelius towards the tracks.

"If it's no longer trapped, let's check inside, there may be something useful."

"Hurting the soul, huh?" says Dragos sullenly. "I don't know much about that, but I can see that it might be evil. Still... Oh, I'm no scholar of magic, what do I know. I'll just feather with arrows any other undead that comes my way. We'll leave as soon as we get this trap out of the way."

Just as Domitian's temper had risen at Ashley's words, Dragos' flares at the paladin's. "Oh, not entirely on board with mind control, are you? Moving bodies that the soul has departed, empty husks that would be left for carrion, is worse than robbing someone of their own thoughts? Pray tell, how is raising the undead a mockery of life, but enchanting a mind not a mockery of free will, something that's possibly even more important?"
It's evident from his sudden bitterness that you've hit a sore spot.

Sure he would return all the valuables, don't we have Mister Goody Two-Shoes here. Hope those stories of rich rewards turn out to be true.
"Yupp. Several fresh tracks, heading into the forest. We should hurry, more snow and they'll disappear. All ready?"
He mounts back on Cornelius, keeping an eye on the trail.

Eyes wide and bow hand shaking, Dragos looks at the bodies. My first real battle. The living dead. This is scary, and yet... "Desna's dimples." he pants. "You mean to tell me that you guys do this for a job?"
He dismounts his steed and starts looking at the ground for tracks. "Do the fae use undead? I don't know much about them, but from folk tales they didn't strike me as necromancers."
Survival: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 16

Attack, shooting in melee: 1d20 + 5 - 4 ⇒ (15) + 5 - 4 = 16
Damage: 1d8 ⇒ 5
Dragos lets loose another arrow, aiming at the corpse damaged by Domitian. Curses! Shooting in a fight is not as easy as hunting! I mustn't hit those two guys...

Still holding that readied arrow.
Eventual shot: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18
Damage: 1d8 ⇒ 2

"There!" As soon as he hears the movement, Dragos tries to bring it to his companions' attention, having Cornelius move closer. "Could be survivors? Hard to think they would be spared, they even murdered the handmaidens, be on your guard."
He draws a bead on the door, ready to fire. Keep calm. Calm. It will be like hunting. Just like hunting.
Readying an action to attack in case hostile creatures come out.

Dragos nocks an arrow, looking for any ambushers that might be waiting.
"I suppose that here is where Lady Argentea was ambushed. Eyes sharp."
Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (18) + 2 = 20

"Fire, eh? Well, I've got what we need, just in case." Dragos draws an arrow from his quiver, the tip covered in a tar-like substance. "Takes some time to light these, but they're hell of a lot effective for setting stuff on fire. Uhm, if Natharen or Tessarea ask, I don't own anything like this and I was most definitely not involved."

"I see." Dragos replies almost absent-mindedly. Then he slaps himself on the cheeks as if trying to wake up, steadies himself and starts stringing his bow. "Do you have any advice about dealing with fey? I seem to remember them being weak to the touch of iron, anything else you know?"

After you walk for a little while, you hear a horse galloping and Dragos reaches you, white-faced. He looks shocked, angry and confused all at once, and a battleaxe hangs at his belt. He slows to a trot and starts riding alongside you.
"Oh. Ah, here you are. Good, good. Uhm. I... Last thing I heard was that we were against some wintry fey, did you learn anything else?"
He looks distracted, as if his thoughts kept wandering somewhere.

"Fey? Here? So this cold is unnatural. Very well, you can catch up with Garran and go ahead, I'm going to Momma, then I'll take Cor and meet you on the road. See ya later."
With these words, Dragos starts walking quickly towards the edge of the village.

I was thinking about doing it offscreen and meeting back with the group on the road, just outside Heldren, so as not to swamp the narration.

Is it alright if Dragos is told offscreen by his mother the circumstances of his birth, in an attempt on her part to make him stay?
He'll catch up with the group on the road, since he dislikes most of the authority figures in Helgen (but when we get someplace else, he'll start acting like a proper face)

Head Councilor Teppen? Do we have to make a trip of all the most obnoxious people in Heldren? "Alright, if you're going to speak with Teppen, I'll take a quick trip to my Momma's house, tell her I'm going with you. I'll meet you on the road to the Border Wood, Cornelius can easily catch up with you." says Dragos, showing just a hint of uncertainty.

"Oh, right, Tessarea is here, I thought I felt someone silently judging me. Perhaps, uhm, it's better if you do the talking. I'd just have it all end in a shouting match. I- well, we could say I don't have an excellent relationship with the local clergy, as you may have noticed."

Dragos is intently munching hazelnuts and visibly ignoring Natharen.
"Cold as it may be, frostbite is excessive, magic must be afoot. We should head to the Apothecary if we still want to speak with him, then head towards the Border Wood." And I'll have to tell Momma. Better sooner than later, I guess.
He then badly pretends to be surprised at the sight of the priest.
"Oh, hiya, Nat, didn't see you there. Sorry if I leave suddenly, but I'd rather be anywhere but here."
He then carelessly strides out of the temple.

Urgh. Why the temple? I don't like the place.
Dragos takes Cornelius' reins, walking him towards the temple. "Let's get going, then, the sooner we get there, the sooner I can leave." And this one is a priest of that stuck-up Iomedae, goodness, if he starts preaching to me I'm leaving him in the Border Wood.

Not guard as in City Guard, the wounded escort of Lady Malassene.
Dragos steps outside, caressing Cornelius' black mane and whispering softly to him. "Perhaps we're about to leave this hole, big boy. Momma won't like that, but I couldn't stand another season here."
He then faces the others. "If you don't want to ride, I'll go your pace, but there's a stable nearby with some good horses. Not as good as my Cornelius, though."

"Well then," says Dragos, after gulping down the last of his ale, "no time like the present. Danby's probably just an old codger with too much imagination, I reckon Ashling was speaking about the woman's guard. He was wounded, guess he's still in the village. Or, if you'd like to go to the woods, I could try to follow the tracks of the attackers."
He gets up and stretches, then strings his bow in one smooth motion. "I'm taking my horse Cornelius, do you have a ride?"

Whoops, sorry, I thought Serena had said her name as well, mixed up gameplay and discussion, my bad.

"High Sentinel? Hardly. We have not had any offensive from Qadira for scores now, the Sentinels are little more than a militia. Nah, I'm just a hunter, good with a bow and great on a horse. Nice to meet you, Domitian, Garran, Serena, Ashling." He raises his mug in acknowledgment. "You look like travelers, if I'm not mistaken, what brought you to this sleepy little village? "