Dustfingers's page

Can someone mark this inactive? Nothing short of Tar-Baphon himself could raise this corpse.

I fear we must lay this game to rest...

I vote a little more time. I understand if stuff gets in the way, but unless he at least gives us a reason or time-frame for what's going on I'm going to have to move towards action. Otherwise this game was slow to begin with.

Good question

I think I struck out at the "zoog" on my first attack, so I'll do it again.

Dodging the wild swing of Devram, Dustfingers' claws made to strike again.

Claw 1: 1d20 ⇒ 5
Attack 1: 1d4 ⇒ 1
Claw 2: 1d20 ⇒ 13
Attack 2: 1d4 ⇒ 4

Thrown off by dodging the hammer, his claws went wide. I missed one at least, probably the other one too.

Crying out in surprise, by instinct Dustfingers lashed out with his hands, the flesh of his fingers splitting as claws extended from the tips.

Full-round attack to try and hit with both claws.

Claw 1 Attack: 1d20 ⇒ 15
Claw 1 Damage: 1d4 ⇒ 1
Claw 2 Attack: 1d20 ⇒ 15
Claw 2 Damage: 1d4 ⇒ 1

Just barely, lol

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (6) + 4 = 10

"Hello, what's this?" Dusty walks into the boiler room, headed towards the boilers while bending his knees to peer underneath.

"I agree." Dustfingers nods to Fifteen and tries the door knob. Looking over his shoulder at the others before giving it a turn. If it is not locked, he'll open it

"I think I'd prefer our chances being at their best. Let's collect the one we already killed and try and find two more. I don't recall there being more to explore downstairs, so let's do a variant of your plan and see what else is up here?"

Dustfingers had started licking his lips nervously at the mention of more corpses. He had an idea of why he was like this, and he feared the connotations he'd have to face if that were true. This fear influenced his desire to not return underground, the temptation of his "true self" - the one he could not remember - could prove too great.

"Perhaps forward? I've come to find that moving forward can present solutions to current predicaments." Dustfingers held his hand towards the next door before proceeding in that direction. Hearing the conversation between Renlo and the guards, the elf stood at the doorway and asked: "What's going on? Are we good?"

Hearing voices, Dustfingers maneuvers through anyone still on the stairwell and into the fog garden. He keeps himself low to the ground, crouching so as to say away from the nightmarish mist.

Seeing the stiff woman staring upwards and not moving, he thought she might have ... no, her smell was not one of decay. Curious, Dustfingers poked her shoulder blade with a gaunt finger, hoping for a reaction.

"Hey, we should keep moving."

Dustfingers lingers at the foot of the stairs, waiting for anything else to happen and for the stairwell to clear up. He crosses his arms, looking up and licking his lips nervously.

The elf bowed to Renlo, offering the door to him. "I didn't hear anything, go for it."

Will: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (15) + 3 = 18

Seeing more corpses was unsettling, but it only served to remind Dustfingers of how hungry he was. He tried not to let the others see this by deliberately avoiding looking at the pile of meat.

Bluff: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (3) + 8 = 11

Removing his head from the chimney, Dustfingers looked back at the others. "I believe it is more complicated than that. Criminals, I think, aren't tortured and mutilated like that. If I had to guess," the elf moved towards the other door, going to see if it was locked, "we were victims of that monster's perverse game. With it dead, we should try and get out. I doubt staying here will help us remember anything."

Reaching the door assuming I'm not stopped, he puts his hand on the handle and his ear to the door, listening for noise on the other side.

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (2) + 4 = 6 I guess the chatter is distracting, lol

Deal :)

Or would it be the A-pun-calypse?

"A shapeshifter?" Dustfingers looks down at the retired doctor's form, licking his upper lip. "I wonder..."

He then hears the catfolk call out about their possessions, and he follows her voice into the room and reclaims a heavy cloak, a staff with an iron spiral hanging from one end on a leather strip, and a small bag. He fishes out a small clear bottle holding a viscous liquid, swirls it around, and then puts it back into the bag before pulling out a small coin purse. He weighs it in his hand before putting it back as well.

"Has anyone found a way up yet?" He looks around nervously. "I'd like to not be down here any longer than I must, friends."

My, how the tables have turned. You are Ragnarok, but I am the Punpocalpyse.

I wonder if he was "Loki" hoping he'd take Fenrir with him.

All my good rolls are already gone. Go ahead, Ragnarok, do your worst. :)

Will Save: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20

Standing over the corpse upon the table filled Dustfingers with ... hunger? He knew he should be sad-disgusted-fearful, but the sight of death made his mouth water.

Shaking his head, Dustfingers followed the others into the side room. He peeked his head inside and was hit be the sick-sweet smell of decay. His stomach made an unnaturally loud grumble as he saw the corpses, causing his hand to cover his mouth in embarrassment.

Bluff: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (20) + 8 = 28

"I'd ask, but I'm sure I am as confused as everyone else here. As for who I am, I grew up being called Dustfingers. I'm not sure that is my real name, more like a nickname? That's all I can remember."

Pausing for a moment to witness his cellmate take down the masked doctor, Dustfingers figured he had the opportunity. He ran to the other cells and tried the keys on their locks. He'll open the doors and allow the others to escape, focusing on getting them out.

"Come on! Come on! Let's go!"

Once the others are out, he's going to rush to the man on the table. If he is tied down, Dustfingers will release him from his restraints.

A yelp escaped Dustfinger's lips as the catfolk struck out at the now clearly bloodthirsty doctor. As the attack landed, the claws cleaved the keys from his belt, launching the ring into the elf's cell.

Seeing this, Dustfingers took advantage of the chaos and grabbed the keys, rushing to unlock his cell door.

"No! I refuse to die underground!" He shrieked, not knowing why. I'm assuming this is a basement level

I don't think that there's much ol' Dusty can do, so I'll hold my action?

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (12) + 4 = 16

Dustfingers, seeing the doctor descend the stairs, lets go of the bars and backs away slowly, averting his gaze and wringing his hands. A hospital? No, worse, an asylum. Why? Is it because of that dream? He holds his head in his hands, shaking feverishly. Why can't I remember?

Sorry for the delay, guys. Misunderstood how things were working. Also, I don't notice nada with that Perception.

Startled by the awakening, Dustfinger's body jerked about as he thought he had crashed into the collapsing floor. His eyes popped open, and frantically darted around.

The catfolk's hiss caused a slight jump, but he did not relax when he saw her. "What in--!"

Her shush convinced him to keep his mouth shut, and he simply nodded. He watched as she went to work, her delicate claws clicking about inside the locks. Hearing other stirrings, the elf saw the others dealing with nightmares of their own in cells to either side of him.

Rising from his mat he heard the whisper from the man across the hall. Dustfingers padded over on bare feet, gripping the bars and pressing his face between two. "How?" he asked, asking more than one question with that one word. How did we get here? How can we help?

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (1) + 4 = 5

Fair enough, just so I understood

We're waiting for everyone to die off/wake up before we proceed with the waking, right?

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (16) + 4 = 20

Running down a collapsing pathway can lead to unforeseen backtracking. As a falling alley wall caused the elf to scramble out of the way, his eyes were cast back in time to see what looked like a shrouded corpse carve up a strange chimera of human and feline. The fog consumes what remains and roils onwards.

"No no no..." His legs found themselves again and fought to outpace the hungry mist, his thin mouth feverishly chanting "No" as if in desperate prayer.

Seeing the word appear just out of his line of sight, Dustfingers hissed "Yesss!" as the bones in his fingers burst out from the tips to form disgusting claws. Using these, he leapt up to the falling rubble and tried to outclimb the collapse.

Climb: 1d20 ⇒ 16

A gaunt, yellowed specimen of an elf, perhaps so colored from the baleful fog's unnerving glow, scrambled on long legs down the collapsing path presented to him.

Init: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (15) + 6 = 21

His black eyes were wide, and his mouth was open in fevered panting.

Bello! Glad to have made the cut! Looking forward to this adventure!

When will we know who made it? I think it has been a week?

I'll jump on the bandwagon too ...

Memories: 1d3 ⇒ 1

One thing? I'll let the DM pick what that will be should I make the cut.

This is TheChelaxian's submission, a elf with a past he'd loved buried.