Slip won't overhear any side conversations, so I don't really have much to add until we get to Axebite.
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Slip smiles, tilting his head to the side and nodding. "Okay. Can do."
Feeling sheepish (and a bit foolish) for opening his mouth, Slip looks at the others and rotates his closed fist in front of his chest once more. Sorry. On the way to Axebite, Slip explains himself, revealing as much to his group as to Archie. "I have been told that I have a peculiar mind. I don't know how I know half of the things I do. Sometimes I just know things. And other times I don't. I don't know where I'm from, for instance. And sometimes it's hard for me to remember recent things or make new memories." For most people, this revelation might be discomfiting. But Slip brings it up with the ease of someone describing the color of the sky or the grass--a matter of fact. It might be the lack of intonation in his voice masking any sense of sorrow or resignation. Whether his mental state bothers or intrigues him is hard to pick up. Sense Motive DC 25 to get a read on him: He isn't concealing any information; what he's saying is entirely true as far as he knows. He has a form of anterograde amnesia with aspects of retrograde as well. And he isn't particularly bothered by it either. It's not a mystery to be solved or a deep tragedy. It's just a fact of his life.[/ooc]
"Reombarth, Defender of Civilization," Slip recalls. "He who appears when all hope seems lost." His eyes shift over to the dead bodies. "A powerful ally to have in these trying times, and certainly someone on whose good side I very much wish to be." Slip wonders, especially given that dragons tend to live for a long time, if it might remain prudent to avoid Reombarth for fear that he might remember them if encountered far into his future. But perhaps that would be interesting. Obviously they were supposed to keep Threshold secret. But a Dragon opposing the Tyrant? The more allies, the merrier. "If you have more to do out in the wilds, we can find our way. But if you're going back in to town as you said before lunch, we can follow you. With out deepest thanks either way."
Slip plumbs the depths of his knowledge for some sense of the dragon Reombarth. He struggles to recall much about the type of dragon he may be or what he may be capable of, but perhaps some of the dragon's deeds, both done and yet to occur, have been recorded in the annals of history. He relaxes a little bit as Archie seems to warm up to them again. "Thank you," he reiterates, a smile crossing his face once more.
Slip's face is wracked with emotions as he watches things spiral back into a semblance of control. He continues cleaning for a few more moments before settling back down. "I am a kayal," he says after a few moments. "And I know I look young, but I'm more than twice any of their ages. At least." His eyes gaze into the cooking fire for a while. "My benefactors have blessed me over the years. I may not be able to hear, but I can smell things most people can't. Things that tell me what a person is like. And you smell like bread. Warm and inviting and smelling like home. Endlessly deep, yet simple." He hugs his knees to his chest, uncertain. "It's a nice smell."
Slip doesn't scare easily. As Archie had said, he had far more than passing familiarity with Shadow. Shadows were as much a home as a reminder of the others. Those with far fewer scruples. But Archie's sudden turn rattles him such that Slip's mind begins to race, wondering what he had done or said wrong, what he had missed. This was supposed to have been a simple mission: his first for Threshold. And he had screwed it up. Stupid boy. Stupid, useless, fragile boy. M'not useless... Slip's mind begins spinning and he lets his gaze shift out of focus so that he misses most of what Senna says until she gets up and starts moving. "Mwhaf?" he murmurs, registering that he still has a spoon in his mouth. Food, too. Some of it dribbles out. He swallows the rest and wipes his sleeve to his lower lip. "I'm sorry," he says, his brow folding near in two. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." Stupid. Useless. Fragile. Weak. Craven. He splashes water into his bowl to clean it, seeming panicked as he rushes. "Sorry, sorry," he repeats, his hands occupied with cleaning but still fumbling with a clockwise rotation of a closed fist in the center of his chest. "Thank you for lunch, the Aurulent Eye bless you, sorry, thank you, sorry..."
Slip looks over at the others, a little uncertain. "Well that's just the thing about mutual aid, Mr. Archie, sir. We don't know what they might need, nor what they have to offer. If they've got more wheat than they can store but they need more salt to cure meat for the winter, maybe we can help. Or say they've got a lot of unspun wool but could use some raw iron. Or maybe the other way round. It sounds like you know the town better than us. What do they have, and what do they need?"
"Nothing in particular," Slip answers. "Knowing that goods are scarce and needs are high, we seek mutual aid." He almost sounds like an Abadaran for a moment.
Slip eats quietly, noticing the discomfort between Archie and Yash and wondering what it's about. He's not likely to pry by asking, but he's curious if he can pick up on the vibe.
Slip wishes for a moment that he had any sense of agriculture. But his home had been like this, too: scarce at best, and usually feeding people more through imports than any ability to cultivate foodstuffs. That he had developed any semblance of muscle was more a testament to what he had gained since leaving home. But he had learned to do with little. His part of food preparation completed for now, Slip sits down and waits. "Yes, thank you Archie."
Slip keeps looking back over at Archie's practiced knifework. It was impressive and unnerving. But he was giving no particular reason not to trust him. "Assbite," Slip says, trying to sound out the name of the town before shaking his head. No, that would be a strange name. Axe bite maybe? That made more sense. "No, Axbite." He looks for a nonverbal confirmation of that before smiling and getting back to helping with food prep. He summons an invisible hand to help with some of the tasks too tall for him to be comfortable (like stirring the pot), once again demonstrating a lack of need to speak any verbal components aloud. This also lets him focus more on watching the others' lips. "War makes life as hard for the wanderer as the spinster and the soldier," he says. "Especial when one side seeks the subjugation of the other." Even if they are fated to lose, thank the gods.
Not particularly keen on approaching the dead unnecessarily, Slip instead walks up to the pot and waves his hands over it in the telltale sign of spellcasting. But as he casts, he speaks no words. Whether he's employing some sort of metamagic or fulfilling the verbal components through manual signs is unclear (especially if no one else knows how to sign), but before long about 6 gallons of water fill up the pot. He repeats the process until the pot looks like it has enough water for a stew.
Caught between his historical knowledge and the warm feeling he got, Slip nods. "Lunch would be good. What are you making?"
Slip's mind swims as he catches sight of the sigil, and he lifts a silent prayer that Archie and Archepex are not the same person. If they were, then the four of them were probably already dead where they stood. "No," he adds. "We're not from around here." His throat dry, he presses on. "But we're looking to trade around here. Do you know of a town nearby that might be open to trading with some non-locals?"
Mmmmm...fresh bread. "Okay," Slip says, walking forward with no reservations. He looks at Senna's question and nods. He wasn't hungry yet, but he was sure he'd get there in due time. "I think he's okay," Slip tells the others confidently. "Come on." Sitting down on a log, Slip decides to introduce himself. "I'm Slip. I can't hear but I can read lips, so if you want me to hear you, make sure I'm looking at you." This phrase is accompanied with signs from his empty hands in the most common manual system associated with the Taldane empire. (It unfortunately didn't have much in common with Varisian Sign Language, and he'd be near-hopeless in Tian Xia, but...well, the Taldan Emprie had been enormous and he thinks that there must have been other Deaf people living at this time.
The eyes and the smile are nice, and Slip wants to believe them. But warm kindness often masked malice. Evil was one of those...odd words, fraught with shades of meaning. The signs--and Slip knew at least three that roughly translated the same--were rife with the negative connotation. Certainly there was the metaphysical and planar associations with undead and fiends, rife as they often were with raw negative energy. Then there were the philosophical questions of intent versus consequences versus adherence to rules. Most people who casually threw the word around didn't want to summon a linguistic debate when they used it. And the world rarely contained mustache-twirling villains cackling as though unfurling a banner declaring themselves and their plans as evil. Most evil was banal and carried forward with some sort of core justification from the actor. But it was complicated. And it always felt different. Sometimes there a color. Buzzing red was common, but sometimes evil was sickly yellow, or a hungry, yearning green. There was often a texture. Prickly and oily were both very common. The smells were the most varied: bouquets of intention were so common, almost sick-sweet potpourri to mask an inescapable residue of rotting meat. The astringence of a surgeon's tent, that attempt to wash away the iron tang of blood in the air, was also a usual find. Of course, sometimes people didn't try to hide it. The point was, evil wasn't always all bad. That was one of the first lessons Slip had had to learn: how to differentiate between the shades. To use this extra sense, this synesthetic bundle of phenomena, to understand a world often consumed by darkness. Darkness wasn't inherently bad either. Darkness was normal. But bad things hid in the dark sometimes. Took advantage of the dark to hurt others. Slip returns the old man's warm smile and lets his senses expand to take in the essence of his being.
Slip clears his throat to make sure his voice comes out the way he intends. He has little control over his tone or pitch, in spite of years of trying to understand what others in his life mean when they reference the concepts, so the old man gets what he gets. "Hello there," he says, doing his best to sound friendly. "Pretty morning for a grim task," he offers.
Slip encourages the circle around and points at the elderly man. "He looks too old to be a soldier," Slip says in his harsh whisper, beginning to mix in a few signs in case the others want to start picking some things up. "A local, perhaps, helping?" Hopefully helping. The kayal isn't eager to approach such an ominous scene, but he's ready to muster the courage if the others are.
Slip is happy to leave the horse-herding to someone who takes to it. He is careful to stay well out of hoof-kicking, head-smashing range. "Let's look at that smoke, or fog, or whatever it is," he offers.
Along the lake to the smoke and fog.
Slip is too focused to pay attention to what the others are saying, but turns back in time to see Lady Sable talking about doubling back. Hopefully he wouldn't need to ride a horse. He had never been particularly good at that. He nods and tries to help out with the burying efforts.
Slip has gingerly approached the horses, or rather strafed around them at a distance so that he could still see most of what the others were saying. An intrusive thought about the horses bubbles up from within him and he shakes it down. The sight of the leg had...no, not now. Shove it down. Not being good with anatomy, Slip turns his attention once more to look for other clues of what had happened. Those wisps of latent memory left behind, less in foot or hoof prints and more in...
...energy. "Or the livery might help us blend in," he offers. Surely the Whispering Tyrant had employed living among and within his armies of the dead, but why would this motley group be mistaken as such?
"Taldor," Slip says as he sees the green and blue of the empire emblazoned with the lion. What was their mythical lion creature called? The Gris-something...oh well. Contrary to popular belief, being deaf did not magically grant the deaf person supernaturally-enhanced senses. So the stench of death was not overwhelming. And unfortunately, for Slip, it was all too familiar. "If I recall correctly," Slip begins, swatting away a fly that had risen to his face, "That's the crest of the Taldan Empire. Back when it was an Empire. Which is now, of course." Didn't they still consider themselves an Empire even after all of their former colonies and territories had seceded? Oh well. "Taldan forces are here fighting alongside the dwarves of the Kingdom of Kraggodan and the Knights of Ozem of the lands that will become Lastwall." He wrinkles his nose in disgust. He knew that it was reasonable to expect the hungry dead, but it was still, well, gross to see rent limbs like this.
Slip blinks a few times as Yash's words, unsure if they were repetition or commentary. "Oh," he says, shrugging. He follows several paces behind the half-orc, not wanting to get in between him and the herd.
As Senna reappears, a bit too far for Slip to easily read her lips, Slip asks Yash and Lady Sable, "Did you hear what she said?" It doesn't immediately look like she needs their help. But maybe.
Slip blushes furiously, his shoulders rising and his breath catching. He turns to look at Lady Sable and Yash. "I wasn't...I didn't..." He huffs and looks back down into the grass to wait.
Before Senna disappears, Slip motions her over to him. "Just in case," he says "This should protect you." If she assents, Slip motions her to focus on his eyes. He takes a deep breath and maintains strong eye contact. One turquoise. One gold. His pupils grow so that very little of the iris is maintained, and then they suddenly snap back into their original small shape. If they're paying attention, Lady Sable and Yash might catch a glimpse of Senna's shadow flickering. "There," he reiterates. "Go ahead." Shadow Splinter: The mesmerist protects the subject against an attack and redirects the harm to someone else. The mesmerist can trigger this trick when the subject takes damage from an attack. The damage the subject takes is reduced by an amount equal to 3 + the mesmerist’s Charisma modifier (to a maximum of the total amount of damage the attack deals). Another creature within range of the original attack, other than the attacker, is affected by a shadow illusion that makes it appear as if the attacker is attacking that creature instead of the attacker’s actual target. This second creature takes an amount of damage equal to the amount by which the attack’s damage was reduced. This shadow doesn’t require a roll to hit and ignores cover and concealment, but the target can attempt a Will save to disbelieve the effect. If it succeeds at this save, it neither takes the damage nor believes the attacker targeted it. This trick can’t be triggered if there’s no eligible second creature within range to take the redirected damage. This is an illusion (shadow) effect.
Erebus looks a little nervous at the sight of the horses. He crouches down, trying to stay just out of sight, and tries to whisper. It's a harsh, ragged sound, more throaty than necessary, but it is a whisper. "I'm no good with animals. But saddles mean people. Probably."
With the tap, Slip turns. "Oh, don't worry, Ms. Senna," he responds. "No offense is taken." He mimics the tapping motion. "That's a good way to get my attention, by the by, though I prefer a wave in front of my face. Less chance I jump." He smiles. There were plenty of things in the world to jump at. The deer tracks lead Slip to subconsciously mirror the hoofed stride of the gentle beast for more than a few paces before he catches himself about to rub himself on a tree and shakes his head to rouse himself from doing something embarrassing. "Beautiful," Slip says of the dawn, not knowing that he had essentially repeated Senna's observation. He turns in time to see Senna discussing plans. "Lakes are good," he agrees. "People gather near waterways." Once he realizes that Senna's words don't make much sense in Taldane, he figures that she must be talking in another language. To Yash? His eyes glaze over and he tries to maintain attention for when someone else joins the conversation.
I like it! Let's see if any of these abilities are useful ^_^
Pleased that the others had seemed to pick up on his communication needs without him having to make them explicit, Slip grins at Yash and Senna. "I'm honored," he responds. "And I'll do my best. Not to die, that is." Outside the town, Slip grins at Senna's recommendation. "I'll leave the listening to you, if you don't mind. The rest though," he points to his eyes, glimmering in the moonset with a tapetum lucidum, "I can do." The small man seems keen to demonstrate himself useful right away, both in not drawing unnecessary attention and at helping to find tracks.
Your lunar gift becomes much more powerful when the moon is full. You gain a +1 trait bonus on Stealth checks. On dates during and after the first quarter of a lunar phase but before end of the last quarter (the half of the lunar cycle where the moon is fuller), this bonus increases to +2. During the full moon, this bonus increases to +4. In spite of his armor, he demonstrates himself as sneaky as Senna. But the true coup is when Slip seems to almost zone out and become like a dowsing rod. He draws out his scimitar and lets his feet carry him almost stumbling this way and that. The psychic searcher can use Sense Motive instead of Perception or Survival to both find and follow tracks, using the same DCs listed under the Survival skill.
If there had been people in his path, he'd find them. Maybe.
Slip smiles and flashes a thumbs up at Council Representative Lillibet. lɪləbɛt. A little harder to see, but not too bad. "Thank you!" As she leaves, Slip turns to the others, fixing his eyes on each in turn. "Yash. Senna. And...?" He indicates the lady with the hat, lingering on her for a moment. If they were to get to know each other--and it looked like the other three already did--he'd need all of their names at minimum.
Slip furrows his brow in confusion. Had he done that thing where he only thought he had spoken? He thought he'd gotten rid of that habit by now. He smiles up at Yash: jaʃ. Another easy-to-see name, aided by that light lip rounding on the end. "Slip," he responds, tapping his chest twice. He also bows at the lady with the pillbox hat and shakes her hand. Then he reiterates his question. "uuuhhh," he starts, touching his throat to make sure he was vibrating, "Yeah, I still had a question. Is there anything that we should not do? Like, I would prefer to avoid harming locals."
Erebus' eyes flit from person to person as he takes in the conversation, mostly focusing on their words. He often missed the first word or two of what each person said as he reacted to where people were facing and adjusted himself, so it took a lot of concentration to piece things together. It would be mostly a trade mission with some potential for more, for good or ill. He'd have time to figure out what he thought about his new team later. When Senna introduces herself, he watches her lips and tongue carefully. ˈsɛˌnə. A nice, easy name to see, unless there was something further back that he had missed. "I'm Slip," he says in response, his voice high-pitched and slightly nasal. "Nice to meet you, too." Then he goes back to watching. Slip waves his hand to draw attention to himself, letting out a little bit of a gravelly sound in preparation for speaking once he could be confident that eyes were on him. "yyyyyYes, thank you. Is there anything that we should not do? I would prefer to avoid harming locals, for instance." Slip's voice isn't necessarily monotone, but there's something off about the way he speaks, certain words going up or down in pitch in unexpected ways.
Canto seems very useful! Switched Canto with Celestial. And yes, this is Erebus' third campaign. In his second outing in an insane asylum, he met an interesting person that he only ever knew as "Short Hair," but she seemed like she would have become a cool person to get to know. Then again, Sabelina seems like quite the personality.
Ta-da! I have arrived!
Metal skin didn't always make a good scout jingle, especially if the scout had drawn on several powers both hallowed and unhallowed to clothe themselves in darkness. The world had always been quiet for Slip, and had usually shown itself in shades of gray. Color was rare and sound nonexistent. Some people looked sad when they learned this from Slip. But it was just true. There was no need to be sad. Still, learning to be quiet while wearing half your body weight in metal--which the others said was very loud--was a challenge worth learning. He was still learning it. But he was now easily able to sneak up on lots of people. That made the fact that Council Representative Lillibet had shown up suddenly in front of him all the more surprising. He was better by far at hiding than noticing, but he still prided himself on noticing. Slip smiles up at Madame Lillibet. It might be easy to mistake him for a human child, except that his proportions (and beard) suggested that he was fully grown. Some thought he might be an albino halfling save that his ears were not pointed he stubbornly wore boots. And though he would not be keen on showing off his feet, they wouldn't be topped with tufts of curly hair like those plentiful smallfolk. Then, perhaps a gnome gone through and survived the bleaching? The coloration was about right, though he was too tall by far and lacked the stereotypical eerie personality. Still, his skin was stark white and his hair (although not currently visible) was a deep violet shade. Slip was a kayal: or more commonly in in Taldane--fetchling. He was just a particularly short one. Today he was wearing a full suit of plate armor polished to deep black. Fashioned into the armor is an emblem of a crescent jade moon inlaid with burnished gold showing the phases of the moon from new to full, stretching from tip to tip to highlight a core cycle of time. A curved scabbard, its shape suggesting it might house a scimitar within, is secured high on his waist. "Say that again," he says, looking up at her to reveal heterochromatic eyes: one eye a brilliant blue-green and the other a shimmering gold, "But make sure I can see your lips."
This would not be my first campaign to die an unceremonious death (the 8th in the last year, unfortunately, more than half after fewer than 2 combats), but it would be the second of this AP. Tomorrow will mark 5 weeks of radio silence from the GM. I applied for this because Erebus is one of my favorite characters and I missed playing him. But I think after this I will not be applying for any games with GMs who do not have a consistent, established track record. It was nice playing with you all, however brief it was.
Slip's eyes widen as the overgrown, terrifying rat-like creature falls to his blade, and turns his attention to the final beast. He would almost feel sorry for it if it had not attacked them without provocation. But perhaps it was fear. Misguided, animalistic fear. There was no helping it. Slip dodges under Short Hair's enormous weapon to get into a flanking position with the half-orc.
Unfortunately the adrenaline of killing something detracts from rather than enhancing his swing, which is wildly off-target. His breath catches and he looks up into the half-orc's eyes. He knew who the enemy was, right?
Yikes...that sounds decidedly unpleasant. I hope you have an opportunity to rest now. --- With the initiative block as this: Dire Rat 2
Aren't we all up? I of course want to make sure that everyone has a chance to go, but I'll post an action for the sake of expediency.
Slip's first kill! ...Or is it?
As rats scurry out from under the boiler, Slip's voice squeaks a bit in surprise. He grips his dagger uncertainly and stabs at the zoog that had been savaged by the snake.
Of course, he's small, so there isn't much danger from his blows, but maybe it will be enough to help.
I'm fond of Roll20, but there is a definite learning curve. Google Slides is relatively straightforward, as is Google Drawings (though I prefer the Slides of the two). Both essentially allow you to insert an image of the map along with tokens on top. Here is a nice post from a couple of years ago that gives a quick briefing on Slides. Here is one on Drawings.
Slip sneezes as he comes out of the vents and into the boiler room, beginning to feel some of the residual heat of the fire that Ardent had set. He doesn't like the look of that green light under the boilers but stands closer towards it than the doors. The others could hear, and so a closed door probably wasn't a source of anxiety for them. But for Slip, in an unfamiliar place that had already proved to be hostile, a door was disquieting. After puttering around for a bit, he watches as Ardent and Petra stand close to the boiler. He nods towards them and draws his dagger in his left hand while holding his right arm is strapped with a buckler. He feels uncomfortable around the half-orc, but since he was taking up a position near the front of exploration, Slip figures it might be good to have some sort of quick, quiet communication. Varisian Sign Language needed some modifications to work when you had things in one or both hands, but Slip could manage. He balls his right fist up and shifts the grip of his dagger so that the blade is facing inward down his forearm, not obstructing the view. He puts his left fist in front of his chest, and then slides his right fist up over the left one twice, with the thumb extended. "One time means threat. Two times means danger," he whispers, signaling to Ardent to try. Petra would already know those signs, Slip hoped. And if she did find any danger, she could signal for backup.
Token made and icon placed. It's probably a little hard to see, but it's a supremely downsized version of this picture. My creepy little halfling ^_^
Hi all. I want to apologize for my extended absence. First things first, I fully intend to keep up with the campaign if you’ll still have me. Second, I’ll offer an explanation. (Posting this to all of my currently active campaigns). I wish I could say that there was one big thing, but instead it was a lot of small to medium things. Physical and mental health problems, almost 20% of my waking hours spent traveling in the last month and a half, some work-related woes, the stress of the holidays, internet outages, writer’s block, etc. In the few times that I had sufficient time and energy to even look at the Paizo boards, I found myself overwhelmed by the high number of new posts and was experiencing terrific guilt and anxiety about having missed so much. I have been composing this message for a couple of days now, trying to provide a semblance of apology. And now I am trying to catch up in earnest. Thank you for your patience with me, especially those who reached out here or on Discord. I tried my best to respond as I was able, but I know I missed some of you.
Just giving a second to Cole's recommended marching orders.
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