Giving up at trying to pass this invisible wall, Felstad decides to try something different. "To the docks!" he shouts, leading the way down there.
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Thinking the demons to be more illusions sent by his fevered mind to torment him, Felstad tries his best to ignore them and shake Mao loose from her paralysis. "C'mon! We must keep moving!" he cries as he shakes her.
"I'm developing an intense dislike of horses," the old man comments to Mao as they both follow Reggie, on foot.
"There are signposts outside of town. We'll figure it out on our way out. Let's go to the guildhouse, and escape this city while we can!" Felstad hobbles out in front of the group as they head for the wagons that Mao found out about.
Felstad struggles to get the horse to follow him, but winds up just falling on his ass. "Fine! Fine, damn you, I'll leave you behind!" he scowls at the beast as he leaves the stables. If anyone gives him a questioning look, he'll make an angry gesture at the stables and say "YOU try taming it! What's our next move?"
Felstad is no horse-master, but he knows a little bit from his past time as a soldier. He attempts to calm the wild horse down so he can fit it with a harness and climb up on it.
Felstad looks around, not for the crow's nest, but for any signs of a horse's harness and halter. The old man's voice is once again calm and collected now that the end he has prophesied is actually here. "Quickly, look about us for any signs of a stagecoach or a wagon," he shouts to the others over the sounds of the screaming and destruction outside. "We can lash this horse to a wagon that we can use to escape this city."
Feel better soon!
Felstad looks for a nearby alley or somewhere they could duck into to make progress and avoid the worst of the crowds. Is there a way to do this? Perhaps by climbing a fence or something?
Felstad hobbles off after the others as fast as his old legs will carry him.
I like the idea.
Felstad skids to a stop after a few steps, nearly falling over from the momentum. "You're right..." he admits, staring at the skies ahead with a look of concern on his face. He turns to her. "Where to, then? I will follow your lead, Sunblade, you need only to choose a direction."
The visions of horror happening right before his eyes are a validation of the horrible truths that he has known were coming all along. Amidst the chaos, he feels a breeze coming in from the direction of the harbor, and whirls around to face its direction. "Come on!" he shouts, his voice stern and firm for the first time, revealing a trace of his former life as a soldier. "We've gotta move out, NOW! Run for the harbor, we'll take a ship and escape the dragon!" Without another word, and clutching at his cane, the old man hobbles off toward the Harbor District as quickly as he's able.
"Yes...you're right, of course...time to go..." the old man is muttering in a quiet voice, but the madness appears to have left him for now. He reaches for his cane, but it seems to jerk away from his fingers briefly, as if an invisible child was playing a mischievous game with him. With a grunt of irritation, he grasps it by reaching out farther, and drags it to him, hooking it up under his armpit. He nods with resolution at Mao Phan. "Ready," he says, "Lead on."
"Ahaha...hee...hoo hoo.." the deranged old prophet's laughing trails off as Mao addresses him. He turns to her, his eyes wild, but clear, without any trace of the madness that was plaguing him just seconds before. "We must fight alongside her." he points insistently to Jamira. "She is the key. To EVERYTHING, you understand? EVERYTHING! She is the one to save us! The savior! Right there!" he stabs the air in her direction over and over. He crawls over to Jamira on his hands and knees, clasping his hands together before her. "Please," he begs her, "the prophecies...you have to know what to do. You have to! What do we do? WHAT DO WE DO?" he shouts insistently at her, as the world seems to burn all around him.
Felstad falls to his knees. As terrible as the visions were, the truth of reality is infinitely worse; he knows this is real, this is actually happening. The heat sears his face, instantly evaporating the tears that stream from his eyes. His fingers clutch vainly at the sky as he sobs in despair. "It's real, it's real, IT'S HAPPENING!" he shouts, and his sobbing turns to maniacal laughter. He clutches his own chest with both arms and rocks back and forth, giggling madly.
Felstad gulps down the last remnants of his soup and stands, knocking over the bowl in his haste to follow Jamira. She's the important one...keep her alive... he mutters to himself.
Felstad shakes his head mysteriously. "No offers need be made, Sunblade. My beliefs are not a matter of faith. They are only a matter of time." He falls silent, only interacting further when directly spoken to, for the rest of the evening.
Felstad looks up at Jamira, making direct eye contact with her. His eyes show no irises, no pupils, only a solid white. From his perspective, the flustered woman standing before him is wreathed in a destiny of fire and wrath, blood and glory. Demons beset her from every side but her righteousness is untouched. He blinks a few times, rubbing his eyes and looking at her again. His eyes have returned to normal. "The visions aren't wrong," he says stubbornly, lowering his head again, still in a kneeling position. Without looking up, he mutters, "They're never wrong..." After a moment, he takes a deep breath. On the exhale, the old man rises to his feet again, grimacing at the pain in his joints. With difficulty, he seats himself once again. "Mark my words," he says, quietly, to those at the table. "None of these people matter. They will fall like wheat before the scythe. Only we have any hope at all of standing before the coming darkness. If we fail, all will be consumed."
Felstad turns his attention to the ale that Mao sets before him and drinks deeply, finishing the tankard in one draft and setting it down with a huge exhalation of air. He hunches forward in his seat and clutches at the tankard with both hands. "This...this is all happening for a reason, it...ah..." he clutches at his temple a moment, closing his eyes as a painful headache spikes. His eyes open again without moving his hand from his temple, his slightly crazed eyes flicking from Mao to Reggie, to the silent kitsune Kuzu next to her, and finally to Jamira, the woman of fire. "Gathered 'round the table,
"But then those who would gather
He stares into his empty mug, then looks up at Jamira. He speaks and his voice is clear and steady for the first time since you've met him. "It's clear to me now. You are to be the leader of the last hope, the screaming against the dark. And we are to fight alongside you." the wizened old man stands up from his table, and kneels before the ifrit, hiding a quiet groan of pain in his joints as he does so. "I will follow you until the ending of this world. I have seen it. Though we may perish in shadows and flame, I will perish as a knight in your service." It's a variation of the oath that military servicemembers of Absalom take. Other patrons of the bar are openly staring in astonishment. Some are tittering. Felstad pays them no mind, remaining in a kneeling position before Jamira, with his head lowered.
Felstad stares down into his soup a moment, remembering the visions. His hands begin to tremble all on their own, and he steadies them by gripping the edge of the table. "My...visions," he begins, keeping his voice low, "they started when I came home from the War. I'd see the gods...Iomedae, Sarenrae, Abadar...walking, talking, eating, sleeping, laughing like you or I. Then a darkness came. It rose out of the ground and it plagued the skies." his voice is starting to get louder, trembling forcefully as the memories of the visions begin to return in earnest. "Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn! The beetles, the beetles! Oh, for the lost virtues of eons past! For the first time we have risen, and I see we are being consumed. I see circles that are not circles. Billions of dead souls inside containment. Unravellers have eaten our country's moral fabric, turning hearts into filth. They are from a kingdom level above man, above gods! What does that yield? A death smile that he pounds his fist, holding his spoon, against the table. He nearly knocks over his soup bowl in his emphasis. He looks over at Mao in hasty embarassment, seeming to come back to himself, if only briefly. He sits down and covers his face with his hands, dropping the spoon to the table with a clatter. Other patrons are starting to look in this direction curiously. "There is no hope. The wise ones have shown that not even the virtuous will be spared. Eaten whole by void. The hole inside. The hungering blackness. The squirming, crawling, oozing dark." He pushes away the soup bowl and begins to sob into his hands. He can hear the demons taunting him from just outside the inn, waiting for their time to eviscerate his soul. They torment him even in his despair. Silence falls over the tavern, punctuated only by the old man's tears. You hear other patrons beginning to mutter among themselves nervously, and a couple get up to leave.
Felstad glances over at Mao with a little fear in his eyes, and pulls his half-eaten bowl of soup a little closer to himself protectively. He recalls the last time he was in this bar, and how he was thrown out on his ass and banished for talking too much about the end of the world. "I...er, I'd better not..." he mutters, lowering his voice and glancing from Mao to his precious bowl of soup. "People, ah...people don't like when I go into great detail."
"Leaving this city is wise," the old man says, nodding sagely before spooning more soup into his mouth. "Doom is coming, and none will be spared. It's a terrible thought."
"Ifss hardly prabate," says Felstad with a mouth full of soup. He swallows, coughs a little, pounds his chest, and tries again. "It's hardly private," he continues, gesturing around at the bar. "Those fools just needed a lesson. Happy to help, in exchange for some soup. Besides, can't let a ruffian challenge a pretty girl and go unanswered, eh?" He smiles, revealing a dirty mouth full of teeth so foul that they're almost black. The man has clearly been living in abject poverty for a long time, judging from the state of his oral hygiene. He goes back to his soup, scarfing it down messily in his enthusiasm. His face is practically in the bowl from having shoved his head lower, in order to make the distance from bowl to mouth very short for his spoon to travel. The beggar clearly hasn't eaten a decent meal in days.
Felstad looks down at the soup. A human eyeball looks back up at him from within the broth, and blinks at him. The old man covers his face and tries not to vomit in disgust. It's not real, it isn't real, it isn't real... he mutters to himself, keeping his hand across his eyes. He lifts his hand up again to look down at his soup...the eyeball was actually just a bit of onion. He sighs in relief, and tucks in to the soup, slurping it down off of his spoon hungrily.
Felstad hears something tenebrous and evil scratching at the window and whirls in its direction, brandishing his knife and shouting at whatever demon was dragging its claws against the glass. "Hieahahaaya!" he shouts, waving his knife around a few moments and startling the patron sitting beneath the windowsill. Realizing his error a few seconds afterward, the old man quickly sets the knife back down on the table with a clank and turns back to Mao. He's visibly sweating. "N...name! Name, oh yes, my name. They call me 'Felstad,' miss. Felstad." he gratefully sinks into a chair and grabs the nearest spoon in anticipation. Nearby restaurant patrons pick up their plates and move an extra table away from him in veiled disgust.
The old man cautiously approaches Mao (when he is able to,) still holding his table knife at the ready in case the last man tries anything. "Doom is coming. But it will not take you this day," he intones, hesitantly holding out his hand. If she doesn't flinch away, he rests his old and rough-skinned palm on her arm, and casts Cure Light Wounds.
Felstad brandishes his table knife at the man that dropped his buckler. "Leave this place now or we'll hold you here until authorities come," he growls at the man, revealing part of his old personality as a soldier.
I'll post my action after I see what the "mystery man" does!
"Oh you will, will you..." the old man mutters as he grasps the kitchen knife. "Have a taste of my fear and my doubt, young one." With that, the old soldier touches the blade of the knife to his lips, and points it at the cutlass-wielding man fighting Reggie. All around the oracle, negative emotions begin to crowd into the minds of the bar patrons, and the thugs assaulting them.
I'm still going for the improvised weapon, a kitchen knife.
Hope your emergencies are resolved and okay now. I'm still hanging out!
Pity. It had great potential.
While the others are acting, Felstad casts about himself, and grabs a steak knife from a nearby table on his turn!
Felstad had had enough. His old soldiering instincts are being revived by the actions of this bully. He reaches out one hand toward the man with his knife at Reggie's throat. "Enough!" the old man's voice rings out, displaying a shadow of its former, youthful authority. Without realizing it, the outstretched arm of the former soldier unleashes magic on the man. Burning Disarm:The cutlass that ruffian is holding becomes red-hot in the hilt, roll Reflex to drop it or take 1d4 damage!
Holy mother of... Felstad thinks to himself, wondering if the colors were another hallucination. He stares at his hands, seeing if the skin is crawling or his vision is wobbling. No...must be a real spell then...that girl... he stares at Mao Phan from his hiding place behind the barely-opened front door.
Hearing voices he's recognized before, the old soldier narrows his eyes, trying to remember. It's no good. Nothing comes to mind. He has to see the face to place the voice. Slowly cracking open the door, the beggar tries to sneak inside the establishment without being noticed and summarily shouted out of the place.
Really? Oh cheese and crackers, I had no idea you were waiting on me. I'm just listening at the door, not doing anything yet. I'll just post a quick update about that.
Very military. I like it, personally.
Felstad recognizes the man with the cutlass' voice as it cuts through the haze surrounding his mind. The voice of his tormentor...a man that takes pleasure in beating him whenever he crosses his path. Felstad made the grave error of begging for scraps from the man...that was enough to earn the man's eternal scorn and enmity. Unable to enter, the crazed old man presses his ear tightly to the tavern door, heedless of the fact that the next person to exit the establishment would likely smash him in the head. No matter. He needs to hear what he's saying. The visions begin to creep back in at the corners of his peripheral vision, but he squeezes his eyes shut to block them out, and focuses on listening. No. There's no demons laughing at him from the street. They aren't real. They aren't real. They aren't real. THEY ARE NOT REAL. The mantra goes on and on inside his own head.
Visions of the Seer: Demons...demons living under the skin of normal people that pass by on the street. There...a man just licked underneath his own eyeball, did no one see it?
The old man stands up in the street, his eyes wildly darting back and forth, staring at the faces of the people living their own lives all around him. He double-takes frequently, seeing threatening movement in his peripheral vision every time he turns around. Faces seem to snarl at him from all around. Teeth flash before his eyes, snapping just short of rending his flesh. Tears stream down his face as memories from his army life in the past bleed into horrific visions of events yet to come. The oracle feels heat born of his own imagination scorching the skin on his back. He whirls around, and the building he was cowering in front of is ablaze with purple and green witch-flames. He recoils in horror and takes a few steps back, nearly bumping into a passerby, who shoves him roughly out of his way, causing him to tumble to his knees. The visions are gone again, but he knows they will return. Gathering up his meager possessions he retreats to his lean-to in the alley next to the tavern's front door, shuddering in revulsion, his eyes constantly checking all around him.
Merry Christmas, everyone, belatedly ;)
Felstad gnaws on the crust of hard bread he was thrown, staring at the doors to the tavern. Since last week he wasn't welcome there, having spent too much time standing atop a table and ranting about the end of the world. His mouth hurt from dryness - screaming all day with little water and naught but bread to gnaw on. As his gaze remains fixated on the doorway, his eyes roll back in his head as more visions of the apocalypse torment him. He sees the world around him burning, and rolls over onto his side, whimpering in fear in the street.
I'd probably recommend submitting Reggie elsewhere. This DM clearly doesn't have what it takes to successfully run a campaign on these boards. Sorry to be harsh, but I'm sick of waiting on him to actually get the ball rolling. I'm pulling out myself, too.
As always, we're all here except the DM. Respectfully, TPK, I think you bit off more than you could chew. You're barely posting anything anywhere.
"Please miss, can you spare a crust of bread for an old soldier?" Felstad begs, falling to his knees before Reggie as she approaches the front door of Kuzu's bar.
Every morning at dawn, Felstad rises, unable to pretend to sleep any longer due to the terrifying dreams he always experiences when he's asleep. This morning was no different. In the market square, he has climbed up on a soap box, and even now he harangues the crowd with crazed retellings of what he has Seen. "Apocalypse! Ruin! The End of All Things! Ragnarok! All of man's great works brought low! Weep and gnash your teeth against the coming of the true death of the world! Savor each and every one of these halcyon days while you may, for they are ending soon! Very soon! Oh, so very soon!" He continues ranting and raving in this way for many hours before begging for something to eat.
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