Filbert Larimer's page

Filbert Knows A Thing: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22

Hurray!

Reflex: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (8) + 4 = 12

Filbert shows his age as he slowly reaches out one hand in the rough direction of everyone's papers.

Stealth: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (16) + 4 = 20

Filbert, leaning against the wagon tiredly, notices the guard watching and acts quickly, while her attention is diverted by Karsus and Rax. Using the advantage of Hampton's cover, he surreptitiously pulls a knife from his coat, reaches over, and slices off the errant tuft, stuffing it (and the knife) back into his tattered coat afterward.

Filbert glowers at the foolish (or malicious?) young man for a moment, then, quick as the youngster he once was, produces a bit of balled-up fuzz from his pocket and raises his own hand to toss it to Flitch in a well-planned game of "catch the fuzz"! Telekinetic projectile to help Filbert's attempt at pretending Flitch's hand is up for a different reason?

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

Hrm. I'd normally roll with that, but I'm guessing the results here would significantly hinder our operation. Thus... I leave it to the rest of you as to whether it gets rerolled! DM, you get a vote too. I'd say if 3 of you want it rerolled, let it be so.

I have not viewed the result of the reroll.

Filbert grunts in disgust when his salty snowball misses. "Used to be better at that, I think..." he mutters, reaching up with one hand to thoughtfully scratch the stubble on his lower cheek. With a sudden grimace, he screws up his face and sneezes in the rough direction of the snippy creature! Acid splash.

Attack: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (2) + 7 = 9

"Hey, look out there," mutters Filbert as his raft spins in the water and he's thrown to the side, barely catching his hand on the stone giant to prevent himself from falling into the water. After a distracted glower at the blond Vercingeterax, the older man grunts and turns his attention back to the drama in the water.

With another frown, he grabs a handful of water and squeezes it into a compact ball of salt, which he throws at the remaining lobster-creature!

If he needs to, he'll first use an action to paddle the raft down-left a bit.

Snowball: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (13) + 7 = 20
Damage: 2d4 ⇒ (3, 1) = 4

"Hrmph," grunts Filbert, clambering forward and squinting at the lobster-creature pensively. "Hrmph!" he adds, reaching down into the water and rubbing a bit of it between his fingers. After a moment he gives a final grunt and flicks the water toward the other raft, shaking his head and turning his attention back to the one he's on.

5' step, cast grease on Zandu.

Looks like Rax managed the raft-building quite well!

Is there anything else that needs doing?

Filbert wanders over to the table with the poorly-forged documents on it and sits down to study them. After a moment he picks one up, shakes his head, wads it into a ball, drops it on the ground, and proceeds to step on it. A moment later he does the same with the rest, and then he smiles a crooked smile and takes a break from his hard work.

Society (existing document bonus): 1d20 + 6 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 6 + 2 = 20

After a few minutes of resting, the older man reaches down and picks up the documents, flattens them out a bit, and gives a satisfied nod.

Filbert will go along with whatever!

Filbert grimaces, then frowns. After a moment he wads up his dirty handkerchief and sends it flying at the fugitive fleer! I larned me a new word today!

Snowball, stride.

Snowball: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (13) + 7 = 20
Damage: 2d4 ⇒ (1, 1) = 2
And a 5ft bonus* to his speeds for 1 round on success.

Filbert narrows his eyes at the crates before him, knowing that a young whippersnapper in need of a lesson awaits him on the other side. With a grunt of effort and ever-increasingly loud breath, he crawls over the crates toward the miscreant!

"I'm"—huff—"not as young"—puff—"as I once was," he mutters to himself.

Finally reaching the other side, he crows in triumph and pulls a grubby handkerchief out of his pocket. After wiping his brow (and leaving a dark streak in the handkerchief's wake), he rings out the handkerchief and blows the oily residue toward the fleeing foe!

Stride, cast grease as shown... assuming I can do that from current position.

"Mustn't allow that, now..." mutters Filbert, the air whistling through his lips on the sibilant. "Hehehe... you like oil, eh? Here, try this..."

Athletics (DC 10) to Ascend Crates: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

With a mighty leap, the not-so-young man leaps for the edge of a crate, intending to pull himself up... and completely misses, landing on his posterior instead. Grunting with effort, he climbs to his feet and tries again, this time choosing a crate that's not quite as high for his first hold.

Athletics (DC 10) to Ascend Crates: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18

Huffing and puffing, he crawls up on top of the crates and peers around, trying to spot the runaway rat. "Ha!" he exclaims, grubbing around in his pocket for a handkerchief.

Climb, stand up, climb.

What would it take to crawl up on top of the crates to the point that Filbert could see Red?

Filbert lets out a long breath that whistles through the gap in his front teeth. "We're makin' the trip any which way," he says, raising one hand as if weighing his statement on a scale. "Don't see as why he can't come along. What's his name... our err, sponsor doesn't even have to know, now does he?"

Filbert glances over the tomes as well, though the speed with which he flips through them and puts them down implies he's either a wondrously quick reader, or only looking at the pictures.

Btw, the name typo was intentional... couldn't help but notice that this family seems to all have _affri_ names...

"Prunelord!" repeats Filbert, chuckling a bit too loudly at the child's insult. The older man reaches out and, before the young Maffrim can escape, taps him on the head and speaks a magic word! "There," grunts Filbert with a straight face, "You're invisible. But keep yourself quiet, 'cause everyone can still hear you. Got it?"

Filbert watches most of the exchanges silently, giving only a grunt or a muttered few words here or there. At Rax's comment regarding the workspace, the older man cracks a grin and laughs aloud, patting Rax companionably on the back. "Heehee! And people line up for it, son!"

Filbert wipes his nose on the back of his hand and shakes his head, a look of mild concern on his face. I'm supposed to remember this entire list? That won't do. That won't do at all...

After a moment, he reaches up with the same hand and runs it across his salt-and-pepper stubble, letting out a long breath as he ponders the situation.

Thankee.

Earn the Income (Urban Lore): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (9) + 7 = 16

Filbert mutters an Orcish imprecation and waves one arm wildly, incidentally capturing the same bit of statue that Farzin was controlling and sending it flying across the room in the other direction! Telekinetic Fling!

Attack (inspire): 1d20 + 7 + 1 ⇒ (2) + 7 + 1 = 10

"Oh, gremlins..." mutters Filbert as the statue starts to move. For a moment he eyes the young imposter suspiciously, but finally shakes his head and spits on the ground. Just as the spittle is about to hit the dirt, the old man gives a little flick of his wrist and sends it flying at the statue! Cast acid splash.

Attack: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (18) + 7 = 25
Acid Damage: 1d6 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4

Religion: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (12) + 3 = 15

Filbert grunts, recognizing the statue immediately. Clearing his throat, the older man gestures at the jackal and explains, "We've entered a place of Set, for those who don't know. Best watch our steps here, and don't go murdering each other... Set would like that. Never know what might happen in a place like this, if we went murdering each other."

Turning his grizzled face on the young man, the elder falls silent and just stares at the fellow meaningfully.

Filbert watches the disarming of the trap with a practiced eye and a slightly protruding lower lip, but finally nods in reluctant approval. "Look like you know what yer doing, kid," he offers, sidling up to Olaf as the group continues onward.

Earn Income (Urban Lore): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (11) + 7 = 18

Cities and stuff.

"Yer messin' me up, kid!" Filbert faults Farzin in frustration, frowning fiercely.

Filbert bites his lip and flails both arms wildly at the stubborn bit of workbench!

Telekinetic Projectile, I say!: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (18) + 7 = 25
Damage: 1d6 + 4 ⇒ (4) + 4 = 8

Filbert frowns. "Used to be better at that..." he mutters, watching the snowball fly harmlessly over the creature's head. With an exclaimed "Hrmph!" he flings his arm wide and arrests Farzin's bit of workbench in mid-air, reversing its course and hurling it wildly toward the creature's glass head! Telekinetic projectile too!

Spell Attack: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (2) + 7 = 9

"Oh dear..." murmurs Filbert, grimacing at the creature. "Highly inappropriate. Looks like the mayor's daughter, what was her name..."

Shaking his head and tsking softly, he glances around the room, makes a face, and waves a hand at some alchemical ingredients against the far wall. "Here now, let's see if you like this..."

The ingredients flow together mid-air and form a cohesive whole, then fly, shimmering, at the monster! Cast snowball.

Spell Attack: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (10) + 7 = 17
Cold Damage: 2d4 ⇒ (4, 4) = 8
And a –5ft status penalty to its Speeds for 1 round.

Filbert watches the "armor vs cookware" exchange, alternately nodding in agreement as each argument is presented. As the group moves on to the next room, the hoary-haired fellow frowns and whispers, "I guess we're not hungry..." then nods his head slightly and begins to peer around at the new room's contents.

Filbert raises the vial to his lips and takes a tiny sip, then makes a face and spits it back into the flask. "Yeck," he mutters, pocketing the vial and glancing around the room.

Filbert grimaces slightly and chews on his lip, trying to decide whether it's better to try descending a rickety rope ladder, or be the last one up here with the two treacherous dragon-feeders. Finally, he decides to take his chances with the ladder.

Athletics: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (10) + 1 = 11

Filbert yawns, his beady eyes tossing periodic glances around at the group's "guides" as he studies them thoughtfully.

Sense Motive, Gol: 1d20 ⇒ 6
Sense Motive, Sefu: 1d20 ⇒ 5

Filbert closes his eyes and sighs. "Sure hope no one expects me to do any digging..." he mutters, lapsing into silence. A few seconds later he sighs again, opens his eyes and looks around the room. "So. Any of you know how to 'secure' shifting sand?"

Filbert scratches his beard-stubble thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair as he ponders the group's new destination.

Filbert hoists himself to his feet, glancing down regretfully at his empty mug. Where are all the servers? he wonders, casting a glance in the direction of the kitchen. As Hampton disappears through the doorway, the oldster moves to follow, muttering to himself, "Now where's he going?"

Triple move toward the kitchen.

Earn Income (Urban Lore): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (8) + 7 = 15

Filbert glances around, his beady eyes studying the fray boiling around the room. "Now where did she go..." he mutters, before resting his eyes on a particularly fancy-looking fellow who's so far managed to avoid the worst of the brawl. Lips pursed, Filbert frowns at the dandy. Better find her... and he probably knows where she is!

The old Pathfinder grunts softly and picks at his face, procuring a piece of beard-stubble which he studies for a moment and then hurls away, growling arcanities. The bit of fuzz ceases its gentle glide toward the floor and suddenly jumps into motion, spontaneously combusting and flying toward the finery-laden chap! Casting produce flame on section 2, if I'm understanding all this correctly.

Attack: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (7) + 7 = 14
Damage: 1d4 + 4 ⇒ (2) + 4 = 6

Filbert, meanwhile, is staring at a particularly interesting pattern on the table, having lost interest in the surrounding fight.

Reflex: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24

As the yellow-bellied fisherman mispronounces a magic word, Filbert twitches in annoyance, causing the spell to ricochet harmlessly off the older man's empty mug.

Fortitude: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21

Filbert tilts his head back and pours the tar-like substance down his gullet, swallowing once and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand afterward.

Filbert hrmphs softly as the group approaches the public house, but sits down with the others and grasps his grimy hat in one hand as he bobs his head up and down in what appears to be intended as a greeting to Stella Fane.

He sniffs the drinks as they're delivered, muttering arcane words under his breath before taking a swig.

Filbert hums along, terribly off-key but clearly enjoying himself. When the boat docks he climbs out and stands looking around, seeming a bit overawed by the size of the place. After a few moments he can be heard muttering beneath his breath, "'sa city, Filbert. They said it was. 'course it's gonna be big."

When the others head for the harbormaster, the older man clumps along, chewing on his cheeks and muttering all the while.

Filbert blinks a few times at Rax's words, then at Benarry's. His expression is blank, as though he's not really following. Finally he smiles, showing a few crooked teeth.

As the group walks through the water toward the sandbar, Filbert hums quietly to himself, looking all around as though admiring the view. "Well now!" he exclaims, upon reaching the sand bar.

He's got a bit of an accent, but it's more of the "I haven't talked to any other humans in a long time" kind of accent than the recognizable accent of any particular locale. I suspect he's from Somewhere-Pretty-Remote, Varisia.

"Filbert. Yes, yes, that's my name..." mutters the man, fumbling in one pocket and producing a small piece of parchment, which he proceeds to study silently. A few seconds later, he looks up. "What's so special about the front end of a draw?"

Hallo.

#86776-2002

An older man climbs haltingly out of the hold, then pauses to stare around at the assembled group. His lips work soundlessly for a moment, a look of confusion clouding his visage. "Eh?" he begins, his voice whistling a bit through broken teeth. "Is this the meetin' for the... er..." he trails off, reaching up to scratch his white chin-stubble as he wanders toward the group.

That crewman said the meeting would be held "before we dock". Rude, to have it early and not tell everyone.

His clothes are ragged and torn, patched here and there with mismatched cloth; one might say they've obviously seen better days, but it's entirely possible that they haven't.

Having made his way across the deck, the wiry fellow sits heavily down on a spool of rope and watches the group, making no move to speak further.