Fitz keeps muttering as the man approaches, "You know the kind.... drives me crazy with accusations and demands... and her mother... but there's still something... special about her."
As the man closes, Fitz pushes the bottle forward and staggers toward the man, acting as though he might drop the bottle to pull the man's gaze away from his right hand as it closes around the grip on his stolen longsword, ready to strike. "Don't wanna go back yet... Drink with me!"
Bluff (Feint): 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (10) + 7 = 17
Fitz begins a count to ensure the others have time to get into position before he emerges. Act like a drunken idiot... I'm sure that's not an uncommon sight around here..., he chuckles and then smiles as a thought occurs to him. He talks a bottle of the found whisky from Thok, then pours some into his hands and rubs it over his face. He then fills his mouth with the stuff, Not as bad as I'd thought it would be... and spits it out. Finally, he looks at the bottle, Not empty enough.., and pours half of what's left to the ground. There, that should do.
He pulls the cloak of his uniform up, finishes his count to two hundred, and then starts his stagger, bottle in his left hand to keep his sword-arm free. Every few steps he stumbles, and then gestures with the bottle, muttering to himself about a disagreement with "that woman", and how he was only talking to the comely girl, completely innocently, and how her mother would say anything to make him look bad. He takes another sip from the bottle, though keeping it to his lips to make it appear he's taking a deep pull, then starts his stagger again, his keen elven eyes letting him make out the expression of the two guards... and when it seems that they see him he raises the bottle in salute and starts to stagger toward them. "You know what I'm talking about...", he slurs, then stumbles forward.
Bluff: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (11) + 7 = 18
Fitz stops listening the moment she says no, grabbing the ladel sticking out of the pot of gruel and starts eating, chewing on the not-yet softened grains with relish.
He looks up at Ilan's comment and shrugs, "Well, not all of us... Though, still, I'm not sure they'd take food from someone they don't know." He drops the ladle back in the pot with a grimace as the pastiness finally overcomes his hunger, then winks and smiles at Yzera's comment, "Aye, I imagine it'll warm them all right up.".
Fitz rushes to the now-standing bed-folk, hoping to cut them down rather get a chance to get their bearings. He strikes a still groggy-guard, the blade going deep and releasing an arterial spray.
Longsword: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (19) + 4 = 23 Threat
Damage (Crit): 2d8 + 6 ⇒ (3, 7) + 6 = 16
Fitz pushes on the door eagerly and stretches again, taking in his first step of freedom. He smiles, and says, "Now that is more like it. Never doubted you for a moment."
He takes a few swings with the captured longsword to get an idea of its balance before slipping it on his belt, then turns to the people in the cells, "Last chance to be a part of history.", he offers gently, then shrugs and turns to his rescuers, following them down the hall away from the cells, then saying, "I agree, mostly, with Yzera. Our first order of business must be to finish off killing the defenders and staff members... and to find Thok's missing arm, of course. However, I made a vow when they locked me up, and recommitted to it when I was visited by whatever it was that told me to make ready for today... and I intend to keep it. This place will not be standing when I go.... and we can let those with long memories start worrying about what the portent might mean..." He quickly puts up a hand and says, "But, yes, first thing's first. After all, there's no sense attracting any attention from town with explosions or fires before we're ready."
Sheet should be up-to-date, added the 12 whiskey (didn't have price per bottle, figured it wasn't the good stuff that sells for 20 -- put in 5 as a placeholder) -- after equipping Fitz and Yzera and the 11 new friends, we've still got 10 extra sets of everything -- if they're marked, selling them might be a little harder, but then, we may have more followers who'll need gear -- in the short-term, I'm thinking using some blankets (before the puking) to make bundles to lift gear is a good plan... and easily dropped as need be.
I didn't put on the sawtooth, I figured it was Yzera's own -- but I also assumed she kept the longsword as a backup. If anyone's grabbing a weapon now, please mark it off on the loot sheet (or at least tell me) -- I imagine we may want to distribute the weight of the items (not the coins and ring) amongst the 11 newbies... Though I don't know how many blankets we've had access to so far to do the pack-thing
Fitz shakes his head and then pulls himself up to his full height, somehow gaining a regal air despite of the tattered, faded and torn state of his finery. He turns to his fellow prisoners and says, "It is true. This is a historic day... but not because of a prison break, even if it be the first. No, this is the day that everything begins. The day that Talingarde began to throw off the yoke of the Mitrans, the day that they began to seek true justice rather than self-righteousness... The day that those who seek to better themselves and their place in society began their stand. Today, Branderscar falls.... And, in falling, releases the forgotten secret walled away in its heart... The one they feared enough to build a prison around.
He pauses for a moment, giving time for the weight if his words to sink in, watching his audience to ensure they are ready before continuing, "The day that Branderscar fell will be known as the start of the fall of Darius... The day that men, noble of spirit, took up the fight. Now, ask yourselves, are you one of those men? If so, take up arms and join us... If not, stay in the safety of your cell... We wish you no ill will, but will be no part of liberating those who will not fight for themselves."
Diplo: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (19) + 7 = 26
Fitz smiles as the wall comes crashing down.... and for the only the second time in decades, his eyes adjust to light other than the single continual flame burning from the iron chandelier. He pulls on his jacket, the fabric only tearing further and says, "Thank you. I apologize for my appearance, but it would seem that I am a mite better preserved than my clothing."
He steps forward as the ninja and catfolk approach the lock, and then feels his heart drop out as they make their pronouncement. "It would seem that the universe has a rather perverse sense of humour. I believe they filled in the mechanism with mortar and capped it before they built the wall. I imagine we'd need to saw through the lock-bar...."
He watches as the one-armed creature pulls on the door, throwing his own legs and back into pushing, and smiles as he feels the door start to give... and then sighs as it shifts back into position as Thok admits defeat. Fitz grimaces, but then composes himself, saying, I suppose I can wait for Thok to pull the door open with the return of his arm.... What's another half hour after... well, however long it's been..?"
He looks at his once-fine clothing with a sigh and says, "Though if you wouldn't mind, I'd be delighted to take one of those longswords and whatever other gear Thok has in that bundle. While the uniforms here haven't improved over the century, at least I won't have to worry about tearing through every time I move."
Fitz thinks for a moment, That name is somewhat familiar, though I do not recognize it... Probably another toady with eyes on a knighthood or lesser title... I think it was linked to abuse of authority.... He shrugs, Maybe he's one of the idiots who prove their courage by taunting a brick wall... I wonder if I'll know his voice?
From behind the wall, you hear a bitter laugh, "I can't place the name, but I do have quite a few to whom I have promised vengeance... And I'm more than happy to inflict some nightmares on House Darius by tearing down their little facade of strength..."
Seeing the slowness of his progress, Fitz pauses, and starts assessing the wall, remembering one of the now-useless books he'd read a few dozen times.
Profession (Masonry): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5
He shrugs, I'm not sure if the wall is too well made, or I'm just too focussed on finally being out of here to study it properly...
Hearing the others return he smiles and tries to jab the rib in into the stone he'd been working on in a 2-handed grip.
"Start with that one.", he calls out, adding, "I don't suppose any of you have the magic to shred the wall? Or worked as a sapper during the war?"
Fitz chuckles, "Had I such things, I wouldn't be here waiting for rescue. No, I've the remains of old furniture, three score faded books, and the skeletal remains of some sort of fiendish beast that told me you were coming and to ready myself...." Though, as its flesh was the first food I had in years and let me recover my lost muscle, maybe the bones, too, have their use...
He turns and looks at the rib-cage of the beast, using his foot to pull a curved rib from the spine, and then begins scratching at the older mortar around the stone.
Fitz smiles as he realizes that he's been heard, and drinks the last mouthful of water to help him speak. He drums the stout wood over the bars and says, "Excellent. I am most pleased to hear that. The accommodations here, never stellar, have deteriorated over time."
He starts to look through the bars for a brick with loose mortar, and then finding one, takes a splintered, but stout piece and starts trying to push the brick outward.
He calls out, "This started as a normal, large, cell. This side of the wall leans against the locked iron bars, the stone and mortar literally touching the steel. When they built the wall, they said there was lead mixed in with the mortar to prevent magic from finding me. And, I believe they filled the lock with mortar as well."
Fitz closes his eyes and remembers the strange combination of taunts and fear, with the taunts increasing as the construction progressed and the workers began to realize that he was well and truly trapped... and then the way the taunts stopped when he used his infernal strength to kill one of the masons. The memory causes his mouth to twitch somewhat, as if it cannot decide between a snarl of hatred and defiance or a smile of satisfaction, They said I would be in here forever, begging for death as my empty stomach attacked itself and I became so dry that I'd not be able to open my mouth... But I've still only ever used the razor they threw in before the final stone was placed on my hair... And today, it seems, forever ends..
He begins to laugh as a sense of triumph fills him, and sparks of hope triggered by the strange, edible messenger fan into full flame. He calls out again, "I have naught of metal to work with, and so I've not been able to grind down the brick or mortar... However, while they were once quick to repair the wall if it were damaged, they've not done so...", he pauses as he realizes that other than the last thirty-nine days, he has no concept of time since he stopped counting after twenty years, "...in quite some time."
He shakes his head, I promised them a death for every day I was in here... I shall need to check a calendar to make a full accounting of it..., then returns to the task at hand. "No need to worry about collapsing the wall on me, the bars will prevent that. If it would help, I can tap the stones that look loosest from this side... Mayhap you can feel the vibrations."
GM - Fitzmarc:
Fitzmarc sits up from the floor, setting down the bundle that was once a chair and now serving as a weight, bound by the remains of what was his brocade jacket. He sighs as he considers the faded, ruined thing for a moment, lost in a memory that he quickly shakes off as the sounds of combat continue. He looks to the wall, now covered in scratches, and tallies the freshest ones before laughing, Thrice times thirteen days... As per the prediction...
He rises to his feet and heads to the corner of the room, where the slow leak has allowed the tiniest of trickles of water to enter his cell, looking at the two inches that has collected in the skull of the animal that appeared and spoke to him some thirty-odd days ago. I don't know that I could have kept rationing for much longer.... but I have done what I was told and made ready.., he thinks as he raises the thing to his dry, cracked lips and allows the water to penetrate, separating his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Better," he says aloud, testing his ability to speak, and nodding to find his throat has been moistened at least enough for that.
He takes the torn, faded jacket from the chair he didn't ruin, putting it on.. and then wincing as his signet catches on the lace cuff and tears a line down the right sleeve. Be careful what you wish for..., he thinks again... a thought that he's had countless times during his imprisonment. Finally, he adjusts the jacket, trying to straighten it without tearing it further, Bad enough I don't have a shirt to put under it..., he thinks, and then lifts the makeshift weight he's been using to regain the muscles that had atrophied over the decades of his imprisonment now that he's finally been able to eat again, and hurls the heavy thing at the wall, the fabric and knots all but exploding into dust upon impact, the single weight rattling loudly as the various sticks separate and rattle against the wall and the floor. Disappointed, he sighs and takes the unbroken chair in his hands, This had best be right... I've no other furniture..., he thinks, and then slams the chair into the metal bars on this side of the wall, smiling at the louder, ringing noise even as the chair splinters, and calls out, "In here."
I didn't even think of Rakshasa bloodline.... Silly me, it's excellent, and even (somewhat) thematically appropriated.
And, Alleria -- it's probably good to be a member of a core race -- Talingaarde isn't known to be filled with Tieflings and the like -- Standing out in the crowd isn't necessarily your friend... except when thematically appropriate.
As such, I suspect that not having to take the +10 to the DC on disguise checks to appear human(like) (and thus, fit in) is probably not a bad idea.
@Gypsum -- Way of the Wicked is meant to be about tyrants. A CE who doesn't play well with others is probably not the best addition to the group.
Sandman's a pretty fun archetype, and wouldn't overlap with the Evangelist at all -- it's about the sneakery, and adds in some fun anti-spellcaster stuff which would likely work well in dealing with Mitrans later.
Another possibility, if you're looking at the being a sneaky assassin type and re-thinking bard, might be vivisecitonist.