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Embarassed by Connor's crass use of the network, Flann shuts the whole thing down, at least until they're done with this transaction. Anyone trying to use it will notice it's gone, and have to repeat the thought out loud. "I can pay for my own indiscretions. You and I can split the psionic fee." For the first time ever, Connor receives a look of admonishment from his vitalist.
Flann's entire demeanor shifts. His divided attention abandons the bit of metal in his hand. "Oh! Pardon me! I won't try anything further without asking. I haven't encountered any land-dwelling psionics before, and sort of forgot my manners. I suspected spies from our homeland, you see, and was looking for traces of their influence. If you're practiced at guarding your mind, then that's a very good thing." There is another thoughtful pause. "O-or a very bad thing. Have you encountered Atalantians before? Winged folk like us? I mean no disrespect, I'm only curious why you might recognize psionics and suspect compulsion..." In case he's used the wrong words, he prunes the question down to it's most important concepts: "Who else down here sends thoughts?"
"-besides, if it is an ambush, they're the ones risking their lives... We've faced worse than a band of subterranean cutpurses." Flann examines the polish on the component in his hands. After a thoughtful pause, he raises a hand and concentrates on the lizardfolk, probing their mind--not for ways in, but for third-party tampering. A low, sonorous hum rises in the air.
Flann woke early and was polishing brass fittings in the common room of the Spider's nest when the lizardfolk came to call. He pulls his own mask up and watches the exchange at the door. His candyfloss hair is in tight plaits on both sides, mimicking a style he saw in a dwarven beard. The tall and tight mohawk that remains might have been warrior-like on anyone else, but his downy curls continue to betray him. He's packed away the silk and jewels in favor of the utilitarian pockets. Both outfits are a deep green, but this one is more mossy and neutral. Dropping a cloth over his work, Flann walks to the door.
Flann joins the others in the greatroom. >Why's this place feel more like the interdimensional prison than any town we've been to? What are we going to do if we find no one to talk to?<
If this game picks up again and I'm unusually quiet, it's because my schedule and PC/internet access has changed. This hasn't ever been a daily game, so I'm not quitting just yet.
Flann follows Adran back to the inn with the others, and pulls the party members back into his network as he spots them. "No amount of coin is going to make tonight a party."
We've got the psicraft mask, and my network sharing if there are any particularly interesting powers you don't have access to.
Flann relaxes visibly. "A dining hall can be a delightful experience, even without partaking in the food. Are there any performers? A house band, perhaps? I can pay if one must be arranged... I just need to put my trunk in the room."
Flann greets the halfling innkeper with a hand-stitched pouch of gold. "Yes, wings. I imagine they seem a thing of lunacy here, what with the walls pressing in from all angles. My companion will want a list of your least scrupulous evening companions... followed by a list of your most scrupulous evening companions. Daytime companions as well, ifthatmakesanysensegiven-" Flann clears his throat. "Two rooms. Three days." He fumbles for a moment for his hip flask and takes a sip of water.
Flann looks up at Vim, eyes narrow. There is a moment of deep and silent scrutiny before he performs a laugh, out loud, apropos of nothing. Well we've got to keep them in business for the next three days. Hopefully we can make the best of it.
If anything they should be hiking up their prices to make up for the demand offset. Even a compassionate businesswoman cannot spare her own expenses. This last comment comes through in what must be Flann's mother's voice.
Flann exits the train carrying his locked chest over one shoulder. He's still a little green--greener than usual, at least--and it's obvious by his stature and posture that he should not be able to carry the chest. As should be the case with the rest of the party, he gives off no magical aura to those with the talent and curiosity to check. "I'll pay from my own share to find lodgings that aren't a sepulcher- notthathere'sanothingwrongwiththeaestheticorcultureofasubterrarianrace." Flann's mouth clicks shut and he grows occupied with his the top of his boots.
Flann was fine with the overground travel. He even left his seat to get a better look out of the window. This changed as they approached the mountain. "We're going to hit the mountain. We're going to hit the mountain and explode." In the moments before impact, the halvavian is desperately clawing at the lock on his storage chest. By the time they arrive at their destination, Flann is clutching his armrests and breathing heavily. It had been one thing to be in a sprawling multidimensional temple underground. For some reason, seeing the exterior of buildings, the narrow stretches of stale air, and the dual pitch black, yawning chasms above and below... it sets Flann's stomach turning.
Yeah, Flann's been living off of his own willpower for decades. (That's why he's never eating food, and drinks out of his own flask. That and family paranoia.) Connor just forgot since the last time we were locked underground for 25 years, and now that I've got the equipment to get everyone on network, food is a non-issue. In fact, Flann has a special mask, and a mythic trait for skill rolls which means he should be able to share and manifest any Personal powers any of you have. (IIRC / FYI / BYOB / ROFLMFAO)
Something like Shapesand would be a neat and non-magical alternative, but I don't think it's in Pathfinder.
Yeah, I just noticed last time we had to do a lot of passing around of the bag, and other than the bag itself, it seemed to be mostly mundane items.
I'm trying to figure a good use of money. A second supercontainer comes to mind. I'm still reading through things to get an idea of what could help. Last night I couldn't get the first Critical Role campaign out of my head. The one with the mind flayers? As well as the one book series I've read: War of the Spider Queen. I won't be disappointed if we don't meet mind flayers, but I'll be super excited if we do.
The man with a bucket runeth the well.
Flann leans in and delivers his next comment like a student earnestly delivering an answer in class. "Don't sell yourself short, Addie, you came out alright with the Regent." Then he looks around to gauge everyone's reactions. Flann has definitely spent too much time with gnomes.
Flann makes himself comfortable fussing with his pink curls on a footstool as Altina fills them in. ~And if we supplant the ruling parties and install our own valve?~ There's a trill of haunting laughter over the network. ~In all seriousness, just freeing up the hoard we brought to pay for this mess is enough to establish ourselves both here and back at Atalantia.~
Flann returns to Telv's mannor early. Early in terms of a Celestrata delettante trying to foster a reputation for deep pockets. He gets lost in the maze of corridors before entering the hall where Connor and the master of the house are catching up."Say, Connor, I wouldn't take your first appraisal on those gears and such. The locals are being squeezed for raw materials. I'd talk to someone representing the dwarves if I were trying to get into the market."
In the context of this game, they seem to be the primitive na'vi, stubbornly hoarding all the unobtaineum. We need to deploy the psionic mech suits and colonize the natural resources.
How did Flann get in this predicament? He knows not. How much money has he lost? There's really no telling. He feels clumsy and conspicuous in the gnome-sized establishment. There's no ceremony to approaching a table. He can't slip past a crowd. It's all just very wrong. Growing paranoid, and running short on money to pour into Bangballs, Flann finds a quiet table to sulk at and see if he can pick up on any interesting conversations.
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
I'm at a loss for what to do.
Yeah, no pressure. We'll be here when you're ready.
"The thralls are utterly immune to my techniques, which is a disappointment. I had hoped to improve their quality of... well... being, but I'm not sure what good it would do without Vitalism. Frees up more time to go shopping I guess."
"I for one will be sticking with Telv until our hosts are more used to their master's new needs."
"Finally! Real hospitality. I was afraid mother had spoiled me with an unattainable standard." Flann takes time to teach Telv the names of all the utensils and proper etiquette.
Flann is not reading the room well. <These thralls are in a state of extreme disrepair. Their homeostasis is nominal. This one looks like he's been exsanguinated for a decade or more, and that one's more fauna than gut. Whatever they've got keeping them going is doing a lot of unnecessary work...>
"Oh, you poor things! Grah? Rasha? I'd like to have a chance to give you each a medical examination. Your throats especially sound like they could use some attention."
Flann has stopped dead on the porch and openly gawks at the giant. The lights in the waiting room of Flann's psychic network dim and take on a rosy hue as the antiseptic camfer scent is replaced with clove and cinnamon.
"Vim, I'll forgive your naiveté, you weren't there when Telv got how..." Flann stops abruptly and looks back at Telv. "-he got how he got what he's got... So you haven't got any idea what he's got." The Vitalist smiles and takes a breath. "He may own this place... but who knows what's been squatting till now..."
"Come on Kotsi, it's not like it came from Cemetary Lane, now that would be all together ooky. I'll bet you won't find a single vampire, werewolf, or flesh golem in this house. This is perfect, Telv, just like home." Flann beams. He's halfway to the gate before he stops. "You know... All this munster talk has me thinking maybe we should take it slow, settling in, I mean."
Flann is dumbfounded that his idea is being considered, and holds his tongue lest the magic be lost.
Flann approaches Kotsi and Vim in the mess. "At these rates, we'll spend more feeding the crew than lodging them; although, with the air here, we may not have long to worry about either." Flann laughs like he knows it wasn't a great joke, but it was the only one he could think of on the walk from his hammock. "Seriously, though I don't want to see any of you outside without at least a damp cloth over your nose an mouth. Smoke is a known carcinogen from any source, and there's no telling what these folk consider fit fuel." There's a pause as Flann recalls what the conversation is about. "Twenty five gold should get us all housed anywhere in the city... technically." Flann drops a handful of paper on the table. "The way I see it, we could build our own inn, a proper-looking place, market it as a luxury spa, and make our money back and then some before we leave. We just need, like, two thousand gold." Flann looks up at Vim as if there were any question what the answer would be.
Inner City Quarter Comity: Flann welcomes Kotsi and Vim to the map table with a hollow smile. "I will open with the admission that I frequently supplement my own poor manners with gold. I am more likely here to ensure we aren't robbed outright than to perform any negotiations myself." Pausing, the halfling takes the letters of introduction and inn information from the table and offers them to the others. "Given our sizes, and the size of the town, it may pay to make dual arrangements: something close to Mechwerks, and something to accommodate the majority of the crew's stature..."
As Flann holds his tongue on the size conversation, a gentle brass instrumental can be heard over his network.
~I would avoid colorful vagaries around someone trained to vet tradespeople.~ Flann's never looked more serious. "Pardon the captain's penchant for irony. By deep he meant it was under other salvage. Gravity tends to make us cautious about disposing of anything, but new works tend to be indelicate about making room for themselves."
Flann can't help but snort at the mention of dwarves and ores. ~Sorry, she was talking about getting ores from dwarves as a main advantage Iska has over Altalantia when it comes to firearm manufacture.~ To the concerns about the hold, Flann adds, ~All my contraband is well hidden.~
Flann re-establishes his collective. ~Feel free to collaborate your responses.~
Flann, who reminds himself he has deftly assumed the pseudonym Redd, nods along with Selvi. "Yes, I can't make any promises, but I believe we can afford to anchor while we negotiate terms." Flann attempts to relay the information faithfully through his network.
Seeing the quality threads on the elderly gnome, Flann adjusts a few of his rings, glad he opted for a fresh set of clothes. "Ah, your property. Mr Gearloose, I presume? An absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Redd Fritillary, cultural attache. You may be glad to hear Altina has brought you some rather exclusive business. We're here to take her up on an offer to retrofit some new engines. Is there someplace we might dock while we negotiate final terms?" Flann is careful to gauge the elder Gearloose for his reaction, especially to Altina's name.
Flann hops into the air and uses the momentum of the now-decelerating ship to propel himself toward the gnomes at the dock, watching those on top of the central building for signs of drawn weapons.
Flann looks properly ashamed. "Just sayin' what I'd be thinking if a half dozen armed folk came pouring into my spa unannounced."
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