Too late! Your horrible death is probably already written as a cinematic cut scene so there's nothing we can do to save you!
Search Posts
"I think they more closely resemble moles, but I could be wrong." Taking careful aim, Tyrithe sends an arrow speeding towards further creature, letting Seara and Narcizia handle the first.
With a sudden tilt of his head, Tyrithe motions towards the door & whispers "Movement, small creatures. Rats or insects maybe. Careful now."
Slowly sweeping the room, Tyrithe strains to interpret the low, tense music throbbing in his ears. Though his knuckles are white from the grim on the bowstave, the arrow's deadly point remains steady.
Sorry to see you go, Volreg, I hope both problems are swiftly resolved!
As Lady Winter introduces herself Tyrithe wanders over to the statue of Desna, where the music in his mind was calmer. The elf felt some of the tension drain out of his shoulders, and softly he whispers a prayer. "Song of the Spheres, friend of my Lady of Mists, this wanderer finds himself in a dark place. Please smile upon me and all those with me." Approaching the one Adria had named Captain Vaustin, the archer introduces himself. "Apologies for any interruption, but I was hoping that you might have a store of arrows available? My supply dwindles a bit more rapidly than I would like."
"We should make for the hospital, this thing could trap us in the chapel!" As he speaks, Tyrithe advances to the doorway, nocking an arrow and training it on the massive shape in the swirling mist. As he lets the arrow fly he hisses to Seara, "Swordswoman! I'll try to cover you, fall back to us!"
Tyrithe nods slowly, "I share your trepidation about the mist, but one of them might be able to tell us what in creation is going on here. Or warn us what else might lurk in this benighted halls. Adria, would it be possible for us to talk to your friends without going into the mist? It frankly frightens me."
Tyrithe, no stranger to weird quirks, makes conversation as best he can in Adria's more lucid moments, and even gamely pretends to look about admiringly at the "cats". At the sight of the courtyard--and the mist inside it--his misgivings about what safety might be found here come rushing back.
"They don't wander, Master Dwarf, they hide., and I can't say I blame them. It might be a good idea if one of us possessed of a silver tongue went forward. We are a large and well-armed group and I wouldn't wish to alarm them."
"A chance to rest would be welcome," Tyrithe ventures, checking his target for any arrows that might still be usable. I am not certain that there is safety to be found anywhere in this place...those things in the mist, we may not even be on Golarion anymore. Turning to their guide, "I know that words are insufficient, but I'm sorry for what happened to your friend. The sooner we reach this chapel, I think, the better."
"Once she's clear, I'm ready." Nocking another arrow, the elf carefully takes aim, waiting for his moment.
Nocking another arrow, Tyrithe sidesteps to see past the two warrior-women and carefully sights another arrow.
Drawing and nocking another arrow, Tyrithe waits calmly for one of the undead hands to be far enough from the women that he doesn't risk striking them.
Worst case scenario, having a large party means that others can cover the gaps if I'm way under-par. Seven PCs seems like a good time to try experimenting.
Plan was to dip ranger, then head into rogue to go for a sniper build. I'm aware that sniping isn't especially effective, but I wanted to try it :p
Ah, I did get the archetype from PFSRD. I think the character works out okay, I could get very nearly the same effect from taking Bullseye Shot and sticking with archery. Good spot though. Thoughts, CosmicNightmare? Would you rather I modified the character or can we keep him as is and just all ignore the Iomedaean fluff?
Shrugging, Tyrithe nocks an arrow. "I see nothing to suggest Volvo's analysis is incorrect, and I'd just as soon not leave this thing at our backs. I'm sorry for your friend, Adria, but this isn't them any longer." Drawing the bowstring back to his cheek, the elf calmly sights down the corpse's gnashing head.
Tyrithe returns to the group, hoping that his grip on his bow hides how badly his hands are shaking--though a perceptive observer might note his white-knuckle grip. "The chapel sounds as a good a place as any, but I question whether safety can be found anywhere in this benighted place. Have any of you had a moment to glance out the windows? We have found ourselves in a place of great evil." "Miss Adria, you said that Winter protects you in the chapel. May I inquire: what does she protect you from?"
More than enough people have crowded around the poor woman already, so Tyrithe gives her a kindly but absent nod and steps past her, carefully scanning the hallway.
Tyrithe is conflicted--his immediate instinct is to help anyone in need, but this seems...too obvious. A naked woman, just wandering the halls of this facility strikes the elf as unlikely. Illusion? Shapechanger? Keeping his distance, Tyrithe extends an open hand towards her in a gesture of friendship, even as he carefully scrutinizes her person & the hallway for any sign that things might not be as they seem. "Excuse me, miss, are you well?"
Even as the dwarf cuts the madwoman down Tyrithe is nocking another arrow--after she falls, it is a long moment before the elf eases his draw and slowly lowers the bow. Hopping off the table, he motions towards the furnace with his head as he steps over the doctor's corpse to examine the hallway. "The furnace chimney looks large enough to use if we need to. I'm an indifferent climber, but if we take that route the first could lower a rope for the rest." As he speaks, his eyes are constantly on the move, roving across the room even as his fingers on the bow tap along to the music in his mind. Nudging the doctor's corpse with a boot, the elf considers her for a time before whispering. "Seven of us. Somehow she kept seven of us under control, despite many of us clearly being trained combatants. I have...I have no memory of this place or how I came to be here, no memory of this thing or any of it! Does she have accomplices or servants? I do not know, and this disturbs me."
Could someone with some Knowledge skills throw some number at the wall and see what sticks? I've got Dungeoneering but we've already established she's not an aberration.
Stymied by the press of bodies before the table, Tyrithe instead leaps atop the it, carefully stepping over the body there. "Please forgive my irreverence, stranger. Necessity forces my hand," he whispers to the man's ghost before drawing a bead once upon this vile doctor-thing.
Nocking an arrow, the elf sidesteps to gain a better view of the doctor. With a murmured prayer, he takes a moment to be certain of his aim and fires.
This is the part that makes me curious about this AP. I don't know anything about it except that it draws heavily on Lovecraftian Horror themes, but classic high-fantasy RPGs and gothic horror don't necessarily go well together. The former is about a power-trip in some form or another, while the latter is often most effective when the protagonists are/feel powerless. Wizards & clerics go a long way towards leveling the playing field against eldritch monsters, after all. I'm interested to see how Strange Aeons tries to bridge that divide, and I'm genuinely worried that we're about to get thrashed so the adventure can underline the horrific danger we're in.
Shrugging on his chain shirt, Tyrithe flinches at the sound of the doctor's shriek and hurriedly secures his quiver, flexing the bowstave and stringing it. Taking a deep breath, he says softly. "To answer the question, I don't know anything about her, but her face...it twisted there for a moment, did you see? There are countless tales of creatures from the Great Beyond able to conceal boundless evil in mortal guise. If she is such a creature, I fear all our weapons will avail us nothing. I maintain it would be better to flee." Stepping into the tunnel a short distance, Tyrithe glances about with a sudden sharp purpose, willing the swirling lights to guide him towards something, anything, that could see them safely gone.
Gazing at Volvo steadily, Tyrithe is not dissuaded. "Your argument is transparently self-serving. You inquired as to whether that thing was dissecting this man, and offered your advice to improve the process. When it murdered him, your objection was not his death but that her methods were insufficiently rigorous. I shall be watching you." With a respectful nod to Volreg he joins the human by the sacks. "I agree, better to make good our escape swiftly and spare ourselves the doctor's tender mercies." the elf gives Volreg a kindly look and continues. "I too know what it is like to have the space in ones head not belong entirely to oneself. I am called Tyrithe.
Rising to his feet, the elf first answers Seara's suggestion, though a slight turn of his shoulders towards her is the only sign of whom he addresses. "I think a conflict most unwise, whatever out "host" is, she is not human, and I believe possessed of fell and dangerous power. She certainly had no qualms about leaving no less than seven prisoners in a single cell, suggesting a great confidence in her power to contain us." Tilting his head as though listening, he turns to Volco and offers a small bow. "The Symphony suggests that you are dangerously insane, and should not be allowed to roam free. I agree with the former but am skeptical of the latter in the immediate term. I suspect we will need all the help we can get to escape this place, but your attitude towards this poor soul's fate," he gestures to the corpse upon the examining table, "is most distressing."
With a deft turn of the key he swings the door open as narrowly as possible and slips out, moving to the examination table and checking that the poor man on the table has indeed departed. Sighing sadly, he closes the man's eyes and murmurs a prayer to Chucaro, then proceeds to search the room for any sign of his equipment.
Tyrithe's breathe catches in his throat. You damned fool, all you had to do was wait! he hisses silently. She was willing to open the cell with all of us awake? Her confidence must be boundless.
Tyrithe keeps quiet, carefully watching the woman but not speaking. Seven of us, in one cell. Either she is incredibly foolish, or incredibly confident. Given that it is we in the cage and not she, I think it safe to surmise that she is no fool. I will wait. If anything, he watches even more closely his cell-mates, for with his escape would come theirs, and he was not yet certain who or what these folk were.
Eyes flying wide, Tyrithe's hand goes immediately to his stomach then his ear, but he is whole and unharmed lying upon the cold stone. With an start he snaps his gaze over to the man being tortured, seeing an ugly purple haze swirling from his injuries. The woman...he does not care for her look at all, for a sinister red halo anoints her head, and when she speaks the elf hears a discordant "echo" shadowing her question is stereo. Not daring to draw her attention, he slips forward, fingers long practiced with the bowsting and the harp quietly relieving her of the key. Easing himself back to his original position, Tyrithe waits for his moment.
Shaking his head, Tyrithe mutters, "No. This realm is rightfully Chucaro's, not yours, and I will not abandon it to the likes of you." Ignoring the shrieking music in his ears, the elf slides to a halt, gracefully spinning about as the arrow draws back--but how can this be!? Tatterman is upon him, hooked knife lashing out to sever an ear. With a cry Tyrithe tries to fall back and draw his morningstar but the creature keeps pace effortlessly, hardly even seeming to move. That wicked knifes flashes again, and the morningstar clatters to the ground as the elf clutches at his torn wrist. With a casual flick, the monster buries the hook into Tyrithe's abdomen. As the ranger fights down a scream, the Tatterman leans close, a long prehensile tongue snaking out to slide along the elf's cheek as the knife slowly rips upward...
As the Tatterman steps forward, Tyrithe's eyes narrow and his knuckles go white gripping the bow as the music in him mind hits a discordant pitch. Is your control here weak? Or so absolute that our weapons would not avail us? Shaking his head to try and clear it as a he breaks out in a cold sweat. "I think this a foe well beyond our abilities, we all should flee..."
Tyrithe looks about himself, bemused, for though lucid dreams are far from unusual for a servant of Chucaro, this one...perhaps this one hid a darker hand. The footsteps draw his attention, and the lights dancing before his eyes draw faces in the yellow mist--singing? Or perhaps screaming, he cannot tell. But those footsteps...Tyrithe recoils from the mists a step. "I believe the woman in red is, ah, on the money. I do not believe this to be any of our doing. A predator, perhaps, one who savors suspension and the thrill of a different kind of chase." A low, sinister thrum of music in his ears sends a shiver down the elf's spine. Looking down at his empty hands, he wills his bow into his hand, imagining the solid yew wood in his palm, arrow nocked and ready. What are the limits of your control here?
Sorry, I live in Europe so I went to bed. I'm about six hours behind ETS.
If you're asking for our votes, I think the first is better.
What? Oh yes, lovely. I'll have three. *Hums softly* |