Grommuk think whispering people funny. Stupid funnies. GROMMUK BREAK FUNNIES!
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Congrats man. Looks like Tharok from GS made it in too.
Grommuk butt itch. Raaaarhhhrghh! This is mostly aimed at Jelani and Gyr for now, but I'll start broadening the net as things continue: I'm going to attempt to run a real-time game on Roll20 for Thron, seeing as how I never get to see him in person much these days. I will be using the D&D 5e Starter Set (Lost Mines of Phandelver). Only time the two of us can feasibly and consistently pull off is going to be late on Thursday nights (1:00am EST/10:00pm PST)
I'll go ahead and tap out. Not getting any time at work to hop on here. Even when I get time to post I'm hitting a doldrums of not even wanting to.
I intended to save up for an amulet so Grommuk's punches can cut through magic DR, but it looks like that will become inherent to the class by the time I can afford it. May go ahead and invest in some of the basics instead. A cloak of resistance is probably a good idea for the big dumb-dumb.
Grommuk's eyes glaze over pretty quickly. A lot of people are talking, but the words are far too long and coming far too fast. "Grommuk get big -- strong. Bones grow too. Hurt some." He works his hands a couple of times as if the motion demonstrates something significant. "No more cages."
The average IQ of those within the manor plummets drastically when Grommuk makes his own dramatic entrance. He nearly jostles the door free from its frame as he hosses his way indoors, and finds that he does not fit so easily through the primary egress as he once did. It would seem the serum has continued without deviation in regard to how it effects the orcish brawler: His muscles have increased in math and density yet again, especially in his shoulders and arms. His mostly upright posture has shifted such that his spine imposes a permanent hunch. Perhaps most importantly, his arms have become comically disproportional with the rest of his body, now decidedly gorilla-like in that his forehands and knuckles often drag the ground at his flanks. All told, he looks like some sort of swollen, primeval orc. Grommuk is not in one of his better moods. He often returns looking as if he has been in a scrap, but this time is a little more serious than previous occurrences. He is covered in bruised burn marks and myriad lacerations and puncture wounds. Green bloodstains soak through a small army of makeshift bandages. His hands and forearms are mostly covered in red blood, however. He seems not to notice that the ruined remains of someone's face remains embedded in his right hand -- a chunk of jaw with several human-looking teeth that have dug deep into his flesh. He seems fatigued, but alert. His eyes seem somewhat beady given how much smaller his head looks atop his massive upper body. They study Nyugusk momentarily, settling on the new appendages, before he asks, "What?"
Grommuk seems to watch passively as Argor begins convulsing in pain. When parts of him begin to fall off and discorporate into piles of a puddy-like goop, the orcs begins to poke and prod the substance at first. Then he chuckles stupidly to himself and begins squishing it in his huge green hands. "Nyugusk : Siz bizim dost monicher " Drippy " uyğun olduqca paltar hesab edirsiniz? Mən tez-tez güclü Bildirib biri kimi dadlı nə özümü merak gördük , etiraf etmək lazımdır." Orcish:
Nyugusk Battle-Joined: Do you think our friend in the pretty dress well suited to the monicher "Drippy"? I must confess, I've found myself often wondering what the Powerful Voiced one tastes like. Grommuk scoops up a helping of Argor's dripping fingers and presses it to his tongue. He chews it thoughtfully for a moment before spitting it back out onto the dirt. "Gaaakk! Him taste like rat hair and iron shaving." After they have returned to the manor, Grommuk busies himself as he usually does: stuffing his face. When the morning arrives, he has disappeared from the home -- again, as he usually does.
Someone needs to pick up Craft Wondrous for me :D
Brawler 4th
Class Features:
Ability Score Bump: Strength (gasp) Skills (4 - 1 Int)
Evolutions:
Retraining
Moving away from a Grappling Focus, as you can see. I end up forgetting about it and just punching things anyways. Now that Brawlers get more uses of their martial flexibility, I can just "flame on" if I decide I want to grab someone. As a note to myself: +1300gp after retraining (instead of 1500)
Grommuk grins and shuffles backwards to allow Nyugusk room to enter the fray, hoping the gnoll takes the bait. ""
Presented with nothing unfriendly and standing in his immediate vicinity, Grommuk remains where he stands, chest and shoulders heaving as his pulse begins to slow a bit.
As I've been posting elsewhere, I'm dropping out of a bunch of games on the boards here. If it's okay with you Jelani, I'd like to stay in this one with Grommuk. He's the easiest character I'm currently playing to update, being a big stupid bruiser.
Grommuk advances towards the gnoll with a sadistic hunger, his bloodrage knocking through his veins so loudly it drowns out most of his awareness. There is only his foes and the need to snuff them out. The two sailors serving as a buffer between Grommuk and the gnoll receive the wrong end of his fury as the huge orc continues his relentless advance. It's as if a Spawn of Rovagug has stepped onto the ship, and the pair of adversaries find themselves under his massive, green fists as it drives them down and breaks them against the ship's deck. " Fall. . . "
Grommuk nods at the wizard's words, not terribly crestfallen at the prospect of not having to swim in the offal-choked waters that surround the harbor. Instead, he strides nonchalantly up towards the deck of the ship. As soon as he draws any notice or noteworthy attention, he calls out loudly and angrily ""
Grommuk looks to the others, then to the ship. "Swim to ship, climb up back?" He points towards the rear of the vessel, as if it were necessary to get his point across.
Out of town until Monday Night, taking a trip with the family and catching a Browns game.
Grommuk attempts to backhand the nearest halfling, but only succeeds in splintering a significant chunk of the nearby barrel.
"Not trouble. Just business." Grommuk begins, but the aggravation in his voice is evident. All of the slaves on they passed on the way here were out in the open, under lock and key and watch. Here in this room, away from the prying eyes of the street, however, was a different story altogether. The orc doesn't act yet, but his tensing broadcasts what's bound to happen eventually to the other Pathfinders.
Grommuk realizes he doesn't really know what they're hassling the man for. The Adventure Lady Captain with fiery hair said something about slaves. Grommuk is not terribly fond of people who keep slaves, given his own history. Did Fredrik keep slaves? "WHERE STOLEN SLAVES GO?" Grommuk roars, the situation desperately needing someone without a rock for a brain to take the lead away from the dimwit.
Grommuk emits a low rumbling growl, a cavernous rumble from the depths of his massive frame. "Grommuk not like Fredrik. Maybe squash ugly face like grape."
Grommuk seems to be losing a bit of his fervor when he realizes his opponents are little more than mad dogs without a bite. He begins unleashing targeted blows to knock them out, blows to the head or vicious knees to the stomach.
Grommuk smiles. He ducks his head to step into the barroom proper and begins swiping his fists through the congregation of junkies with reckless abandon. He barely clips one across the temple, but it's enough to send the poor man sprawling across the floor. "GROMMUK GOT PLENTY OF GRIT, HEH HEH HEH!" the orc calls out, indicating something entirely different than the drug in question.
He seems happy, and allows his formal smile to be replaced by an actual one. Grommuk's glad to know he didn't mess up the reunion. Her mother's voice grated on the orc's nerves, and it was becoming hard to maintain his amicable facade. It's a couple of seconds before the huge orc looks down to Cladissa and asks, "What nawab mean?"
Approaching from the direction of the washroom, Grommuk nearly walks past the noblewoman standing in the entryway. He pauses abruptly, mid-stride, and slowly rotates his head to look at Lady Farwynd. He smiles wide as he stares stupidly at her. High society types usually don't like to listen to him, so he elects not to speak until spoken to. He hopes Cladissa comes down soon so he can stop smiling and staring.
Grommuk shrugs. "Not need parents. Grommuk not know parents, and grow strong! Pink skins like cats. Maybe mom like cats too? Grommuk likes cats. Chase away rats, and so fuzzy." A brief glimmer of contemplation washes over the orc. His mother had died, and he had witnessed it; cut down by the same Chelish slavers that claimed him. He wonders if the chieftain--his father--still lives. Not that he would or could expect a warm reception were his sire still around. It was not the way of his kind, and he was foreign to them now. They'd probably kill him as soon as welcome him.
At the mention of "freak" Grommuk nonchalantly strides into the common room where the others are congregating. He's holding an entire roasted chicken on the end of a metal spit, leaking juices that dot a trail all the way back to the kitchen. He plops down on the floor with a loud thud, folds his legs up underneath his mass and begins noisily gnawing and sucking down the portable feast he has secured himself. He seems to have no grasp or notices in any way the tense and emotional atmosphere that dominates the conversation. Grommuk struggles a little more with the food than he expects to. His lower jaw juts further than it once did, and his thick tusks seem to have doubled in size since their departure and subsequent return from their previous mission. The net result is, as if such a thing were possible, even more stains and slobber upon his chin and jowls. "Mmmmmff. . .nommfff. . ."
Heedless of the violence already visited on the remaining corpse, including a blast of energy that sends it sprawling to the ground, Grommuk stalks forward with bloodlust left to spend. Dead, alive, undead, dead again--it didn't make any difference. The brutish orc wanted to keep hitting things, so he was going to. Though nausea tugs at his innards, he powers through the sensation and secures the ghast's body with his left while his other hand ruins it, sending unsightly bits of gore and clouds of ichor receding with the retreat of the seaspray.
Ignoring their preference for strategy, Grommuk elects to rush into the room and bash the closest ghoul directly in the face—with his fist. It looks as if one of the seasprays plaguing the room might consume Grommuk entirely, but the water disperses in an odd direction instead, leaving the orc mostly unobstructed as he brings some destruction to bear against the corpse.
Grommuk waits for the something to get close enough and tries to bash it into paste.
Grommuk starts collecting choice "sea shells", holding them up and appraising them with a "keen" eye. When he notices the dead groundskeeper he scratches his head. "How he get here? Smoke monsters not hate crazy people?" Then the brute's eyes settle on the ring of children just beyond the sprawled corpse. "Hey! Hey! Bad kids kill Mar. . . Mar Lynchpin?"
When Grommuk sees that Argor has discovered something, the green-skinned brute lopes over to the masked wizard and looms over his shoulder. A grumble of an "Oooooooooh!" escapes his on-the-brink-of-drooling jowls as he expresses his appreciation for the shiny thing the wizard has found. "Argor give that to almost-elf lady who read his books? Pretty ring! Girl not very pretty though. Her skin soft and hair fluffy. No thick. But Argor that way too! Argor like almost-elf lady?"
Grommuk steps around Nyugusk and puts his mitts to work again, clapping both hands together loud and hard inside of the dark stuff that constitutes the creature's form. The orc lets a chuckle slip when he feels the cold wrongness of contact with the spirit wash over his hands and forearms.
Managing to duck under the creature's rake with a surprisingly nimble spin, Grommuk brings around the full force of his forehand into the creature's hazy mass.
Grommuk continues around the corner and down the hall, ready to punch the first one of the things he comes across.
"Grommuk can go break fog-monsters now?" Grommuk asks dumbly, wiping drool from his jowls.
Grommuk accepts the tea and earplugs as they are offered. When he draws near to the hallway where the allips terrorized them previously, Grommuk uncorks the stopper on his flask and slathers the dull, brown oil on his fists.
Predictably, Grommuk heads to the kitchen and begins pestering Mr. Goodpies for details of the whens and whats for the next meal. His mind wanders to thoughts of the creatures in the necropolis, and whether or not he can punch his way through smoke-monsters. Eventually, he gets up and makes his way to the Grand Lodge, where he spends the better part of the early evening pestering Pathfinders and Pathfinder hopefuls about what he can do against such a foe. Ultimately, their advice leads him to a nearby shop of oddities and magical baubles where he purchases a small flask of oil from a lady whose name he immediately forgot. Grommuk returns, confident in his solution, and begins waiting eagerly for dinner again.
Grommuk scratches under his armpit before giving it a quick sniff. A satisfied look settles on his face then he looks at Argor. "Clerics cure Grommuk's noodle-face kiss. They fix that too?" The burly orc grabs Argor's left arm and raises it, releasing it and watching as it falls limply again. He repeats this motion several times.
Let's pool our money and buy a scroll of meteor swarm!
The hide undead route would involve just running past the allips, admittedly.
Hide from undead might work as well. Magic fang too, as mentioned. Grommuk being fascinated seems a given, I can't make saves against anything haha.
Grommuk follows behind the rest obediently. Part of him wants to march down the hall and start punching the things in the face, but a more dominant factor in his mind tells the brute he wants to be as far away from the terrors as orcishly possible.
Grommuk continues being too weak willed to resist any effect ever conceived by any creature anywhere ever. He joins the other orc-blooded Pathfinder in drooling fearfully.
Grommuk sighs, and squirms around awkwardly to look at Argor. "Can make small again? Grommuk's shoulders hurt."
"" Grommuk thunders, the boom of his voice reverberating through the ruin's confined, arched hallways. He grunts and groans and grimaces as he shifts his way towards the group, accepting Nyugusk's hand with an appreciative grunt. "Siz dost olun. Bu qapalı yerlərdə xəstə mənim yeni toplu uyğun görünür. Harada, ağlını itirmiş çəhrayı dəri üçün off əldə etdiniz? O, ən azı hatalar haqqında izah ola bilər!" Grommuk sighs, sounding more like a cavernous growl given his enlarged state. He continues wiggling down the tunnel like a worm, eager to be somewhere big enough for him to stand upright. Orcish: "Thank you friend. These confined spaces are ill suited to my new bulk, it seems. Where did the maddened pink-skin get off to? He could have at least told us about the bugs!" |