Grumblenaught's page

Indeed it is!

Sorry, folks; a string of disasters --my job being 'phased out', my mother falling down a flight of stairs back in Missouri, etc-- have kept me from a serious post over the last week or so.

No problems - hope things take a turn for the better!

Grumblenaught, is that the spear you left town with, or one of the Blackspeare's weapons?

Grumble declined somewhere back around here. Looks like Martaug has the second spear.

"Yeh, I have had enough o' yer foolery!" the Dwarf blusters, setting his antiquated crossbow down as he wraps both heavy-knuckled fists around the haft of his boar-spear and moves to attack.

Perception 1d20+7=13

Grumble is still peering out the window when the figure emerges, turning around only after Yalka has leapt into the fray, blinking as his eyes re-adjust to the darkness inside the milltower.

Grumblenaught, Valdisara: The mesmeric droning and waving lights deem to drift off. You're lost in your thoughts, wondering where they might have gone. Somewhere in the far distance, you hear the sounds of mayhem; surely it doesn't concern you.

By the time Martaug gets to his feet and Yalka gets to the ground floor, Grumblenaught and Valdisara are shaking off the effects of the Hypnotic Pattern. There is no other sound in the place. The windmill is still turning outside, but there are no sounds of the water being poured out.

Grumblenaught shakes his head and blinks repeatedly to clear the remaining tangle of figments, before walking slowly (and quite carefully) over to the window and looking down.

"Yarp. That din't go quite like I had it thought out," he sighs only partly to himself.

The Traps: I am assuming they had been set/left by the wights, since I don't think Cale would've had time to rig them all. Further detailed inspection may prove me wrong, however

GM Chris Mortika wrote:

Cale casts another spell. This is a mind-influencing enchantment that requires a DC 12 Will save from everyone.

Grumblenaught rolls a 10.

Anybody doing anything?

Sorry! Lost track of things again. Hope you had a good time down south, Chris!

Grumblenaught stares, rapt, as his erstwhile friend retreats.

Grumble, you won't be able to see him until he steps forward and casts.

No problem. Consider me waiting until then.

"Dunno who you be," he says..

LOL. Not going to *change* my action at this point... Grumble's crossbow has a very sensitive trigger, apparently! We'll just have to hope our dwarf had the sense to hastily adjust his aim low, trying to hobble Cale rather than puncture something more vital. Feel free to apply any penalty to my roll to reflect such

"Damnation," the dwarf blurts, even as he hastily drops the business end of his crossbow by a foot. "All you beardless tallfolk look th' same t'me!"

Assuming Grumble can see the crouching crossbowman... he'll use his delayed action on the first opportunity

Grumblenaught casts a quick glance at Martaug, reassuring himself that the half-breed is un-roped and suffering more from bruised pride than actual wounds. Satisfied, he turns to the crouched man.

"Dunno who you be," he says levelling his crossbow and squeezing the trigger, "an' so I am much less inclined t' take ye back still breathin'."

"You didn't expect to find me here, eh, Grumblenaught? And now you fear that I am after the prize you love, the Blackspeare's hidden treasure trove! Well you know it contains a gift to genie-kind, for which they'll lift the curse that's laid upon me full these --

"Um, 'full these years have drawn...?'

"Pfah!" spits the dwarf, anger flushing his cheeks. "Ain't innerested in th' trinkets." He continues speaking as he moves slowly and cautiously towards the stairway to his left. "Alls I am wantin' outta this jaunt is t'see their heads on pikes, an' ta stymie whate'er it was what chewed on th' Deputy."

"Oh, hang this rhyming nonsense! The treasure is mine! Not those brats', and not yours, either. Leave. Or. Die.

"Enough threats. If yer gonna drown us with summat other than words, then let loose. If yer gonna keep yappin' yer sing-songish jackanapery, then whyn't ye surrender an' we'll let ya talk th' whole wagon-ride back t' town."

"Who's your lunk of a partner, there, Grumblenaught? I recognize that one woman from the other day."

The dwarf motions to Yalka, indicating the sodden trail leading into the machinery.

"Don't know that it matters who me remaining friends are, though I have one less to me tally than I did this dawning, that's certain."

"Speakin' o' friends, I might point out that yer muddyin' up quite a good batch of wight footprints. Have ye given a thought to confrontin' them yet, Cale?"

Grumblenaught, you catch something out of the corner of your eye, amidst the turning of the machinery. Your first impression was someone in a panic, ducking to pick something up.

The enormity of his misjudgement seems to catch Grumblenaught like a sledge to the midsection. He cannot stifle a sound that is half growl and half sob, and his eyes glisten briefly and brightly with liquid before hardening into flint.

Do the wet footprints lead to where the movement came from, Chris?

He is already moving when he speaks, his voice cold and hollow, his crossbow moving to track the sudden movement seemingly of its own accord.

"Cale." The words are short, clipped, and devoid of emotion. "Step out now, and I'll see ye get back t' the deputy unharmed t' confess what ye done an' t' make proper amends fer it."

Ready an action to fire at any motion that appears hostile

Play By Chat would work best for Val and I on Monday, since we'll have company the next weekend

At Valdisara's announcement, the Dwarf narrows his eyes briefly then nods his shaggy head. "Makes sense, lass. Cale realized what he done, an' did somethin' even more foolish ta try an' escape th' guilt he was feelin'."

Gathering up his kit, Grumblenaught beckons to the others, a compact bundle of barely-contained anxiety. "Let's be off, an' quick! Might be we can still save him!"

The dwarf readies several bolts for easy access, and ratchets a raven-feathered quarrel into firing position, as he does so meeting each of his companions eyes in turn. "No point in sneakin' it now - I am headin' fer th' door, t' try an' save me daft friend whether ye be with me or no." His mind made up, Grumblenaught squares his shoulders with determination and turns to leave.

I realize that this might not be the most tactically sound option at this point, but to Grumble's mind the scenario he has outlined makes perfect sense, and he is enough of a loner that he considers Cale a friend (whether or not the sentiment is returned in full)and thus deserving of a chance at redemption, or at least a chance to absolve himself with his dying words.

Chris, are there any more plans for a live chat session coming up, or are we content here for now?

Grumblenaught wrote:

Can I tell anything else about the figure in the window, perhaps race, or if it is armed?

Not at this distance, through a small window into an unlit building. Nobody else in the party can discern the figure at all.

Are there any approaches to the windmill that would let us remain hidden, or at least provide us with some cover, or are we going to have to cross a 200' killzone?

After several minutes, you hear a "snap" come from the direction of the windmill, and a figure, perhaps a watchman, appears at one of the higher windows.

Can I tell anything else about the figure in the window, perhaps race, or if it is armed?

Grumblenaught will whistle softly to alert the otherwise-occupied companions, then motion carefully to indicate the new arrival on the scene.

That accomplished, he will begin to scan the area for signs of Cale and the children, or of a recent bloody confrontation.

I think Grumble saw the mill before, and probably would have poked around it since it's the only thing out here.

Please refrain from playing my character...

When you touch ABC, as a set, and recite their names "aleph-vet-gimel", the air fills with shadow, and the three glyphs you touch vanish from the spear.

Trying anything else, as well?

Grumblenaught will take a short step can dwarves take non-short steps?! backwards out of the cloud of shadow, glaring mild annoyance at Yalka and muttering under his breath.

Is the shadow something that Grumble's darkvision can penetrate, or is it not possible to determine that in daylight?

Whilst Martaug and Yalka putter with the spears, Grumble will find himself a good (well-hidden) vantage point fairly close by and keep a sharp eye on the windmill and surrounds.

All right. I have an adventure set for Yalka and Martaug (et al.). If Grumblenaught and Valdisara are also able to play, we can accommodate them, too. But nobody else has stuck their head in the thread for over two weeks, so I think it's just the four of you.

Grumblenaught, if you're here, this is the same windmill you looked over months ago, but it was clearly inoperable back then. Someone has gone to considerable trouble in the last several months to get this thing up and operational.

We're here, just a bit slow with family visiting for the holidays

The dwarf purses his lips, squinting beneath a shading hand at the structure ahead. "Mighty bit o' work they's done here, fer certain," he murmurs to Martaug. "Weren't like this til recent, an' I am not likin' that thought - it were a better fit fer the land as it was."

As Yalka canters up, Grumblenaught nods in greeting, then brusquely declines if offered one of the rune-crusted spears. "Ain't much fer gettin' personal with a sticker I ain't comfortable with, leastways one with Magicks all tangled onnit."

He shakes his head at the tall tribeswoman. "I'd rather see it broke an' trust t'me own piece," he says quietly, patting his archaic crossbow with something approaching love.

"One thing I do ask," he says slowly, clearly troubled. "If it comes ta a fight with Cale... take him alive, if it be possible." His heavy brows knot determinedly. "He's been me friend fer some years now, an' I'd be amiss if'n I din't do me best ta make sure all sides o' his story is heard afore justice is meted."

Sorry - Holiday Chaos overtook us.

It takes Grumblenaught some time to find words, and when they come, finally, they are terse and hollow. "Cale." He kneels next to the wounded boy, putting a surprisingly gentle hand on his forehead before continuing. "Known him several years now - ain't surprised t'hear he is wantin' a piece of whatever excitement is goin' on, but I ne'er figgered t'have him desperate enough t'hurt youngsters in order t' snatch a few coins t' refill his purse."

The dwarf nods in response to Martaug's suggestion, his eyes hardening. "May be that I misjudged him when I called him friend, but I am aimin' t'have an accountin' fer his deeds, an' then we'll truss him up an' let the Magistrates do what they will."

"Back by the windmill. We -- Cale. Cale killed 'im."

A tremendous scowl twists Grumblenaught's face. "Kilt him a-purpose?!" he asks, eyeing the lad from below knotted brows. "An' did he try t'kill you as well?"

His heart heavy, the dwarf closes his eyes as he waits for the boy to catch his breath.

A heavy scowl marring his craggy features, Grumblenaught lowers his weapon as the chilling voice retreats into the caverns. "Bah. Ain't worth the wastin' of a bolt."

He kicks at a loose rock in frustration before looking to the others, resentment smoldering in his eyes. "Mighty arrogant of 'em, t' assume we'd be doin' their dirty work for 'em. Seems clear t'me that they can't pass th' water, an are impatient fer their loot... not wantin' ta wait 'til the windmills pump it all out."

Stumping outside to join Yalka under the welcoming sun, the dwarf continues his tirade. "I ain't one t' care much fer riches, jes' so that the folk I care about are fed an' happy. I ain't one fer worship an' churches an' their crusades neither, but I am fer gettin' these rotting bandits dead fer good, an' if it takes the fetching of a relic ta do that, well, sign me up."

Waiting for the others to re-emerge, he mutters "Jes means the fightin' has t'be on our terms, not theirs..."

Grumble isn't at all comfortable following the deaders into a scenario where they have all the advantages - I agree with Yalka that if this aquifer is indeed sanctified, we need to make the best use of it that we can, especially given Orislav's absence. I think that testing this theory should be our first course of action, then perhaps we descend, take stock of the treasure and assess the caverns below for secondary exits?

Grumble peers at the shivering Half Orc, not at all relishing the upcoming swim. "I'll go down last," he offers. "That way if'n I catch a bad case of the drownding, ye can jes' pull me sodden corpse through."

Grumble's done for now, as far as expressing his disapproval of Sachi's apparent vocation - Grumble is a local after all, and assuredly knows what goes on inside the walls of Sachi's former mistress, even if he doesn't know specifics of Sachi's labor there - that's what one gets for assuming (and having a 9 CHA!!)

He certainly wouldn't go so far as to actually threaten her with tongue-ripping violence, but having been so threatened, his demeanor towards the young lady with her suspicious gifts and her newly-announced "guest" will be unlikely to warm past frigid.

"...And to you dwarf, if you call me a whore once more I will see that I take your tougne from your mouth!"

"Right ya be. Would ya prefer me ta label ye "Strumpet" or "Trollop," then?" He scowls at the youthful human girl. "If ya be shamed of bein' noted fer th' trade ye ply, p'raps it be time ta be quit of it, an practice another."

Quite deliberately turning his back on Sachiko, Grumblenaught moves carefully to the lip of the pit, pausing to peer down the hole before gesturing to Yalka for her spare coil of rope.

"Yalka think good cover tunnel again with big stone. Keep spider thingies inside. Anyone help?"

"More'n a few o' them skitterer down there, an' none too pleasant-minded, I saw," offers Grumblenaught to the group in general. Setting his trusty crossbow carefully to the ground, he shrugs his shoulders to loosen them, and digs in beside Yalka, heaving at the capstone.

Str Check (1d20 1=6)

Quandary, Grumble's intent was/is to just take a peek round the corner - assuming his Will Save grants him a clear enough head to retreat, he's right behind (or ahead) of you!

...(maybe players should be DM-PC'd if they don't post for 2 days... Thoughts, everyone?)

This would essentially leave you as the only PC, based on post traffic of late. Calm down, IMO - Being parents is a bit overwhelming at first, but we'll try to do better. ;P

Mumbling under his breath, Grumblenaught efficiently racks another bolt into place as the huge, chitinous legs withdraw from view.

Not willing to let an opportunity for a finishing blow pass so easily, the dwarf calmly steps forward to the edge of the side tunnel and peers after the scuttling abomination.

Grumble will fire if an opportunity presents itself, but if not, he will try his best to get a mental snapshot of the area the critter retreated to, for later reference and planning

"Bah!" grunts the stout dwarf, beetling his tufty brows at the situation in general. "Ne'er did much like spiders, much less spiders what ain't spiders a'tall..."

With nary a care for the gnome and his nonsensical sing-song patter, Grumblenaught licks the business end of a quarrel and holding his breath, drops down into the cramped tunnel, moving forward as far as possible with a 20' move, anyways to Yalka's aid, snapping off a hasty shot at the encroaching aberration if he can get an angle not obscured by the frenetic actions of the tall barbarian woman.

And the party heads off to the west. So far as I've heard, nobody's taking either of the spears.

Grumble isn't comfortable wielding something that seems to his mind "evil" - might be good to bring them along tho, in case they are badges or keys of some sort...

How many: more than one, no more than six. For the first quarter-mile or so, it's hard to tell whether they are fresher than the east-bound wight tracks: they haven't overlapped yet.

So far, there's nothing to disabuse you of the "constable and Ulrich" theory.

After a brief westward foray, much of it spent stooped even closer to the ground than usual, the wide-shouldered dwarf returns to the small gathering of companions. "Yar, some good tracks both comin' an' goin'. Might be Ulric an' the Deputy, in addition to the deaders, might not be. Time'll tell though."

He looks up at Hilden. "Missus, could you recall exact-like where yer husband and the deputy lit out from yesterday morn'?" He offers a sympathetic shrug. "I know it mightn't be pretty to recall mem'ries so soon, but I'll need ta know, if'n ye can."

I'd like to avoid moving too far along the trail until we can get the group moving, so...

He beckons to the farm-wife, trotting off to show her the closest point that the westward, shod tracks can be found, adding loudly over his shoulder, "Step up lively, all you armed folks. Good daylight only lasts fer so long, an these tracks isn't likely t'get any fresher!"

Grumblenaught, you can track the wights fairly easily here. Intermittently, their steps coming east intersect with some other fresh prints (shod) travelling west.

How many shod, westward prints are there, and are they fresher than the wights eastward prints, or just "relatively" fresh, as in perhaps made by the Constable and Ulric yesterday?

..."And what of the one that escaped? Can he.. or it.. be tracked? We know it went west from here. I think eliminating the threat of its evil and possibly finding its source is more important than exploring the caves."

Grumblenaught looks appraisingly at the tall elf-blooded lass. "The one that ran hisself away din't have any feet, darlin'." He pauses briefly, cracking a grim smile. "T'other ones though; I reckon we could surely foller their spoor back ta wherever it was they come from"

Looks like my most recent post got eaten. Fooey.

Grumble will - after seeing that the remaining Rolsens are safe, and that Orislav is able to take care of the wounded - gather up as many of his used bolts as he can, and then find a quiet corner to grab a catnap.

Come morning, he will help with burials and consecrations as he can - given his general lack of piety, I suspect his assistance will be rendered with a shovel.

As the group discusses further plans, he will confirm that the windmill is indeed close to hand. "Sure'n I can get ye there," he nods confidently. "And the laddie has wrote a fine map, t' my eyes. Ye've got a fine mem'ry, youngster." He winks at Gunlar approvingly.

He peers at the assembled group, puffing his cheeks and blowing on his thick fingers to warm them against the morning's chill. "Now then. Which d'ye wish ta visit first, then?"

Chris, is the terrain we'd be travelling over smooth enough to bring Teppetta's wagon and team (and Sachiko's loaned horse) or will we need to leave them here/send them with the Rolsens?

"Call out, friends. Do we still stand? Any foe still nigh?"

"Yar, still standin'," rumbles the dwarf, from the rooftop above. "On me way down ta retrieve me bolts jes' now..." He looks briefly around for a convenient way down, before settling on the easy alternative of a leap to the berm.

"I've not heard no bellows on me horn, so I reckon the bramble-patch kids is safe enough. Sure enough they'll step round this way soon, now that we done all the dirty work."

Grumble proceeds to collect as many of his bolts as he can find, taking extra care to make certain each foe is well and truly expired.

No clue who or what an "Elman" is... mebbe they were referring to the Constable?

Grumblenaught tries to deliver a finishing blow while the field is relatively clear, but his bolt sails awry. "Bah!" He spits in disgust, reloading yet again.

Upon hearing the grisly sound of Yalka's impact, Grumblenaught winces, then moves to look down upon the scene, once again socketing a bolt and winching the bowstring to full, quivering tension.

"Ain't innerested in yer coin, mister," he rumbles. "Looks like it'll be a trip back t'the long, dark beyond for ye, I reckon."

Move and Move-Equivalent reload for me this round. Someone else will have to kill the bastard for me! ;P

...Grumblenaught, he's another of these dead men, wearing a dark green poncho, like the man you slew moments ago. And he carries a black wooden spear, which is itself radiating murky darkness that is messing even with your night vision.

"That was the last bolt you'll ever fire, you mouth-breathing idiot."

"Y'see..." Grumblenaught says matter of factly, calmly socketing a fresh bolt yay for Rapid Reload! and bringing the heavy weapon smoothly to his shoulder as he pivots to face the poncho-draped figure "that's where ye'd be dead wrong." The dwarf's thick finger squeezes the trigger , and he shows his teeth in a broad, feral grin.

Crit Confirmation Roll and Damage (1d20 4=14, 1d10=7)

Just out of curiosity, since I am on the rooftop firing down instead of standing on the ground firing at a minimal (prone) silhouette, would the -4 penalty still apply in this case, countered only by my +1 higher ground bonus? I realize that's how the rule is written, just interested in your opinion.

From the rooftop, the dwarf brings his heavy weapon to bear, setting the stock firmly at his shoulder, following the tangle of arms, teeth and paws below with careful patience. "Get up ye shamblin' piece o' twice dead ugly," Grumblenaught mutters. "Get up an' I'll do fer ye jes' like I done yer friend..."

Grumble will ready an action to Fire when the critter stands, holding my shot only if one of the party members enters melee. Chris, pls note that Grumble doesn't have Precise Shot, so he'll be penalized for firing into a melee: can't remember specifics, but that roll was even worse than I originally thought.

Grumblenaught moves cautiously and quietly to the southern edge of the roof, sizing up the situation on the ground and reloading his crossbow.

Gonna take this round to reload, stealth move (assuming you'll roll stealth?) to square J17 and decide that the wolf is, in this case, a friend, if only because he is attacking something unnatural. I don't believe Grumble would've heard Martaug's summon spell, so I think that's the best conclusion Grumble can draw.

Grumblenaught, you don't need the critical. He goes down.

Watching the corpse topple, the dwarf nods with satisfaction. "Right, an' I told yer what'd happen now, din't I, ye daft bastard."

Grumblenaught pauses a brief moment longer, to make sure his victim remains dead before moving to the south side of the roof, deep-set eyes scanning the grounds for a new target.

On initiative 18: I will use my 20' move to obtain LoS to the intruder if necessary, staying on the roof for now. If I don't need to move, I'll fire & reload.

Muttering a spate of colorful obscenities beneath his braided beard, Grumble takes aim at the spear-bearer once again, hoping this bolt bites with greater effect.

I am assuming this fella is undead, thus immune to crits, but just in case: Crit Confirm & Damage (1d20+5=19, 1d10=10)

GM Chris:

Grinning widely, Grumble bellows"STEP YER ARSE AWAY FROM THE BACKDOOR, YE SNEAKIN' UGLY BASTARD, OR I'LL BE FEATHERIN' YE AGIN'!"

GM Chris:

Grumble would much rather be on the roof with his crossbow, than inside, but if he is to play the silhouette of Gunlar, then I don't see a way to pull that off. If we decide that Orislav could do it, or that the deception isn't necessary, Grumble will head up to the rooftop lickety-split and settle in near the ridgeline, trying to maintain as small a silhouette as is feasible.

Whilst the farmer's lad shows off the hidey-thicket, Grumblenaught stumps around the house and the sheds, noting potential lines of fire and available cover, as well as checking which of the doors can be locked or latched (and from which direction.)

"Here y'be, lass," he says to Valdisara, passing her the carved ram's horn he carries, with a twinkle in his eye. "Sure'n ye don't have true dwarfish lungs, but I reckon ye can sound it loud enough fer us ta hear at th' house if ye needs help."

He looks at Kara, tilting his head upwards, trying to look indignant. "Not that I mind posin' as the lad, not at all... but if'n yer next words is ta ask me ta shave me beard, yer not gonna hear th' answer yer wanting."

"Missus," he adds, before Hilden leaves for the safety of the thicket, "yer supper smells a treat.. can ye spare a ladle's worth, ta fortify me innards fer tonight's work?"

I think the plan as proposed is fairly sound - I don't think Yalka should split off at this point, but it's not my choice, obviously. Grumble will trot into the house, find a spot with an unimpeded line of fire to the door, lay out half a dozen crossbow bolts for easy access and prop his boar spear against the wall next to him.

Without waiting for the wagon to fully halt, Grumblenaught drops to the ground, nods brusquely to the young boy and bows to the farmwife, before blurting "Missus, you jes' said "they" went to look at some caves.. who might them plurals be, what went wit' yer husband?"

Looking slightly surprised at his own outburst, he manages to dig up an embarrassed grin, accompanied by a shrug. "Talkin ain't me best habit, but Grumblenaught be what I am called, and I reckon me an' this whole wagon o' folks be at yer service."

Grumblenaught will claim the seat next to Martaug, keeping a sharp eye out ahead, his loaded crossbow in his lap.

Now and again, partial verses of a dwarven marching chant escape from the dwarf, a rumbling sing-song quickly bitten off each time he notices that he is actually audible.

After Yalka's mention of the windmill, he elaborates briefly on the barbarian's description. "Might be more'n one of 'em about, but I can find it if we needs, sure enough." Chris, what is the approximate travel time to the mine I have previously visited?

Some few minutes after Valdisara volunteers her historic tale, the dwarf speaks up again, his deep voice bearing a note of uncertainty this time. "Friend o' mine back in town, he says them Blackspeare's took a shine to weapons... magic weapons like she tells about in her story. Wonder if mebbe this all tangles together somehows?" He twists to look over his shoulder at the passengers in the wagon bed, one bushy eyebrow cocked in inquiry.

Grumblenaught stumps slowly over to the sunniest side of the barn, and slowly sinks down to rest against it. Now that the excitement of the fray has passed, the Dwarf refills his bandolier with four replacement bolts, and carves himself a large hunk of cheese.

Chewing slowly, he lets the idle conversation of Yalka and the Wizard whose name he can't remember wash over him like the lazy current of a summer stream. He sits quietly for some while, nearly dozing, until he hears his name mentioned in Yalka's thick and halting accent.

"Mines?" he queries, looking up and blinking in the sunshine. "With windmills, y'say?" He chews a braid thoughtfully, trying to collect his thoughts. Chris, does this ring any bells?

Squinting suddenly southward and tilting his head to hear better, he does some quick mental calculations, "Should'a seen - or heard - summat out of the other folks by now, I'd reckon. That half-breed looked like he knew how ta handle a team, so's it might be that they found themselves a mite of trouble on t'way..."

GM & Yalka

GM and Yalka

GM Chris & Yalka (edited to reflect GM's post)

GM Chris, Yalka