What Mal said. I have absolutely loved reading and (so briefly) playing in this game. So much talent and great writing. Very happy to have been a part of it. Happy to pick it up again if/when life lets that happen, Ray.
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*watches tumbleweeds blow by in the gameplay thread* ;-) How is everyone?
I've added the mace to Jake's sheet, but not the gp, since we haven't gotten anywhere to sell anything yet.
Jake had felt his wounds close and his aches disappear the first time Buckaru had channeled her healing energy, so he didn't bother himself with gathering around in a circle like the others had. He wasn't sure how the gnome - Leland, he thought his name was - had got himself in such bad shape. Jake hadn't thought he'd seen the little guy in any of the fighting, but it was always possible that Jake'd been a might distracted by his own part of the business. While the others worried about healing and divvying the loot, Jake had fetched some rope from the wagon, and convinced one of the drovers to unhitch a team and help with the roadblock. When all was said and done, Jake had a shiny new heavy mace hanging from his belt, the caravan was on its way, and Ben had disappeared. Jake frowned, but decided that the man who'd stood toe-to-toe with those Orcs, when he could have left Jake to his own fate, was unlikely to have run off. Still, best keep eyes open. Just cause he didn't run off don't mean he ain't gonna git himself kilt by another ambush. Jake did his best to follow his advice to himself, though he still wasn't used to traveling with others, and found himself somewhat distracted by the noise and movement of the group.
Jake finished going through the fallen orc's pockets, having tossed everything he found into a pile. Then he stood up, looked around the area, and nodded at Leland. "How do you think we should do that?" he asked, gesturing at the smoking pile of what had become a couple thousand pounds of barbeque. "Looks heavy - and hot."
Jake doesn't really want the mace. It would be a backup weapon for him. His fighting style is far more "disarm and control," rather than "smash and bash." If it would be more beneficial for the group to sell it, Jake would be very willing to part with it.
I'd say give Mal the ring, and can we fit the Breastplate on Gizmo? If no one else would use it, Jake can make use of the Mace - though he'd much rather trade it in for a flail...
The thought did give me a grin. :-) Especially if Ben were to drop the ring in the dirt, then kneel down to grab it right quick (don't wanna lose something so valuable, after all), and lift it up just at the moment Mal turned around to see what in Perdition Ben's been bumpin' his gums about...
Jake would take it, but he's already got one. ;-)
Bringing it to the Discussion thread. In addition to the Ring +1, the Breastplate +1, and the Heavy Mace +1,and 688gp, Jake would have tossed down the Falchions (2, or 3?), at least one javelin, and whatever else the boys upstairs were carrying.
Jake had made the trip down the wall without nearly the trouble Ben had exhibited. He'd decided tossing the bodies down made more sense than trying to carry all of the weapons. It also ensured that the orcs weren't faking their condition. 'Efficient,' that was Lonergan. "Well," he said, as he riffled through the pockets, "let's make sure there ain't anything left behind to help lead those friends to us, neither."
Jake saw the three orcs drop, and frowned. He looked at Ben with a questioning expression. Ben had gutshot the one facing him - that made sense. But the other two? Still, he wasn't the kind to look a gift horse too closely in the mouth. So he tucked his flail into his belt, picked up the falchion at his feet, and proceeded to make sure the orcs were, in fact, dead. As he did, he glanced over at the big ugly thing that had just smashed the steam animal. Then he looked at Ben again. "You think they can handle that thing, or do we gotta get all heroic again?
Seeing his disarmed target drop his guard and cock back an empty fist, Jake smiled, and whipped his flail around, sending the ball at the Orc's face. When the first Orc tried (again) to hit Jake with a javelin - reversed, this time, he shook his head at the pathetic attempt. "You," he said, "need to be put outta both of our misery." On his back-swing, he attempted to do just that.
Sadly, his attempt turned out to be even more embarrassing than had the Orc's attempt to hit him. Shut up, Jake. You know talk don't accomplish nothin' but distractin' a man. Just put them down.
Heh. Just realized that my phone auto-corrected "Min-Maxing" in my previous post to "man-eating." Amusing, though also another reminder of why I hate posting from my phone. *sigh*
I like both kinds of systems, and I tend to lean strongly towards a storytelling bias in my games. I'm not a huge fan of those folks who know all the rules so as to enable system-breaking man-eating, in which characters become nothing more than highly specialized tools, and the game nothing more than an exercise in number crunching. But I also think there's potentially a lot of room for creative play within a rules-structured system like Pathfinder. It's just a matter of application, and a GM willing to rule on the fly, (which I've found is easier to do with a semi-strong knowledge of the rules). I am very grateful for all of the great GMs I've had in my life, most of whom I've thrown at least one major curveball, that they've run with. :-)
Jake wasn't sure why, but he'd expected that hit to take out the orc he'd charged. He certainly hadn't expected the orc to hit him back with a javelin at point-blank range. Speaking of stupid... Especially given his own preferred method of fighting. Which reminded him.... Jake shuffled to one side, slightly away from the orc he'd been facing off with. The head of his flail spun in a defensive circle as he moved, his eyes never leaving his javelin-armed foe. Which was why (he hoped), it came as such a surprise when he turned and sent the chain to wrap around the blade of the falchion-wielding orc that had been threatening Ben.
Jake hadn't quite known what to expect from this particular ambush, but an orc breaking a glass ampoule and causing an explosion hadn't been it. The explosion had cause him to hesitate, just a moment. Long enough for Ben to yell at the orcs, before he shot one of them. That was stupid, Jake thought, even as he launched himself across the ground between him and his target. He wasn't sure if his criticism was for Ben's giving away their advantage of surprise, or his own hesitation - which did much the same as Ben's yell had. Jake didn't have the time to consider further, as he collided with the enemy, his flail spinning in a deadly arc towards the Orc as Jake snapped the weapon downward, both hands firmly on the wooden handle. Unlike Ben, Jake did not let out a battle cry.
I'm guessing Jake isn't in your auto-init rolling queue just yet. Might he slip in there somewhere? And could I perchance get that clarification on whether or not he's in charging range of the bad guys on top of the cliff? Cause if he is, his Readied action to charge woulda happened the second that ampoule broke and the explosion happened. I'm thinking that if the Orcs didn't know he and Ben were up there, he and Ben woulda gotten to act in the surprise round, no?
Jake wasn't really "cougar-like." So he didn't even bother going after Ben. Instead, keeping low, he quietly drew his weapon, and waited for the right moment.
Simple resolution: She meant wagon train. As in, "caravan." :o) Exactly what I was thinking.
Looking where Bukaru pointed, Lonergan nodded, then looked up and around at the cliffs.
That's what had been bothering him! "Yeah, ambush. 'S how I'd do it. They ain't jumped us yet, means the caravan's not in the sweet spot yet. But we gotta move fast. Soon as we start climbing cliffs, they'll know the jig's up - either scatter - that's the smart thing - or attack us anyway. Depends on how desperate they're feeling." He dismounted, leaving his pack on the horse, but pulling a coil of rope from it, and laying it across his shoulder. "I can git up that rock, but someone should probably stay down here, just in case they get someone behind us. If anyone has a hook, I can drop this here rope once I'm up there. Make it easier for the rest o' ya to follow.
The stranger hadn't gone out of his way to introduce himself to anyone in the caravan, other than when Ortega had pointed out that they would need to have something to call him, should they need him in a hurry. Since then, the others had heard the dwarf refer to him as "Lonergan" a few times. Now when the dwarf "suggested" that the dinosaur be coaxed off of the road, Lonergan looked unimpressed. He checked to make sure his gear was safely secured to his saddle, including his backpack. Then he nodded, and kicked his horse forward.
Something made Lonergan feel uneasy for just a moment, but he shook it off. "Varmints like this normally take naps in the middle of the road?" His question wasn't directed at anyone in particular, but since he hadn't spoken much up to now, it was probably not rhetorical.
The stranger had spent a couple of days down in the tunnels, satisfying himself that there were no further dangers lurking in the shadows. After that, he'd checked with the deputy to be sure there weren't any other tunnels anyone knew about under any of the other buildings in town. Then he'd pretty-much kept himself to himself, waiting for the caravan to Tin Star. The revelation that monsters had been in the area overcame his natural avoidance of other folks, and he decided the safety of traveling in a group was the smarter way to go. Even drinking mostly by himself, he couldn't help but hear some of the stories of the 'Dalton Gang,' and their heroics. If half of the stories were to be believed, traveling with them would be much safer than traveling alone. Then again, if the other half of the stories were to be believed, this group attracted trouble like honey attracted ants. But they'd survived it all, so something was working for them. When he heard about the offer of $2 for folk to work as security on the caravan, that just cemented his decision. The stranger rode up to the staging point, he and his horse both loaded for travel. He looked for a likely person to be in charge, and held up the handbill that had been posted in the tavern. "Hear you're willin' ta pay for escorts. I'm available, if you're payin'."
The stranger nodded. "You're probably right," he said to Mal's back, and the others, "I'd probably feel the same, I was you. Perdition, I probably wouldn'a gone in there at all. 'Scept, now that you did, if those were just scouts you kilt, and there is a tunnel, well, once they don't report back, the rest of 'em's like to stop bein' so sneaky, just come out in a group one night, and take everyone. That happens, well, best hope we're not around, I guess." 'Cause I sure as hell ain't gonna git took again. He didn't even acknowledge that he'd had the thought. Instead, the stranger just looked at the others for a long moment, his pale blue eyes intense under the brim of his hat. Then he shrugged. "Guess I'll be goin' then. Hope y'all got all of 'em. I really do."
The man gave Ben an appraising look. What that appraisal came to was not immediately apparent on his face. "Man at the bar said the 'monsters' took folks' faces. I..." The stranger hesitated for a moment, then clearly made a conscious decision to continue. "I've seen the type before. Was gonna go take a look, make sure it wasn't just stories, maybe see if I could work out where these ones come from. Make sure there ain't a tunnel back to their home, could lead to more of 'em once you 'heroes' 're gone. They're tricky like that." He shrugged. "But maybe you folks already made sure of that, and I can go back to my drink."
The determined-looking individual - a human male, a couple inches short of six feet (though that's a guess, since he's got a brown rancher's hat on) - marched past the group, a heavy-looking pack on his back, and a pair of saddle bags over one shoulder. Even under that load, he didn't seem burdened. Still, his pace slowed a step or two beyond the group, almost reluctantly. Then he stopped. Clearly, he was debating with himself. After a moment, he turned. "'Scuse me," he said, loudly enough to get the attention of the group, but not impolitely so, "Would you be the folks that found the 'monsters' under the Doc's house?"
I have the uncomfortable feeling that I locked up the game, somehow. *pout*
The man nodded. Spooky? Mister, you don't know the half of it.
He didn't know this "Scalpin' Jack" the barkeep talked about - or if he did, he didn't remember. After a moment, he downed the whiskey shot, then put the glass on the bar - along with several gold coins. "I'm gonna go look into a few things. My horse is out back. This should more than cover a couple days' keeping and feed. I expect I'll be back before then, but can you see to him for now?" While he waited for an answer, the man hefted his pack back onto his shoulders. "Oh, and, uh, where is the Doc's house?"
The shot-glass of whiskey stopped, halfway to the man's mouth, immediately after the barkeeper said the word "face" for the first time. It returned to the bar in an even, carefully controlled motion. "Monsters," he asked the barkeeper. Living underground. Taking faces. "Who found them," he asked, "and where?"
Poor Jake. Even nameless, faceless bartenders don't wanna talk to him... Wait. Faceless....? Jake leaps off his stool, whipping his bow and an arrow out of his quivver. *"Kú, irira!" *Aklo:
Die, abomination! Kidding! I'm kidding. Kinda.
The man grunted, then glanced around the room. Not seeing any immediate threats, he nodded. Setting his pack and saddlebag on the floor beside a stool, he took a seat. "Whiskey," he said. Grudgingly, he followed that with, "and a beer." He put a couple of coins on the bar, then, despite knowing that it was probably expected, went ahead and asked the question. "What kind of excitement?"
Dust was part of life in the Big Drop. You traveled by any means other than the Rails, and you got used to it. This man was clearly used to travelling. That's why the long leather coat he wore was called a 'duster.' He sat the saddle as though he was used to being there, though one could also tell that he would appreciate getting out of it for a spell, as his horse plodded up to the doors of the stable behind the saloon in Dry City. He dismounted easily, despite the jingle of chain mail beneath his duster, and the pack on his back. He looked for someone to whom he could hand his horse. No one was readily apparent. With a frown, he tied the horse off to a hitching post, and made his way inside the stables. He did not call out, just stuck his head through the door. When no one shot him, nor greeted him, he stepped the rest of the way inside. Aside from a few animals in stalls, he saw no one. Frowning even more, he stalked out of the stables - and very nearly ran over a human child - maybe twelve years old, chattering excitedly. "Gosh! I'm sorry, mister! Only, I was jist come back from the jail, an' the Doctor's in there, an' his daughter, an' she's OK, and they's all safe now, 'cept fer the ones what's dead, and the Heroes, they's all in there, too, and says the Sherrif's dead, and somethin' was dressed like him, an' now we're all safe, and there's like ta be a party, an' - " The man raised a hand, and the boy - mercifully - stopped talking. "Stable and feed for the horse. Couple-three days. Wipe down the harness, too, yeah?" His voice was low, dry with road dust, and matter-of fact. "Oh, sure, mister! You'll need ta settle up wit' Mister Jeffrey, or Miss Sam, inside th' saloon. There might could be they gots a bed ta rent, too, if'n yer lookin'." The man nodded to the boy, then flipped him a copper penny. The boy snagged the coin out of the air like a snake catching a baby bird, flashed the man a grin, and then moved to see to his horse. The man's lips twitched as though he had almost thought about smiling in return. He collected one of the two sets of saddlebags off the horse's back, threw it over his shoulder, and made his way around the front of the building. "Black Gold Inn," the man muttered, looking up at the sign. He made his way inside, headed to the barkeep. "Need a room, and a bath, and got my horse in the stable out back," he said, without preamble. "Boy out back said I'd need to talk to Mister Jeffrey, or a Miss Sam."
Thanks, folks. :-) Jake's an interesting guy. Writing out that scene helped me get a better handle on him. "Anti-social, with no drive to do anything but survive" doesn't really make it easy to "hook" a character into an adventuring party. Jake's not the type to go looking for new friends, or volunteering to go save a bunch of people he doesn't know, so I needed to get inside his head a bit. This helped - though 90% of what I learned about him didn't show up on the page. That'll come later. :-) I'll go Dot now.
I'm posting this here, as opposed to the Gameplay thread, because it's not necessarily 100% canon yet. But I got a bit antsy, and needed to write something about Jake. This would have happened months ago, a day or two after the conversation with the priest of the Gambler that can be found in the "Fluff" section of Jake's profile. So... Read if you like, skip if you don't. Jake Gets a Name. And a Flail: "Hey there, stranger." The voice behind him was friendly - overly friendly. Trying too hard.
"Look at me, callin' you a stranger. I'm visitin' from out o' town. Perdition, for all I know, you live here. I'm the stranger. My apologies, friend. Let me buy you a drink." He still didn't turn, or even lean back. Just kept his elbows on the bar, emptied his glass in a single swallow. "Got a drink," he said. "I see that! Looks like you got a whole bottle!" There was a chuckle. "Well, half a' one, anyway. Still, you, me, an' the barkeep's the only ones in here. Surely a feller can't be blamed for hankerin' after a little friendly conversation with his..." there was a pause. "Er... mid-morning drink?" Glass clinked, whiskey flowed, the bottle "thunked" back onto the scarred wood of the bar. "I ain't much of a talker, sorry." Rather than the brush-off it clearly was, the Voice took his words to be an actual apology. "That's no nevermind, friend." There was a scrape of barstool legs against the floor, and a figure settled in on the stool beside him. He checked back a sigh, and emptied his glass again. The friendly Voice belonged to a heavyset man, wearing a suit of cured leather armor. The jacket was opened to the waist - in truth, it looked as though actually closing it might prove a serious challenge. The Voice put a travel-worn hat upside down on the bar in front of him, and a pair of gloves into the hat. Several silver coins settled onto the bar, as well. "I'll take a shot of what he's having," the Voice told the bartender, "with a beer to chase it. And another of each for my friend, here." The bartender, not dumb enough to turn down good coin, was also smart enough to put all four drinks in front of the Voice, and not even make eye contact with him. He couldn't stop the sigh this time. The Voice clearly wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. He finally looked over at the Voice directly. His face wasn't welcoming - intense, ice-pale blue eyes staring out from beneath the brim of his hat. "I'm just here to drink." The Voice nodded, and slid a shot glass full of whiskey and a glass mug of beer over to him. "Then drink. I'll talk. Name's Marek." He sighed, frowned, and then nodded. Then he drank. Marek bought a few more drinks, and did most of the talking. Turned out, Marek was from the R.S.P., and come to the Drop looking for someone. After his fourth or fifth whiskey, Marek did mention that "there's something..." about his face. "Looks a lil' fer-...far-... familiar!" But not much else about it. An hour or so later, he left. Marek was snoring, face-down on the bar. ***** "Jake Lonergan." Marek's voice was less friendly this time. So, too, was the pistol Marek held, leveled at his chest. They stood outside the hotel, around the back. Marek stood blocking the stairs from the porch to the street. It was dark, except for the flickering light from the single lantern that lit the rear entrance. "I think you have the wrong man." "Not a chance, Lonergan. I knew I recognized your face. You're in my book." "Book?" "I'm a bounty hunter, Lonergan. You're wanted. In the R.S.P. Nice little reward for you. Dead or alive. And, since I don't like the idea a' havin' ta worry about you escapin', well..." Marek shrugged, then lifted the pistol again. He stepped forward, hands raised. "You know the problem with guns, Marek?" Marek looked puzzled at the seeming change of topic. "Problem?" "They have a very specific range in which they're effective. Most folks that don't know better - they get too close." There was a blur of motion, and Marek yanked his hand back - too late. It was empty. He looked up, and was staring down the barrel of his own pistol. "I don't want any trouble." Marek sneered. "You got trouble, Jake, you want it or not." The fat bounty hunter was pretty fast, when he wasn't the one being surprised. In a half-second, Marek whipped a hand downward from his shoulder, and a chain swept out, wrapped around the barrel of the pistol, and sent it spinning into the dark. Marek's sneer became a wicked smile. "I ain't excited 'bout the idea o' draggin' your corpse all over the Drop while I chase down McDouggle, either, so I think I'll just settle for your head." He nodded, ducked under the chain's arc, and yanked a short sword out of Marek's belt sheath. The chain caught him across the face on the backswing, and he bled for it. He stabbed at the fat man with the sword, but Marek easily parried the blow. The chain wrapped again, and the sword clattered down the steps, before the hilt slid between two of them. Marek's eyes glinted hungrily in the lantern light as the chain swept forward once more. Though he managed to dodge the chain, he couldn't avoid Marek following it, and clipping him across the temple with the chain's wooden handle. He managed an uppercut of his own, smashing Marek's jaw closed, and an elbow to Marek's ample gut bought him just enough space to lock his hands on Marek's wrist. Marek tried to knee him in the groin. There was a flurry of hands, knees, elbows and grunts. He twisted, turned, and came around with Marek's weapon in his own hands. He kept turning, brought his arms up, and caught Marek across the face with the chain. Marek staggered back, blood streaming from his nose and cheek. He kicked Marek in the gut. Hard. But instead of doubling over, Marek twisted to one side, and stumbled. Then Marek tripped. And fell down the stairs. There was a grunt, then the sounds of boots kicking frantically on the steps, then, suddenly, silence. He pulled the lantern off of the wall and held it in one hand, the handle of the chain in the other. Carefully, he made his way down the steps, and around Marek's bulk. Marek had fallen face-down, and landed on the 6 inches of sword that stuck up between the bottom step and the one above it. The blade had pierced Marek's chest, just below the throat - where the buckle on his leather jacket would sit, had it actually been closed. He quickly searched Marek's corpse. He found a pouch that clinked with coin, and a satchel that also clinked when he shook it. He took both, and the chain. ***** By the light of his fire, tucked into the side of a coulee, three hours' ride outside of town, he examined the contents of the satchel. There were some coins, a set of tools - probably for gun-workin' - a small, polished copper mirror, and a book. He opened the book. Inside, the pages were made up of wanted posters, folded in half. They fell out of the leather cover. Dozens of them. Each with WANTED across the top, in big letters. Then a picture of a face, over a name. Beneath that was listed crimes the person was wanted for, and, at the bottom, a reward for capture - or proof of death. Some of them had a red X across the face, along with a date scribbled underneath them. He frowned and looked into the satchel again. There, at the bottom, he found a stick of red marking wax. He wasn't sure if Marek had been marking out the ones he'd caught himself, or just the ones that weren't free to be caught any longer. In any case, he'd been marking them for some reason. He flipped through the posters, until he finally settled on one. WANTED Jake Lonergan For Arson, Assault, Mayhem, and Hijacking. Robbing of The Simcoe Company Stage Coach, and the Foul Murder of Alice Wills, of Cornflower County, R.S.P. REWARD: $500 Gold Dollars - Dead or Alive. He pulled out Marek's copper mirror. Even in the flickering light of the fire, it was glaringly evident. Jake Lonergan stared out of the picture on the poster in one hand, and out of the mirror in the other. ***** Jake swung up into the saddle, the morning sun already promising another hot, dry day in the Big Drop. He pulled his hat down, and put his horse into motion. Behind him, smoke rose from the ashes of what used to be a book.
Well, that all makes sense. :-)
That still doesn't answer the issue of Spoon having gone heretic. The Old Gods died 200 years after the Great Collide. Which would be 500 years ago (300 years after Spoon disappeared). We don't have a specific time that the New Gods appeared ("New Gods came. Couldn’t rightly tell you exactly when, but my personal guess is “just in time”..."), but it was after the Old Gods died. Which means it's pretty unlikely that Spoon "became a heretic of the Brakeman," since he disappeared at least 300 years before the Brakeman was known to exist. Like I said, it's probably just a numbers mistake, and I'm causing needless trouble. My apologies. But I figured I'd best bring it up here, in Discussion, before I wound up having Jake mention it in-game, if/when anyone ever tells him what's going on and why, and he were to do some quick math that didn't add up (which could result in some people gettin' theyselves kilt). EDIT: Now, all of that said, it could be that, because Spoon disappeared before the worship of the Brakeman, some of his works are antithetical to the orthodox Brakeman dogma. Spoon did things back then that seemed right to him (though seemed mad to other folks, 'cause he was a genius) - and some of those things just happen to run counter to philosophies that would develop into (or be developed by) the religion of the Brakeman, hundreds of years later. In which case, he wouldn't have gone heretic, so much as other Gnomes exploring his theories and works would be considered heretical acts by the "modern church."
OK, so. Here's Jake being a troublemaker. Gulch says Spoon disappeared 800 years ago. If that's the case, how did he survive the Fall and help the Elves survive the Winter? The reason I ask is because the Campaign Document says the Fall was 700 years ago... 100 years *after* Spoon is supposed to have disappeared. I'm guessing this is a minor continuity error, and not Gulch being a really bad liar... Right? Especially since it would be hard to become a heretic of a god that didn't exist 800 years ago. The Nameless Gods showed up *after* the Fall, didn't they? EDIT: And by "Fall," I mean "The Great Collide." ;-)
Realizing that Jake wasn't actually there, while you're all discussing the Doc's misdeeds, I was re-reading, and it looks like he didn't actually poison anyone.
And I'm pretty sure a number of you made Sense Motive rolls that indicated he was telling the truth...? If that's the case, he's an accessory (under duress), but not an actual murderer. Which means it shouldn't be terribly difficult to keep him from hanging. ;-) EDIT: I mean Doc McCady, not "Doc"... ;-)
Thanks for the welcome and the kind words. Somehow, I doubt Jake's gonna get the same kind of warm, open-armed acceptance. ;-) That ain't the kinda welcome he's used to, anyway. But we'll just see how things shake down here, right shortly, I expect. Lookin' forward to it!
See? Now I'm tempted to make Jake a Warpriest of the Shooter, just so your NPC can be a foil. ;-) But that does raise a couple of questions. PM on the way.
My only hesitation with Trench Fighter was that I wasn't going to have him specialize in guns - just possibly be able to use them. In fact, I had toyed with the idea of making him unimpressed with guns, overall. But I'll tinker/think a bit and come up with something.
Fighter or Ranger. Human, probably, despite the ears in the pic. Prefer a fighter, but not wanting to be all heavy armor, so looking at variants.
I dunno if I'm the surprise. If I am, I do hope it's not a disappointing one. :-)
Hells YES!!! *bounces* Ray said I can play! WOOT! Jake'll be ready to play in the next day or so. Yee HA! (I *may* be just a *little* excited...) |