Jaroc the Mad's page

This will be used for our discussion of the game!

"I have to agree. The infiltration mission should take us comparatively less time, and seems to be open for several months. And I imagine the libraries are still going to be full of library type things like dust and old ladies who shush you whenever so much as a floorboard squeeks in your general area... or do they not have those in death? Zombie ladies who shush you perhaps? Or Banshees for the irony maybe," the crazed bard begins to wonder out loud to himself, giggling whenever he comes upon a particular funny combination of unholy-abomination-unto-the-cycle-of-life-and-death and old lady with inch thick glasses. Eventually he continues on, "whatever the case may be I wholly expect the books of minor importance to other people that are hidden away, as they have been, in a secret library in the third precinct of death will not be going anywhere anytime soon.

Honestly from the description it seems like all of them have and will be in their respective locations for a while. I personally think the shield might be best left for last because of its solitary nature. Truthfully I can only bring myself to care about the order in which we retrieve them a very small amount; an amount comparable I think to the weight of an ant, or a leaf, but definitely not an ant holding a leaf. And definitely not a leaf holding an ant. Though that would perhaps depend on the size of the leaf and the proximity of the ant to the nearest college of transmutation," again the mage loses himself in thought.

He comes up again with a look on his face rather like a surprised cat,
"Vendris, Sollomon. Epithet: The White Mage. Specialized in necromancy and the creation of deathless. Molding positive energy to critical energy junctures in the body. Creating suitable location for re-attachment of soul. Useful as case study for abstract energy alignment. Process eventually deemed unsuitable for leyline purposes, though particular alignment method did show promise in area of energy repurposing."

"Well I do declare," the mad mage says in an accent more befitting someone in the ventral regions of Cellerus, "ya'll have certainly gotten a bit more formal." He snaps his fingers and his garb changes appearance, now into a white gentleman's suit with all the frill that went out of style years ago, "I simply cannot deal with all the excitations I am experiencing. This fine young prince giving up his right to the throne. This fine young... man... giving up... not using small words. The verbosity is simply overwhelming." Roderick pauses for a second then snaps his fingers, returning to his original garb. "In all seriousness though I think were we not prepared to perform perfectly your plans of precarious purpose which so piqued our passions your propositions would long since have been protracted from our own plans. Let's get on with it."

"I know what you mean oh princely one. I thought he'd be taller given the stories," the mage says swiftly redirecting Alaris' comment before returning his gaze, "to be fair though I consider most stories I hear about people to be either greatly exaggerated or incomplete. I've had bardic training after all, so I know too much about stories to do otherwise."

His facials features return to normal and he looks at Chukie, "Apparently what I took for a disease was just a trick of the light. And of course I know you, I'm a mage studying how to align magic into different shapes and forms. How to magically imprint things if you will. Your case is one of great note, to me at least. It would seem that for once however I am not known before I arrive, I forgot how nice the elvish lands could be in that respect."

"I am Roderick Motes. You will no doubt learn my epithet, but I would greatly prefer that even then you not use it. I am an enchanter, illusionist and research mage by trade. That and professional social engineer I suppose. Though the latter finds itself on my resume for fewer things." Roderick smiles before bowing to the group, "I believe there was supposed to be one more with us? Oh tell me where in the world is, Briggs the Bombardier," the bard finishes with an improvised tune.

Initiative = 1d20 ⇒ 11+2

"Can you hear the people sing? Singing the songs of angry men; it is the music of a people who will not be slaves again," sings one of the men who has just entered the room.The voice belongs to a human male in his early thirties with well cut, meticulously sculpted brown hair adorning his head. His face is clean shaven, with sharp features coming out of it that give it an angular look. He is dressed in fine mage's robes, purple in color and with gold trim adorning it.
He looks about at the group then gives another slow look about, as if looking for someone specific. Satisfied that the person he is looking for isn't here he continues humming his song and sits down. He begins crafting a small illusion of a ballerina dancing about the books and scrolls that are cluttering the area. It's nothing fancy, but it is enough to make his profession clear.

"OH NO! They've enchanted him! His face is melting off!" squeals the man as he notices the figment on the elven mage's face begin to remove itself. After a brief pause the humans own features begin to rearrange themselves "OH NO," he feels his face for the changes, "it's contagious!" He turns to the unremarkable man who has yet to take a seat "You should hurry and escape before you contract it as well! OH NO! Too late. Now we're all dead," the mage finishes in a wholly unconcerned tone as the monk's features follow suit.