Kalindlara's page

So much for getting to sleep on time. The night seems to stretch long for Kala Dja, first as she nurses her surrogate child to sleep, then as she waits for her own to arrive. She’d never admit it to anyone, but... there’s something in the dark of night that frightens the young animist. As if Asha by night hosts a shadow of terror proportionate to its daytime beauty. It’s not so bad out by the hearth, with good friends and food and maple-mead; but in the dark of the sleeping tent, the silence broken only by snores and muffled moans, it’s downright haunting. Some nights—and this one is no exception—she even fancies she hears a woman’s voice, calling to her in an unknown tongue.

Thus it is that Kala Dja wakes late as usual, only emerging into the eye-searing morning sun just in time to hear Grandfather Eiwa’s revelations about the Burning Mammoth following. The Kellid princess knows she should inquire further, try to properly absorb this dire pronouncement; but her traitorously sleep-fogged mind cannot produce any questions, no matter how much she shakes her head clear. Given the impending ceremony, an event to which she as the following’s animist and songsinger-in-training is quite important, Kala Dja elects to focus on the preparations. (Besides, it isn’t as though she has any particular preparations for combat, possessing as she does only one combat tactic of note.)

Kala Dja listens to the list of tasks thoughtfully, glancing around. She’s really got no idea how to properly organize the camp or dilute spirits, so... “Why don’t I help you clear the trail, Iskra?” the emberhaired girl asks with a sunny smile. “Two together is twice as sure... or thrice, with Tomi along.” And not just because time alone together is so rare for Broken Tusks. The young animist starts off, gesturing to Iskra over her shoulder. “Come on! It’ll be fun.” That isn’t entirely why Kala Dja’s doing it... but it’s not entirely not why she’s doing it.

Survival to Clear the Trail: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (8) + 4 = 12 Checks out. If only it were Esoteric Lore... u.u

Nice as it is, going out to scout and clear the trail with Iskra... it’s not exactly conducive to focused work. Not that Kala Dja doesn’t try—she is at least allegedly a professional scout now, and tries to act like it—but between the beauty of the day to the young animist’s Asha-attuned eyes, and socializing with her fellow scout, Kala Dja can’t exactly say she’s put her best foot forward. Fortunately(ish), Iskra doesn’t seem to be doing much better, giving Kala Dja an excuse to give it another try herself... not to mention a bit more time with her fellow huntress.

Survival to Clear the Trail: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7 Lol, said Asha; lmao.

On the one hand, Kala Dja considers as the two (or three) finally return to camp, that wasn’t terribly useful to the ceremony or the following. On the other hand, Iskra had done a fine job the second time round, so it wasn’t as though they’d wasted their time or let the following down. And for her own part... Kala Dja smiles that mysterious little smile to herself. Yes, it’d been time very usefully spent. With the Green Moon tonight, too. The mischievous summer-maiden drums her wrist against her hip thoughtfully, considering the possibilities.

At Iskra’s mention of gathering the herd, Kala Dja hesitates. It’s the only other task she’s at all competent enough to handle... but the summer-maiden is still just uncertain enough—and shy enough—to worry about giving her fellow huntress the impression that she’s only following her lead. Then again, the young animist muses, what’s the harm? Iskra knows full well what she’s good at. And besides, for all her subtleties, she just spent four hours following the other girl around the tundra together. The hearth elemental may be well out of the bag by now. All that passes in an instant, and Kala Dja smiles gaily up at the mounted ranger. “Then it’s you and me again! Not much else here for me to do.”

Diplomacy to Gather the Herd: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (13) + 7 = 20 I mean, obviously.

Much as she’s enjoyed the one-on-one-and-one time with Iskra and Tomi, Kala Dja can’t deny that she’s most in her element among the following at large. Her aptitude for coordination and command is on display as the young animist directs herders and beasts alike, even conscripting Imek as an assistant to run messages and help her understand the animals’ natures. Between the animist, the little one, and the ranger, the herd is as well-regimented as an Army of Exploration by the end.

As the task wraps up, Kala Dja sneaks a sidelong glance at Iskra... and it hits her again, just like at Rockloom. As if Asha has linked her directly to someone’s spirit for the merest moment. Shaking her head quickly, as she often does, Kala Dja sidles up to Iskra. “Let me guess. Plotting to go sneak a sip of the spirits?” the emberhaired girl says innocently, her voice low. “Hasn’t anyone told you that you shouldn’t meddle with spirits without an animist around?”

Kala Dja slyly slips her hand into her fellow huntress’s, flashing Iskra her sunny smile. “Lucky for you that I’m here, then. Come on, before someone catches us.”

"Princess, if I have my say, you get the biggest helping. I mighta killed it, but ah..." she looks down at her ravaged arms holding the skull. "If I had your smarts, I woulda used something with a bit more distance and not thrown my hands into a walking thicket of knives."

She grips Kala Dja's forearm, then winces at the ill-timed gesture as a few of the new wounds reopen. Her eyes, though, are full of sincerity as she says, "You lead from the front, and you lead smart. What'd my mom say once? 'Passion and compassion,' somethin' like that. I swear you'll be leadin' this holding before you know it."

For a moment Kala Dja just stands there blinking, porcupette chirping in her gentle grasp. Dimly aware that her face is starting to burn, the emberhaired girl moves to cover it with her other hand, which goes about as well as one would expect. Giving up on that, Kala Dja smiles; not her usual exuberant grin, but one subtler, softer, though just as sincere as the look in Iskra’s eyes. “I’m just lucky enough to have this,” she murmurs, gesturing down at her spirit-blade. The weapon rattles in response, impatiently awaiting its cleansing ceremony. “Though... thank you.” The Kellid princess punctuates this by freeing up her hand long enough to give Iskra’s a rather meaningful squeeze, though one careful of the injuries her fellow huntress has sustained.

Knowing little about medicine—but ever-eager to learn—Kala Dja hangs around as the various wounds are treated, watching and listening to Grymgold while she performs her cleansing ritual and even lending a hand where she can. Her hide shirt remains torn and tattered, but it will have to do for now; besides, the prideful princess considers with a little smile, showing a little skin never hurt anyone, at least in the springtime. She’s been meaning to learn to stitch and tie anyway, and this will provide a good opportunity to practice.

As the night progresses, Kala Dja attends to her various responsibilities one by one; first working through the familiar cleansing of her weapon, honoring the spirit within and those it has taken, then consulting with various wise members of the following regarding her tiny charge. She joins in the cooking of their latest prey as well, trying some new methods with her portions using some of her precious oil, and even whipping up an experimental batch of her egg-and-seed sauce; the result is still a bit more sour than tangy, she needs to crush the seed more finely, and the mixture needs more maple vinegar, but it’s unquestionably progress.

After the meal, Kala Dja lingers around the hearth for a little while, chatting with her fellow scouts (including her grandfather-sibling) and watching the others pursue their personal projects as she feeds her porcupette. It’s an interesting feeling; summer-maiden though she is and moon-maid though she’s become, she still feels the call to motherhood in a unique way, and fostering the tiny life of her charge is a wholly new feeling.

With the Festival tomorrow, for once the nocturnal girl heads to slumber early (i.e., on time), porcupette wrapped in soft hides and held close.

So you either wanted to play a frail Human for purely roleplaying reasons with no mechanical representation, which means you're not affected at all, you're good to go with telling everybody how sickly and tired you are every half an hour, or you were trying to minmax/shoot yourself in the foot, in which case I'm glad you can't.

Today I learned that these are the only three possible motivations I could have for doing something like this!

Thank you for this useful revelation. I can't believe I trusted my perception of my own motivations.

I'm also disappointed in the Voluntary Flaws change. One of the things I've often experienced, particularly in Organized Play, is an intense stigma against "making your character worse for no reason", with the implication that your character is ruining other people's fun. The old system neatly sidestepped that to an extent by offering a small, but still relevant, benefit.

Ah well. I look forward to having to rebuild half my characters to comply. :|

It's an early morning for Kala Dja—though for her, all mornings are entirely too early—who may have stayed up a wee bit too late watching Impulse work, admiring Wipa's gift, and pondering her feelings about her fellow scouts. She'd meant to talk to the elders about her curious experiences at Rockloom, but the hectic schedule of preparation hasn't left much opportunity.

In spite of her rather grumpy awakening, Kala Dja does little to dissuade the little one; if anything, she finds the girl's passion for her interest rather endearing. Perhaps this is what having a little sister is like, the young animist muses, not unkindly. She keeps one ear on Imek's nonstop monologue, hoping to perhaps glean some knowledge of the animal speech; her thoughts, however, are on the other scouts.

She thinks of her newfound rapport with Impulse, surprising and very welcome, and all the crafting they might yet practice together; the two of them had put Pakano in his place together and had learned snarecrafting together, and it was hard not to feel closer after all that. She thinks of Iskra, her best friend since childhood; the other night, on an impulse fueled by the beguiling and delicious maple mead, she'd very nearly dared the huntress to kiss her—just to see what it'd be like, really, or at least so she tells herself—with only an inopportune interruption averting the dare. She thinks of Eirthgim, grandfather-sibling, and of Agn; the closest thing she'd had to parents since nearly before she could remember. And...

Surreptitiously, Kala Dja sneaks a little glance at Pakano, hoping to get an idea of how the bratty (but admittedly beautiful) boy is getting along. Feeling a little pang of regret for her actions the past few days—and a little pang of something else too, perhaps; she'd thought about their rough wrestling match several times last night, and is still trying to figure out how she feels about it—the Kellid princess watches a little longer before letting her gaze wander away innocently. No need to make a big deal of things; she's just checking up on a fellow scout. Perfectly natural behavior for a hunting party's leader.

Mayael twitches as the final foe topples to the ground; her blue-violet gaze rakes the room, hunting for more foes and finding none. When it returns to Kuthek and Midnight, a lunatic spark dances in her eyes, and for a moment she almost seems poised to pounce. Níl aon duine fágtha le marú. Tá an tromluí thart. Dúisigh le do thoil. Dúisigh le do thoil.* The beast girl abruptly shakes her head and—with a quick nod of approval for the boys’ work—slinks off to a gloomy corner of the tent, where she sits on one of the boxes.

*There is no one left to kill. The nightmare is over. Please wake up. Please wake up.

For a few moments Mayael just sits there, watching her claws convulsively clench in her lap. The beastblood thunders in her ears, although Mayael barely notices, so in tune with the scarletsong is she. She wants to keep hunting, wants to keep making prey of these predators. Wants to lose herself in the hunt. But in the end, she knows what is required of her. With a single motion, the beast girl reaches up with her bad hand and tears the mask off her face.

The second prankster’s fall doesn’t seem to improve Kala Dja’s melancholy mood. Letting her focus flow out of her spirit-blade, Kala gathers a few feathers from the first foe and steps away from the others, bowing her head and trying to open herself to Asha. Trickster spirits... The young animist pauses halfway through her attempt at communion. Something about the act, about her regret and contrition, feels wrong, and Kala tentatively expands her senses. There’s a shimmer from the pretty flower. And, there on the island...

Kala looks up as the others discover the hollow log and its occupant. She doesn’t move in, letting the others lead this exploration. But as the corpse is fished out and inspected, a feeling of relief passes over Kala... followed quickly by a surge of guilt at her relief. At least their deaths were not undeserved after all. But... Returning her focus to the spiritual realms, Kala Dja whispers, “Asha.” This time it does feel right, and to the spirit of the fallen warrior, the young animist offers assurance that her death has been avenged and thanks her for the talisman claimed by Impulse.

The flower still beckons to her, shimmering in her spirit-sight, but—having only just narrowly avoided tragedy due to untoward haste—the dutiful girl holds back a little longer. With all the excitement of late, she’s been neglecting to honor her spirit-blade after her battles. Settling down cross-legged, Kala Dja reverently sets the weapon in her lap, reaching into her sash for the small vessel of fat rendered to tallow-oil. Quietly chanting in her native tongues, the young animist begins gently rubbing oil into the spirit-blade, wiping away the leavings of her foes and lubricating the irreplaceable weapon’s blades and cables against the ravages of daily use. Only when the spirit-blade glistens darkly with oil does Kala tuck it into her sash.

Turning her attention to the enchanting golden flower, Kala Dja looks at the muddy hole dubiously. If there’s one thing in all the Realm that she despises, it’s getting her pretty hair and pristine skin all muddy and soiled. Not that it’s mere vanity, either; the sensation of being dirty is the worst part, and the Kellid princess has spent many hours obsessively gathering saltfern, lye, and fragrant flowers to make cleaning salve. Instinctively, her fingers sift through her sash, finding the vessel of salve and drawing confidence from it.

Taking a deep breath, Kala Dja presses forward into and through the mud, claiming the flower and retreating from the quagmire with all haste. Back on shore, the young animist inspects the flower, tentatively opening herself to its spirit. Her eyes widen. A mudlily! She’d only heard of them before, and in all honesty, didn’t fully believe they existed at all. Whispering a thank-you to the flower’s spirit, Kala lowers it into the mud just enough to dirty the petals, then tucks it daintily into her hair, a sunny smile dawning on her face as she hurries to rejoin the others.

Kala Dja stares in disbelief as Pakano shoves past the others to claim the spear and make his proclamation. For a moment the Kellid princess just seethes, unable to see Asha past all the red. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her head proudly (in what she very secretly thinks of as her ‘princess pose’), Kala steps forward almost daintily. “Challenge accepted!” she cries, barely keeping the incensed edge from her voice. To punctuate her statement, the young animist unclasps her cloak and looses her sash, letting both fall to the ground. “Let’s go.”

Prowling towards the obnoxious young man, Kala Dja lets him make the first move, goading him on with a gesture and a feigned show of weakness. As Pakano charges her for a tackle, the incensed princess grabs him by the wrist and ducks down, letting his momentum carry him up and over her to slam down on the riverbank, pulling Kala down to crash on top of him.

Athletics: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (1) + 6 = 7 Hero Point time early, I see.
Athletics reroll: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 6 = 26

I decided the Deception made more sense as part of the above, with her goading him into a charge and all.

Deception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (18) + 7 = 25

“I am so sick of you!” Kala cries. She’s starting to lose her cool, and with it her emotional restraint. “You want to know why nobody in the following likes you!?” She’s not completely sure she knows, but she’s willing to take a guess. “Because of things like this!” Pakano tries to kick out, and the Kellid girl straddles him, squeezing his legs between her powerful thighs. “You never cooperate! You never do your part! You act entitled to everything, even respect! You never share! If you want to feel welcome, maybe learn to act like it!”

Intimidation: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (12) + 7 = 19

Pakano lashes out, trying to break her hold with two hands to her one, and for a moment it looks like he might do it. But Kala Dja has wrestled with Iskra since before Tomi was hatched, and grew up playing with Agn besides. And she’s more flexible than her broad shoulders and wide hips would suggest. Grabbing his right-hand wrist with her right (and only) hand, Kala releases his legs from between her thighs just long enough to roll the pair a couple times, ending with her on top straddling him again, his chest pressed to the ground and his left hand trapped under it.

Athletics: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22

Panting, heart racing, Kala draws a deep breath. “I would have just let you take the spear, if you’d only asked us first. I might still, in fact... though you might have another challenge first.” The Kellid princess sighs, already starting to feel bad about her outburst. “But you can’t just take things. You have to learn to allocate resources where they best serve the group. You’ll be a pretty poor leader otherwise.” Kala lets the young man go, rising to her feet. She doesn’t yet move to claim the spear. “Because that’s what the following is. It’s all of us. Not as individuals, but together. Working as one, helping one another. We may tread like mammoths,” the young animist says, echoing Pakano’s earlier statement, “but even mammoths move in herds.”

Kala extends a hand to the young man to help him up; she knows he’s unlikely to take her up on it, but she has to try. “And I still want you to be one of us. Even if I do get really frustrated with you along the way.” The young animist smiles hopefully. “Because Asha means everything.* And you’re part of that everything.”

*Technically what she says is “everything means everything”, since Asha is just Hallit for ‘everything’. But this is how she means it.

Traveling
Kala spends the trek back conversing with the others and with their new friend, seeming restored to her usual personable self. In quiet moments, though, she puzzles over the tangle of threads in her mind, tugging at this one and that. The spirits’ voice, and even more, that moment of mental contact, perplex the young animist. But her experience at the Raven Stone—not to mention her heart-to-heart with Agn—have put enough spring in her step that Kala can barely be bothered to worry about these mysteries. She’ll follow her path and trust that the answers will come.

On the way, Kala also spends some time familiarizing herself with her new acquisitions—though she is sure to frequently remind herself that they are not technically hers, but the scouting party’s communal resource—inspecting the pendant around her neck more and more intently, as though looking at it harder will reveal anything. The young animist gives up on it at least thrice, only to find herself stubbornly inspecting the pendant again a minute later. By the time the band arrives at camp, Kala Dja has resolved to join Nakta for meditation (and a round of questions) in the morning. It’s a resolution she’s made more than a few times, and rarely had the taste for in the harsh light of morning; but perhaps this time will be different.

Broken Tusk Camp

“Agreed, Grandfather-Sibling.” Kala nods, a slow and reverent dip of the head. “We must see to the spirits. Those of the following, of the moon, and of all Asha.” At Iskra’s suggestion, though, an eager sparkle creeps into the emberhaired girl’s eye. “Ooh, maple-mead. Definitely! It’ll be a good warmup for the celebration, too.” She puts on a mock-stern expression, wagging a finger at Iskra and Impulse. “But you must heed Grandfather-Sibling’s advice! Lots of water, and be sure to...” Kala slowly breaks into a playful grin. “...tapir off.”

Watching the others disperse, Kala Dja follows Iskra with her gaze, her expression slowly turning melancholy as the huntress and her mother happily embrace. Of course, no child is truly orphaned in the following... but that does little to fill the hole in the Kellid princess’s heart. And while she does have Grandfather-Sibling, she often feels like more of a curse upon the hearth-minder. (Not that this has ever put a stop to her mischief, mind.) Shaking her head roughly in her habitual way, as if to rattle the mood out of her brain, the ever-dutiful young animist goes to find the elders so she can tell them what happened at Rockloom.

”Insult to injury, I’m afraid, little mouse.” A sibilant caress in the disoriented creature’s ear. The black skin of Kuthek’s face writhes and stretches. Bones creek and bend, pines in a midnight gale, and his jaws yawn impossibly wide. The teeth are too long, too sharp, too many.

Over his victim’s shoulder, his eyes meet Mayael’s.

Mayael just stares for a moment, bloody jaw open in astonishment and indigo eyes shimmering beneath her masque. Gulping down her mouthful of fresh meat, the beast girl licks her lips, leaning in to whisper a single Mwangi word with an almost coy air.

“Tonight.”

Kala Dja listens wide-eyed and attentive to Agn—though she does go a wee bit cross-eyed at the paw on her forehead—not once interrupting the hearth spirit. (Not even to bat at and try to grab at his twitching tail.) “Little summer fox” and “emberhaired girl” delight the summer-maiden, as they always have; for Agn had been one of the first in the following to see her for who she was, nearly even before she herself knew. By the end her sunny smile has been rekindled, and while it may not last—she has still seen only seventeen winters, and winter’s chill fades faster than the fears and foolishness of youth—for now, Kala Dja has a new understanding. A princess, she thinks, giving the hearth spirit a gentle kiss upon the brow where the link-sign shimmers.

As Agn departs, she shyly peeks around the stone at the others. Iskra, strong and fierce, friend of many seasons and seemingly fearless. Grandfather-Sibling, always ready to guide. Or chide, the emberhaired girl thinks, an impish smile painting her lips. Pakano—the threads in her mind twitch, although she resists for now—still a mystery to her. Either she’s going to beat him senseless or... or something, anyway, if he doesn’t shape up. And... Impulse, too, the storm spirit. Kala’s been so worried about trying to regain their trust that she’s not really looked at them, clear-eyed, for longer than a full turn of seasons. Kala slows her breath and calms her mind, focusing past Asha to those around her, to one in particular. And...

And...

The young animist snaps back behind the boulder, eyes wide and body quivering, social anxieties forgotten. She’s never tried that before... or at least never in that way... or perhaps it’s the sacral site and its attendant spirits. Right now Kala can’t think straight enough to tell. What she does know is that, for a moment there, she’d done more than just look. She’d touched. Not her friends’ bodies, but their spirits... their thoughts. And though the young animist could no more read the words therein than she could Impulse’s notes, the deed nonetheless left her feeling unclean. Unwholesome. First the strange shout, and now this. What is happening to me?

Taking a deep breath, Kala Dja steadies herself. While she has many questions, she cannot now answer them, and so worrying gains her nothing. Tying this new mystery in the weave of her mind, she once more peers around the boulder to find a number of concerned expressions. With a sheepish—but quite genuine—smile, Kala rises to rejoin the group. “Sorry... I just got kind of self-conscious. I’m fine. Really,” she reassures them. And, hopefully, so are they. The young animist’s gaze flicks to the Raven Stone, and her eyes widen; awed, she approaches, looking for the crack and finding none. “You... you have outdone yourselves, all of you.” For a moment her gaze settles on Impulse, and she offers the storm spirit a hopeful smile before returning her attention to the menhir.

Permitting the korred to take her hand and press it against the reunited stone, Kala Dja opens herself up to its spirit... to that of the ravens... and to all of Asha. The thrum of the Raven Stone sings of rightness, and Kala Dja’s eyes flutter closed, a beatific smile dawning on her face. When the moment has passed, the young animist nods to her fellow Broken Tusks, her voice reverent. “All is well here. The spirits are at peace, and Rockloom is ready for the Green Moon.”

Wrapping her legs around the sturdy branch to secure her perch, Kala Dja shades her eyes with her hand, peering up at the hilltop. Movement? Then perhaps our vandal is up there. Strange that they could step into stone and emerge elsewhere, but stranger things exist. Dropping out of the tree, Kala shows the others the items, eventually securing the compass among her effects for easy perusal and dropping the pendant around her neck. She resists the urge to preen, at least for the moment; her mirror is back at the camp anyway.

Gesturing the pack—including Pakano—to circle up, Kala lays out the situation. “While up in the trees, I spotted signs of movement up above.” She gestures toward the hilltop. “I would counsel stealth, but, um...” The young huntress blushes, smiling sheepishly. “I haven’t been out on the hunt for a while, and I’m still a bit clumsy. Besides, I don’t know what’s up there, but between the three of us—” She gestures at herself, Tomi, and after a slightly awkward pause, Impulse. “—they’d have to be deaf to not know we’re here.”

Kala holds up a hand, as if gesturing for patience. “But. We can still employ stealth to some extent. And even if we are noticed, it is imperative that we fight as one.” She doesn’t single Pakano out, but certainly this message is meant for his ears especially. “So. We advance as stealthily as we are able. And none of us charges in until we’re all prepared or until the foe starts the fight.” The young animist looks from scout to scout, meeting their gazes in turn, and nods. “I can help coordinate the pack via birdcall-sign and communion with Asha, and hopefully it will go as successfully as the moose hunt. More so, even, with your assistance,” she adds, giving Pakano an encouraging smile.

The young animist clears her throat, brushing a wayward lock of hair out of her face and looking around at the others again with a hopeful smile. “So, um. How does this plan sound to everyone?”

I thought the part with the sacred stones was the hill. Huh.

Mayael sniffs just in time to sense the familiar scent of Funmi fade into empty air. Behind the darkwood masque, the beast girl’s luminous indigo eyes widen... and then proliferate, another pair opening behind the others, broadening her scope of vision. “Ar an bhfiach,”* she purrs, just loud enough for the others to hear. Then, not even pausing to translate, Mayael is in motion; she moves with an inhuman blend of grace and speed, circling around the tent to reach the back side.

Stealth with Swift Sneak: 1d20 + 28 ⇒ (2) + 28 = 30 moving 50 feet.

Unfortunately, open spaces were never the Huntress Queen’s domain; she is a creature of narrow spaces and vertical drops. Too, the feline shine of her eyes in the dark, the gleaming silver that replaces her sadly absent claws, are not always easy to hide. Still... the beast girl can outpace any pursuer. And perhaps drawing someone off to play will make things easier for the others. We’ve important business, Miss Mayael. Miss Oz... um, Miss Eclipse may need our help soon enough. Fiorré’s anxiously insistent tone elicits a frustrated huff from the beast girl as she prowls around the back of the tent. Ba mhaith liom a imirt leo, banphrionsa.***

But Mayael has promised to be good, and good girls do what they are told. Besides, even if she wouldn’t admit it under torture, she is a wee bit concerned for Eclipse. With her extra eyes keeping watch for pursuit, she drops to all fours. Deft as a cat burglar, the beast girl flicks out a mithril claw to daintily cut a kitten-sized slit in the tent. Peering through to make sure the coast is clear—and assuming there’s no one, outside or in, that will see her enter—Mayael oozes through the gap, flesh and bone turning gelatinous as she slithers through the aperture.

legendary Acrobatics to Squeeze with Quick Squeeze: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (8) + 31 = 39 I miss the compression monster ability. ^_^;

Effortlessly reforming on the far side, Mayael rises to her haunches, leaning on her clawless right hand as she prefers to, and surveys her surroundings. ‘Tis enough to make a lass sick, the princess whines, when you do that with our body. Mayael rolls her primary eyes. Is ar éigean atá an locht ormsa go bhfuilimid solúbtha, banphrionsa.****

*On the prowl.
**Sure I’m looking forward to a chance to play.
***I want to play with them, princess.
****It is hardly my fault that we are flexible, princess.

...and Mayael, the Huntress Queen, opens her eyes.

The beast girl peers through the masque of tangled wood, her shimmering eyes easily piercing the shadows, and sniffs the city air, lips peeling back from her fangs in a sneer. She’s half-changed, as she often is when taking the fore, tail and antlers both twitching as they acclimate. Reaching over to the bracer on her arm, she gives it a little twist, feeling the twining mithril tracery slither down her fingers as it becomes vicious silvery claws. Then Mayael creeps closer to the others, slinking up in hopes of giving them a little scar—

Be nice, Miss Mayael. Please. She huffs softly, all but pouting at Fiorré’s pleading rebuke. Ní cheadaítear spraoi, sea, banphrionsa.* Prowling up to the others with what can only be described as petulantly presentable levels of stealth, the beast girl nods respectfully to Eclipse, who she knows to be a most skillful huntress. The others receive a cold glare... mostly to cover Mayael’s hesitation as she tries to remember foreigner-speak, finally settling on ‘scholar talk’. “On the prowl,” she purrs menacingly in Mwangi. “We hunt bad people, yes? Do we kill? Or...” The beast girl slowly bares her fangs, her smile dripping with playful feline malevolence. “Catch?”

*No fun allowed, yes, princess.

Fiorré spends her time during the day shopping for minor items, exploring the city while taking care not to run afoul of further legal (or Gray) trouble, and occasionally surreptitiously tailing one or two of the others to see what they’re like outside of their adventuring lives. While she’s tempted to arrange a performance—Litran surely has a thriving artistic and musical scene, and it’s been too long since the Iobarian girl has had a chance to show off her skill as a pianist—such a show would most certainly imperil their mission here.

At the appointed hour, Fiorré leads the group to the alleged circus with all stealth, scouting warily ahead; as she prowls the darkened alleys and quiet streets, her clothing flows and reshapes to tight black velvet, and her braided hair goes panther-black. As the group approaches the false circus, the beastblood girl falls back a little, her hand drifting into her satchel to brush across the masques of filigreed mithril and tangled wood. All right, girl, time to choose. The Lady... or the Tiger. It’s strange to think in her own voice for once, but Fiorré is too busy wrestling with her conflicted feelings to properly appreciate it. Perhaps she should have brought this up earlier? Too late now, though.

Know yourself, and you have nothing to fear. The words Miss Ozinichi spoke during their odyssey through the Shadow come back to her. With a glance towards the others, at the woman calling herself Eclipse, Fiorré makes her choice. Pulling out the appropriate masque and trying to calm herself, the beastblood girl draws a deep breath, whispering the mantra that Lesedi, Funmi, and her classmates had all helped her develop. “O Huntress Queen, o Huntress Queen.” As she dons the item, Fiorré screws her eyes tightly closed...

Raven is correct. ^_^

She knows it’s coming, yet Fiorré still lets out an undignified little squeak when the door is flung open. As she quakes and stammers, the beastblood girl recognizes the guards’ tabards. City guards. Oh dear. Why couldn’t it have been ordinary ruffians? Thinking back to her mother’s lyrical accent—her mother, oh dear—she clears her throat.

Looking up at the guardswoman, Fiorré heaves a sigh of still very anxious relief, clasping her hands to her chest. “Thank goodness! I feared you were mere ruffians. I have had quite enough of those these past weeks.” As if the woman’s words are only now getting through, the definitely-not-Iobarian girl shakes her head meekly, striving for the deference with which she had spent two decades treating guards of all stripes. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I am no thief. My name is Bellerose. Um, Celeste Bellerose. I am a recent addition to his lordship’s—” Fiorré’s gaze flicks to the noble corpse in its lovely bed, and she quivers slightly, tears brimming in her eyes. “—um, his late lordship’s household.”

Letting her gaze lower to the floor, Fiorré shakes her head sorrowfully, anxiously twisting her hands. “The local apothecary, that curious bird man, could not get the correct medicines for the lord. And so, being the newest of the maids, I was sent by the head of household to Isarn.” Another tremble shakes the unquestionably-Galtan girl’s shoulders, and she sniffles loudly. “It... was a very difficult journey. They would not give me money for a coach, so I had to travel on foot by myself. Hiding from b-bandits and things!” Fiorré takes a deep breath to steady herself, though the quaver in her voice only seems to worsen. “And w-when I returned...” The 100% pure human girl gestures at the bed, her hand trembling, unable to look upon the deceased lord. “I w-was too late. Too late to save him. I f-f-failed.” Fiorré bursts loudly into tears, wholly unfeigned, as the familiarity of the situation fully sets in.

“A-and, and all the others have gone. I'm sure it... m-must have been them that had away with his lordship’s lovely things. ‘No money for a coach’, indeed! They planned it all, I am sure!” Shaking with indignation and sorrow, Fiorré holds her travel-ragged satchel close. “If I had not taken my inheritance and savings with me, they would have taken it as well.” The young woman, who has never in her life been outside of Galt, much less to anywhere as exotic as Iobaria, slumps against the wall next to the closet. She buries her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling as she sobs.

Deception is a mere +22, I'm afraid. Performance is +27, though Fiorré has no method of using it here; I just want you to understand my pain. She also has Society +26 and Courtly Graces if that will help, though this isn't strictly in its sphere of influence either. The crying, for its part, isn't feigned at all.

Fiorré tenses up at the sound of voices. Too much to hope that they’d go unsuspected. The others are all safe in the embrace of illusion, at least, leaving her all alone. Where to hide... All alone. A sudden jolt of inspiration strikes the Iobarian girl. There’s no time to think it through—and really, it’s not as though Fiorré Braska Wintrelle has ever gotten anywhere by thinking—and so she simply acts.

The thought of her wig crosses Fiorré’s mind, but she hasn’t invested that old thing in months. The panther trick will do, though. Recalling the book she’d found in the Magaambya archives, Fiorré focuses on her hair. The results are immediate; darkness splashes through the beastblood girl’s torrent of hair, painting every inch of it black as ink.

As Fiorré enacts this change, her hands are already pulling her swordbelt off and deftly stowing it in her satchel. Most of her other gear should be readily explicable, but her silver bracer will raise some questions. Tugging it away from her arm, the Iobarian girl twists it just so, and its magic takes hold, transforming it into a glittering silver band which she artfully tucks into her now-inky hair.

And now, the pièce de résistance. Refocusing for just a moment on her beautiful sunsilk clothing, Fiorré dreams it into a new shape... that of a fine Galtan chambermaid's outfit. ‘Tis a fine thing that black and white suit me so well. As the dainty dress settles in around her, the beastblood girl catches her reflection in a nearby mirror. The overall effect is enough to make Fiorré’s pretty cheeks burn. Quite the look, my lass. Might that you should see what your lovely elvish flame thinks of it later, no?

Steadfastly ignoring Sibéal and her deeply unhelpful commentary, Fiorré then darts for a closet. She only barely hides herself, though, striving instead for an amateur impression of stealth. The point, after all, is to be found; she’ll get her answers, and the intruders won't look too hard for invisible folk if all they find is a spooked and distraught chambermaid.

I'm only a few pages in, and I already love the book...

Knights of Lastwall:

Whoever decided to name the squires after Cassisian angels, deserves a packet of cookies, because now I am inadvertantly a Knight of Lastwall by virtue of my nickname. Thank you whomever did that bit

My developers—Eleanor Ferron and Luis Loza, who both deserve a ton of credit for the great ideas here!—asked me to provide a place for more "classical" squire-youths in the order. It seemed like an obvious step to name them after 'little angels', particularly with the easy and pleasant-sounding shortening. ^_^

As a big fan of Planescape's idiosyncratic cant, bless whoever wrote the "Knightly slang" section.

I'm glad you like it! They asked me to come up with a bunch of slang terms the Knights might use, and I had a lot of fun with it. :D

(My philosophy of slang, particularly for combat groups, is that it should be quick, snappy, easily belted out under pressure. Hence a lot of one- or two-syllable words. The exceptions are stuff like curses or battle cries, like "wrath and woe".)

A few times the book refers to a 'Flame', presumably as some kind of knightly unit, akin to the established Lights (the small individual squads) and Blazes (rarely-formed out of several Lights for special missions), but it's never elaborated upon. An editing slip-up, perhaps?

That's... probably my fault. ^_^; My initial draft had the Sentinels calling the squads "Lights" and the Reclaimers using "Flames", but somewhere that ended up being left behind. But here and there I probably messed it up or misremembered. (This was a lot of words, y'all!)

I had the pleasure of playtesting this scenario, and I can't say enough good things about it! Definitely keep your eyes on this one, because it is an absolute delight. ^_^

Also, since a few people have asked what I contributed to this particular tome... it was quite a bit! (Though still only a drop in the bucket compared to my fellow contributors' total work, of course!)

It might not look like much here, but at over twenty thousand words, it was a ton of work! (My second largest, after only Planar Adventures.) I'm incredibly proud of how it all came out, though, and very excited to see it in peoples' hands. ^_^

My concern with burn as an externally applied mechanic is that it risks feeling "tacked on", rather than like an organic and well-integrated part of the class. Trying to glue it on without making it foundational... seems like it will only result in clumsiness.

On instinct, I think the best way to approach it might be as a sort of "kineticist's interface", the way alchemists choose a research field and oracles choose a mystery. This kineticist chooses burn, fueling their elemental power with their health and using Constitution. That kineticist chooses mysticism, using Focus Points to empower their attacks and using Wisdom. And who knows what other intriguing power sources could be devised?

This also avoids the archetype lockout that graystone mentioned upthread, which is a definite concern for a class with such a concentious core mechanic. Not being able to multiclass at all is a serious price. Of course, it does mean the class has two major choices instead of one, making it notably more complex. But I think that doesn't have to be a bad thing, especially as the system matures. (I had to have Mr. Seifter himself explain the PF1 version before I fully grasped its intricacies.)

Speaking of armored skirts: did you also do the lore for Falayna in Knights of Lastwall?

I did! Among many other sections. ^_^

I'm a wee bit late to the mention of it, but honestly, I'm just glad the armored skirt made it to print usefully. I wrote it with only the playtest rules to go on (these books have a pretty long lead time) and mostly aimed for "something that will let people have the pretty armored gown aesthetic while not being embarrassingly bad". I think it did well enough under the circumstances. ^_^

For those interested in the nitty-gritty of design choices, it also has a sort of special design intent. Let's say you get a really cool and unique armor you want to wear, like Mr. Sayre's Iomedae's Armor, but your stats don't quite match up; you don't have enough Dexterity for this chain shirt, or enough Strength for that platemail. The skirt, as a sort of proto-adjustment, lets you sort of massage those stats to fit your own.

(I also did the armor and shield adjustments for Grand Bazaar, and I think we're just scratching the surface of concepts there! Hopefully we get the chance to really dig into what those can offer.)

Hmmmmm.

So I've been playing a PF1 kineticist in Reign of Winter for a while now (just hit 12th level), in addition to my original bona fides. I love the class in its 1e iteration. So what would I like to see come forward?

Thematically:
I love the feel of the class as a sort of wellspring/conduit for overwhelming power, not unlike the PF2 oracle. I am particularly fond of the feeling of pushing your limits, something most classes just didn't have. As a sorcerer, you either have spell slots left or you don't; there's no mechanic to squeeze out just one more spell, or to go all Tellah, convert your HP to MP, and unleash your ultimate power at great cost. Kineticist brought that feel and that flavor to the game.

Mechanically:
The go-all-day nature of the class is important, though it's less unique in a system with scaling cantrips. The gather power and infusion specialization elements of the original were integral to this, letting you feel like you were doing more than just a basic attack every round because you had to save your resources for the big fight; I'm not sure how the present system and its emphasis on limited resources will handle this, though. I'm also a huge fan of the burn mechanic, since it so perfectly supports the thematic elements mentioned above; so, speaking for myself, I'd like to see that element as a cornerstone of the class again.

The mix of utility and blasting is important too. My fire/water kineticist in RoW can not only blast with eruptions and ranged attacks, but can also heal via kinetic healer and even provide restoration effects via kinetic restoration and (the admittedly officially story-limited) purging flame. I'd really like to see that come forward in some way, though again, given the new edition's emphasis on limited resources, I'm not sure what form that'd take. (In this edition, perhaps something akin to the champion's Mercy feats would be appropriate?)

Anyway, just my random thoughts during my annual visit to the forums. ^_^

Yeah, you weren’t kidding! Here’s hoping we get to meet Princess Misovyel someday and her alien servants someday.

There are a lot of things in here that I think have Infinite potential for a follow-up, if you take my meaning. ^_^

The bath, it would seem, suits Fiorré just fine. The young woman all but melts into the hot water as if she was born to it, not quite managing to stifle a dreamy sigh. After a few moments, though, slow realization strikes her. “Thank you for the relic, Miss Calbieste. The warm water is lovely.” Fiorré’s voice is perfectly proper, with the distinct air of some long-ago charm school, but still warm and genuine.

As she performs her ablutions, occasionally fishing around in her scholar's satchel for soap or hair-care and doing her best not to make anyone uncomfortable with the arrangement, Fiorré listens to the others converse. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Zintaya’s words draw the Iobarian girl’s attention. “So you are not of Galtan birth?” Fiorré remarks, intrigued. “Long have I wished to see Kyonin for myself. Per—” She hesitates, and the shadow of frustration flickers across her face for a moment; but she’s done with that for tonight. After collecting her thoughts, Fiorré shyly adds, “Perhaps when we are done here, I might escort you home? After all this, I should like it if you arrive safely.”

Fiorré listens to the elvish woman’s continued description of her time in Galt, nodding sympathetically. “I agree with Miss Ozinichi,” she says, nodding in the elder Magaambyan’s direction. “Desire and need lure the opportunist, and ‘tis ever so easy to be drawn into their webs.” The beastblood girl smiles a rueful smile, for once seeming all of her two-and-a-half decades. “Remind me someday to tell the tale of the Chelish paracountess. Sure ‘tis not the first time I have been gan éadaí in polite company.” Fiorré gestures at herself by way of translation, her hot-water flush deepening slightly, her hand drifting briefly to the jet-black choker at her throat.

“Still...” Fiorré tilts her head, finger tapping her lips, as her expression goes momentarily blank. What do people say at times like this? Would that I had paid more attention to Ahassunu. Lizards make me ever so pouncy though. Settling for a sweet smile at Zintaya, the beastblood girl continues, if a little sheepishly. “I know ever so well the urge to oppose those who cause suffering and corrupt justice.” And the urge to go a-prowling of nights, and to make prey of the wicked. “So I’ll not say that you were wrong in your motives; only that you were manipulated as Miss Ozinichi says.” Fiorré nods again in Funmi’s direction, her gaze lingering for a moment as she studies her teacher for signs of disapproval.

The fluttering presence of Funmi’s familiar draws the beastblood girl’s attention as well. She's seen Quill on occasion before, but the wyrm’s retiring nature and her own shyness have conspired to keep her away, to her disappointment. Fiorré watches the diminutive dragon return to the warehouse’s high beams (with no small amount of envy) before his mistress’s words draw her attention back. “Pardon me, Lorespeaker—” Teacher’s pet. “—but if I can be of assistance with your arrangements...” The beastblood girl trails off, half-knowing the answer already; Miss Ozinichi’s magic is even more oblique to her than most magecraft, and she is well-accustomed to being excluded from its practice. Still, Fiorré can no more resist the urge to offer aid than she could the scent of blood or the shadows’ allure.

Fiorré's eyes light up at the reveal of the impromptu bathing facility. "Oh, how splendid! What a treasure you are, Sir Eventide." She's just drifting towards the stout kayal when Aphotos interjects. Despite herself, Fiorré can't help but raise a hand to her mouth, giggling at the indignant tirade; though her laughter is not at his expense, but her own. Once upon a time, the Iobarian 'princess' would have reacted the very same way, and without even the justification of biology.

It is in this carefree mindset that Fiorré flashes the sea-dweller a coy smile in reply to his apology. "Oh no, not at all, sir! In fact..." For a moment she seems poised to continue, a pinkish flush painting itself across her cheeks; then the beastblood girl clears her throat softly and looks away, her expression turning uncertain and somber. If you want to share with one and all, just say so, my lass, and stop being so prim about everything. Am I to do all the work here?

A frustrated pout crosses Fiorré's face for the briefest of moments. Fine then, Miss Sibéal. Perhaps I shall! In truth the young woman is not sure whether she's more frustrated with Sibéal or with herself; certainly her uninhibited alter-ego never struggles like this. Before she can fall into another endless cycle of second-guessing, though, Fiorré reaches for the collar of her fastidiously arranged attire. The familiar gesture draws an eager chant from Sibéal. Par-ty trick! Par-ty trick!

Her hair is already down, so Fiorré needn't bother undoing the thick braid. A little sway of her head brings some of it down over her front as the Iobarian girl slips her fingers daintily under the collar to either side of her neck, giving the slightest tug against the latches there. And, just as she had modified it to do under internal pressure... her entire outfit separates into perfect fragments, pieces of Keleshite sunsilk and other fabrics flowing down her curves like water to pool on the ground at her feet, leaving nothing but eerily flawless flesh. Turning away from the others just enough to preserve the threadbare delusion of modesty—though not far enough to hide that the blush goes all the way down, as it were—Fiorré looks over her shoulder at the others with a shy (though clearly not that shy) smile. "Might someone lend a hand preparing things?"

Fiorré's tail twitches in annoyance as the thing sweeps past her. Oh no you don't! Mine! The beastblood girl rears back, hips swaying in a dainty little shake, before bounding up to the entity and smashing at it twice more with her clasp-bedecked tail. As ever, Snowfall blurs into motion just behind her tail's strikes.

tail strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (7) + 29 = 36
tail strike: 1d20 + 25 ⇒ (6) + 25 = 31
sabre strike: 1d20 + 19 ⇒ (18) + 19 = 37

Unfortunately, none of them come anywhere particularly close, and Fiorré stifles a snarl, settling instead for a huff and a pout. "Sir Eventide, 'twould seem the lady will be relying on your protection a wee moment longer," the beastblood girl calls, glancing over her shoulder at Kuthek to make sure he remains vigilant.

Not so hot, sadly. Stride, Strike, Strike, quickened Strike.

Fiorré has left herself no avenue of escape from the rocks that crash down around them. And yet... what envelops her is not stone but shadow, rich with jungle scent and sensat—

night all around rich darkness scent of jungle and snow and drinking chocolate and blood so much blood on her hands the blood of the guilty and the innocent indistinguishable huntressqueenohuntressqueenbeastbeastBEAST

Acrobatics to Escape via Liberating Step: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (6) + 31 = 37

The old primal force spikes within Fiorré again, and for a moment she is that freshly orphaned teenage girl again; trying to learn her first bardic spell, the one that blinded her, stole her mind and memory, left her to wake naked and full-bellied in the driven snow. She's so caught up in furiously recalling her training with Miss Lesedi that her attempt to escape is halfhearted at best. Now firmly entrapped in the thing's stony grip, Fiorré begins to panic, squirming and tugging with all her might.

Acrobatics to Escape: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (8) + 31 = 39

What is it that you fear? Lesedi asks her. A cage. To be imprisoned for what I am, to never know freedom again, she answers. Once upon a time, this would have set loose the Beast, as ineluctable as bloodscent's seductive perfume. Now, alas, it has abandoned her. Unless...

With great suddenness, Fiorré goes stock-still; a reaction only Funmi has seen before, and had perhaps hoped never to see again. Then, abruptly, the beastblood girl screams, shrill and terrifying and inhumanly, ear-splittingly loud, a nightmarish howl to rival the legendary wail of the banshee. For a moment her shape roils like liquid, flesh rippling with a mandala of eyes and fangs and antlers; then it wholly disappears into the cavity left by her body. In the next instant, before the rocks can tighten their grip, a kittenish, antler-crowned feline form bounds out of the opening, coming to rest behind the legs of Kuthek and Funmi with a distinctly tearful look up at them. "M-mew?" Fiorré says rather clearly in her sing-song accent.

Fiorré attempts to Escape as a free action on its turn via Kuthek's Liberating Step. On her own turn, Fiorré attempts to Escape, has a minor episode as a free action, Changes Shape, and Strides.

Also, man, f— this entire everything.

Fiorré feels the stones around her rising. Strap in, my lass, it's going to be a smashing time. Resisting the urge to respond to Sibéal's appalling bon mot with the eye-roll it deserves, the Iobarian girl grits her increasingly sharp teeth, whispering to Zintaya, "Look out, here it comes!"

Fiorré uses Charmed Life on the first of these. I'm not sure whether it applies to both 1a and 1b, though, so just apply +2 wherever it does apply.

Reflex 1a: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (4) + 31 = 35
Reflex 1b: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (13) + 31 = 44
Reflex 2a: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (11) + 31 = 42
Reflex 2b: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (4) + 31 = 35

As the pressure of smashing stone eases off of the two women, Fiorré pushes herself up to look the elvish woman over for injuries. This, in turn, gives Miss Calbieste the opening to slip out from under her. See what reward you get for your generosity, banphrionsa. Not even so much as a thank-you. Likewise ignoring Mayael's barbed tongue—protecting those in need is its own reward, thank you ever so much—Fiorré bounces to her feet with liquid grace, darting out of the crushing swarm to stand beside Zintaya.

The hydra stance seems less than useful here; instead the beastblood girl raises her hand as she whirls to face the thing, flipping her braid into manticore position and swinging it into the stony storm. Snowfall blurs into motion after it, though Fiorré is already well familiar with its uselessness against the entity.

braid strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (18) + 29 = 47
blade strike: 1d20 + 29 ⇒ (15) + 29 = 44 Oops, forgot to subtract 5! Should still hit though.

braid damage: 2d4 + 11 ⇒ (2, 3) + 11 = 16 +5 precision, doubtful as it is.
blade damage: 3d6 + 11 ⇒ (4, 2, 6) + 11 = 23 +5 precision, though again...

Then... Fiorré casts a surreptitious glance at Miss Calbieste from the corner of her eye. Just before the attack, the elvish woman spoke of a history stained with lies and murder, and the helplessly trusting girl nevertheless notes that her path is taking her closer and closer to the exit. Sparing a moment, Fiorré focuses on the way Zintaya felt when they touched, the sound of her voice, the unique scent of the woman. And inside her, the song of the beastblood intensifies, her primal instinct attuning itself to Miss Calbieste's presence. Run all you like, my pointy-eared prey, the scarletsong sings, you'd best be swift if you wish to play.

Fiorré stands as a free action that does not trigger reactions via Kip Up, Strides to outside the swarm entity, Strikes with her braid, Strikes with her sabre at –5 using her quickened action, and uses her last action to Hunt Prey on Zintaya Calbieste.

keftiu wrote:

Can we hear the chapter titles?

Chapter 1: Introduction

Chapter 2: Among the Knights
Chapter 3: Knights of Lastwall Options
Chapter 4: Knights of Lastwall Efforts

That's kind of boring though, so why not the headers for each of the sections, too!

** spoiler omitted **

** spoiler omitted **

** spoiler omitted **

** spoiler omitted **

Oh hey, I recognize some of those chapter titles!

New Marshal toys is an unexpected treat! If we can't get a full Warlord class, I'm very happy with this.

Trust me, I would go kill Tar-Baphon by myself for an actual honest-to-Artemis Warlord Class. Especially if I got to design it. ^_^ Until then, though, I hope what you find here will be to your liking!

Fiorré keeps her peace for a time, listening to the others discuss as she demurely sips at her tea. Between the excitement of the clothier and the goings-on at the church, it's the first chance she's really had to sit still and think, and the beastblood girl at least tries to use it wisely. Resisting the urge to pull out her writing set and journals and start taking notes—that sort of thing Is Not Done at teatime, at least by Proper Young Ladies—Fiorré instead does her best to focus on the task before her.

"Well, um... if 'tis Miss Calbieste we're a-courting—um, so to speak," Fiorré hastily adds, raising her teacup to her face with both hands to hide the encroaching blush, "I should love to speak with her on our behalf. I pledged to St. Erastil when I was but a wee lass, so I expect we shall have much to speak of." The beastblood girl looks thoughtfully off into the distance for a few moments, finger tapping in time at her lips, before returning her attention to her companions. "Um... though perhaps, on the way there, you might... refresh my memory of what we are looking to learn?" Fiorré coughs softly into her hand and smiles shyly at her companions. "I promise I shall take proper notes this time." The line has the distinct air of one uttered a dozen times for every tutor and instructor in Nantambu.

In truth Fiorré isn't morose for long, between the herbal remedy and the thrill of poking around an unexplored place. She's still a bit shy about things, though—particularly with a monitor around—and doesn't say very much as the exploration proceeds. The Iobarian girl does peek over Funmi's shoulder at the journal, but doesn't pry just yet. When their psychopomp escort prepares to depart, Fiorré hesitates briefly before stepping forward. "Um... farewell, Miss Isias. Thank you for your assistance." Then the beastblood girl scurries back behind the others shyly, hoping her words don't sound as stilted to everyone else as they do to her.

At the Apothecary
Fiorré settles in with another cup of the same tea, listening to the others to gauge how much the group is sharing with their host. Keznin's words to Chance visibly unsettle the young woman, who takes another sip of tea to cover her reaction. "I... hope we can do something for them. Nobody should ever be trapped like that." Fiorré does her best to keep her voice soft and subdued, but the steel beneath is audible even so.

At the mention of the Farmer's Association, Fiorré perks up. "Aye, I had hoped we might pay Miss Calbieste a visit soon. Though perhaps after we'd settled in. 'Tis a long road we've walked, after all, and no short time since I've seen proper accommodation from the inside. And one does wish to make one's best impression." The beastblood girl looks from companion to companion and clears her throat shyly. "Though, um, if 'tis no time for such, I shall no doubt survive. Worse things have come to pass in my time."

Fiorré lets the blankets fall away from the tip of her sabre, scanning the corpse for signs of injury or cause of death. With none immediately apparent, the beastblood girl leans a little closer and sniffs, drawing in a few breaths of the air around the body. How perfectly curious. He seems almost...

The all-too-familiar feeling washes over Fiorré like a plunge into deep waters, her hand tightening upon Snowfall's hilt as haunting memories dredge themselves up. Am lóin, ró-fhada le teacht. The beastblood girl steps back into the fresher air of the main room, taking a deep breath and then clearing her throat softly.

"I think perhaps Miss Chance has found our priest." Fiorré inclines her head daintily in the direction of the alcove, doing her best to keep her voice normal. "He's, um, rather quite—" don'tsayfreshdon'tsayfresh "—well-preserved. As if he's dead no time at all. Though 'tis magic's work, I judge." The beastblood girl smiles rather uncertainly, already edging away from the alcove, her eyes flickering hopefully from Aphotos to Chance. "I think not that he shall be any harm, though, so... perhaps you might handle the inquiry?"

Fiorré then glances around, taking note of their absent member. For a moment she seems poised to ask another question; then the beastblood girl begins drifting toward the entrance, eyes half-lidded as she sniffs at the air. Ah, the catacombs. Should have known. Fiorré looks to Kuthek as she sheathes her blade, unable to entirely hide her adventuresome smile. "You've things under control here, I'm certain. I shall go aid Miss Ozinichi, and see to our settling-in."

The words haven't but left Fiorré's mouth before she moves to follow Funmi. As she steps into the stairwell, the beastblood girl goes kitten-quiet, moving with long-practiced stealth. Remember, banphrionsa, you must move not in silence. Silence is deceitful, full of betrayal. Move in the space between silences. She nods imperceptibly at Mayael's long-familiar advice, following the stair and the trail of scent. When she catches sight of Funmi, the beastblood girl moves silently to tap the elder Magaambyan on the shoulder.

Fiorré does her best to follow the others' lead. Her own instinct is to enter through the damaged roof or a high window or the like, but that doesn't seem like it'll go over well with Miss Ozinichi or the others, who can't so easily follow and who might not want her off alone. She does consider insisting that she open the door just in case, but Funmi has done so before Fiorré finishes weighing the option.

As Funmi pushes the door open, Fiorré stands on tiptoe to peer over the elvish woman's shoulder, her feline eyes readily piercing the darkness within the temple. "My word, what a gloomy place," the beastblood girl murmurs quietly to her companions. "Are we truly to be safe here? 'Tis all but ready to collapse at our slightest breath." After a moment, Fiorré uncertainly lays a hand on Chance's shoulder, doing her best to offer gentle sympathy for the Pharasmin. She's about to tell the others to stand back and let her go first, but Aphotos beats her to it this time.

Come on, my lass, be a little more assertive. Fiorré almost asserts herself right back at her vivacious shadow, settling for a mere huff and brief pout instead. But she's not going to be left behind so easily. The beastblood girl slips past the others, nimbly following along behind the azarketi gentleman. While she's still slowed slightly by the unstable terrain, Fiorré maintains her feline grace as she treads broken ground and shaky footing.

As Aphotos notices his newest shadow, the beastblood girl smiles at him—daring, yet innocent—and winks. "Best someone should be here to pull you out of trouble if need be." Her tone is not greatly serious, yet there is sincerity there; protectiveness and vigilance beneath playful jesting. Yet it's not only concern for another's safety that drives Fiorré to follow. The beastblood girl looks on with intense curiosity as Aphotos levers open the tile, eager to see whatever secrets the temple hides.

So, as one of those freelancers who does all that writing...

I support this move unconditionally, both in support of my Black colleagues and in line with my own experiences and beliefs. And I'm really glad Mr. Mona went all-in on committing to this. Very quickly, too. It's a good sign that at least some folks at the top are actually listening now, and ready to take the necessary steps to improve.

As for the thing itself. You can still put the thing in your games, with the consent of your group. You can still read between the lines and choose to interpret parts of the setting as involving it, again, with that consent. But it's now opt-in, instead of opt-out, and that makes all the difference.

The thing about this is, for folks who aren't Black, it's all too easy to treat it as a toy, a rhetorical object. A sticker we can put on our villains to say "these are Bad People and you have to save their victims!" We say we're "taking it seriously" and "want to be able to confront real evils"... but at the end of the session, we laugh and chat and talk about what a great time we had fighting the Bad People. It is, as they say, Just A Game. And we don't think about the people for whom it's not Just A Game.

To speak to my own experiences... I am glad that transphobia is omitted from Golarion. And that's as someone who has, once or twice, thought about writing in Gender Oppressors for punching purposes. It'd be cathartic for me, and probably for some other trans folks (I think KC mentioned similar feelings upthread)... but it'd also catch others unpleasantly off-guard and ruin a perfectly good reading or gaming experience. With frequent occurrences, it might put them off the game entirely. And given the choice, I'd rather do the punching myself and spend my words writing something everyone can enjoy. Except bigots, who I hope will read my beautiful trans NPCs and weep delicious tears.

Fiorré stifles her huff of annoyance; the proprietress is trying not to offend, after all. Ever particular, the Iobarian girl casts a critical eye upon each scrap of fabric as they pass. For the record, Fiorré has white hair with a faint blue-periwinkle iridescent shimmer, the vivid indigo eyes mentioned frequently, and very pale skin except for the all-too-frequent blush.

As sharp-eared as any elf, Fiorré readily overhears the conversation between Chance and her attendants, and can't help but flick an envious look over at the gnome. She gets the songbirds, and I'm to deal with the crow. Sure life isn't getting any fairer. The mention of masks draws the girl's attention back to Madame Rallaree, and Fiorré's hand drifts toward her scholar's satchel. "I've a masque or two, quite dear to me. Perhaps might you craft an outfit to accompany such an treasure?"

The beastblood girl barely spares a thought for hiding her splintered self; she's too busy pondering the challenge of prying this clam open. What to say, what to say? I miss wrapping bonny lads and winsome lasses 'round my finger. All 'tis needed there is a pretty smile. Fiorré considers for a few moments, watching the attendants dance around her. Dance... There's a notion. Let's see if indeed my reputation has any use other than getting me bothered at public houses. Setting aside for the moment that she quite likes the 'bother', the Iobarian girl smiles shyly at her host.

"Ah, well then. Perhaps you might make some recommendations of your own? And—with your blessing, of course—I might then inform them that 'twas you directed me to their door. With proper discretion, of course. One should think that having Fiorré Braska Wintrelle as a friend would be good for business." Fiorré speaks the name with a slight lift of her chin, prideful as only a noble girl can be. The Iobarian girl thinks back to dealing with her father's trading partners, and again smiles that merchant's-daughter smile. "If I should like your crafts, I might even spread the word in my travels. One day the cream of society from Absalom to Kelesh could be sending for your wares."

Fiorré is attempting to draw on the reputation granted by her Legendary Performer feat to work that friends-in-high-places magic. (I assume Madame Rallaree can make a DC 10 Society check.) Between that and Impressive Performance, I figure there's a reasonable case for using Performance to get her way.

Besides... she is a bard. [wink]

Performance: 1d20 + 31 ⇒ (8) + 31 = 39

Having hesitated uncertainly at the Oval Mirror's door, Fiorré watches helplessly as Funmi and Aphotos take the lead. Sure I thought 'twas I who did the introductions here. Trying not to be too put out—though she can't help pouting just a wee bit, as is a noble lass's privilege—the Iobarian girl steps demurely into the shop after them, meeting the shopkeeper's eye with a shy smile before turning her attention to the wares.

It's hard for Fiorré to stay out of sorts for long here, at least. The beastblood girl delights in the sensory banquet, the vibrant hues and the clean scents and the soft feel of fabric beneath her fingertips. While her behavior is outwardly delicate and refined, befitting a lady of her upbringing, Fiorré isn't above picking out a few choice items to surprise her companions with.

Still, there is a job to be done here. Fiorré lingers uncertainly for a few moments at the edge of the shopkeeper's domain, her curiosity about the upcoming masquerade in pitched battle with her shy nature. Finally the Iobarian girl steps up to the counter with her chosen articles in hand and clears her throat shyly.

"Um. Hallo." While Fiorré is careful to heed her teacher's advice about revealing information, her improvised greeting leaves something to be desired. Still, ice broken, she presses on, smothering her shyness in her favorite trick: the charm offensive. "I've to this city come for the upcoming event—I'm certain you know the one, of course—and I'm ever so excited. Though I'm afraid I'm new to Litran, and quite out of the loop. So pray tell me, what have people been saying? Who must I meet, what should I wear?" Leaning on the counter with her chin in her hands, indigo eyes ashimmer, the beastblood girl exudes a distinct air of innocent-but-maybe-not-that-innocent curiosity.

I'm heartened to see such a strong statement. Thank you. ^_^

So if anyone's been wondering why I haven't been on the forums much in months... the stuff coming up in this thread is an excellent example of why. So long as bigotry and hate are permitted to flourish, whether blatantly and openly or in the guise of "just asking questions" and "devil's advocate", this place is simply unwelcoming to marginalized people and those who have empathy for them.

To those who fit that qualification and remain, I applaud your strength and wish you the very best of luck. I might peek in when I have the energy, but... I don't have a lot to say these days.

That Night:
Unlike the others, Fiorré doesn't lay out a bedroll or the like. When her bedtime comes, the Iobarian girl undoes her braid and lets her hair unwind; released, it's long enough to brush the grass when she walks. Then she steps away from the fire and kneels, clasping her hands and delivering a short litany of prayers to the night sky.

When she returns, Fiorré surveys the campsite with an air of intense consideration, carefully choosing a spot as close as she can to Kuthek and Funmi without being so close as to discomfit either. (Whether she succeeds in that regard is another matter, of course.) The beastblood girl then retrieves a well-worn plushy—modeled, to nobody's surprise, after a snow leopard—from her scholar's satchel, curls up in her soft fluffy cloak with the satchel as a pillow, and is quickly fast asleep.

Particularly light sleepers among her companions may notice Fiorré occasionally rising to tend the fire or wander in the night.

The Next Morning:
Fiorré sleeps in a little, letting the others start their day without her (though any scent of breakfast quickly rouses the ever-hungry lass). The beastblood girl rebraids her hair as she listens to the others' proposals and discussion; while she's still hesitant to join in, the previous day's events have clearly helped her shyness around the group.

When a lull presents itself, Fiorré speaks up. "I've no objection to dividing the group. Presumably 'tis to be I and the gentlemen again? A noble girl and her escort?" She eyes Funmi and Chance uncertainly. "Though that does leave you ladies on your own, with no-one to protect you. And that sits ill with me, it does." From her history with Fiorré, Funmi knows full well just how protective the beastblood girl is of her friends.

"Also, um..." The young woman hesitates, clearing her throat anxiously. "I've a special infiltration technique. For times like this. Should it be necessary, I can sneak about alone. Even into wee little places." Fiorré holds her hands about a foot apart.

Fiorré's phantom personae make her movement through the periphery an unsettling thing, the gloom around her roiling with inchoate antlers and claws, cloak and blade. The blood, while much reduced from its initial gruesome state, still comes and goes as her focus wanders. Only the eerie luminosity of her eyes is consistent.

Still, the Iobarian girl is in much higher spirits than previously, drifting among her companions and occasionally making shy conversation. Fiorré prowls through the Shadow with a dancer's grace, her gaze constantly scanning her surroundings for anything new to see. While she'd love to sing or play her harp for the others, Kuthek's warning keeps that impulse in control. Instead, the young woman occasionally retrieves writing kit and paper from her scholar's satchel, scrawling observations about this new realm in an elegant flowing hand or even capturing a rough sketch in chiaroscuro.

As the group approaches Litran, Fiorré listens to Funmi and Aphotos before venturing her opinion. "Sure that our meeting can wait another day. I should rather see the city first by morning-light." The Iobarian girl hesitates, an uncertain look creeping across her face, before shyly adding, "Besides... I like sleeping in wild country. 'Tis something about the air, the life, the pale moon above."

But it is her first time travelling this way with Fiorré.

Funmi steps in front of the young girl, placing herself between the feline and the rest of the group. She draws herself to her full height, keeping her expression placid and her voice calm as she turns to face her. Isn’t she usually taller than Fiorré? “Yes, dear. So long as we are quiet and keep the light at bay, we are safe. But I need you to listen to me for a moment. I need you to remember your lessons with Lesedi. Tell me honestly, are you in control right now? Because if you are not in control, then we cannot proceed.”

Any mirth or mischief is gone as she prepares for what might happen next. It’s been years since the last time she saw Fiorré change without willing it, but she has never seen her look like this.

Fiorré flinches slightly and lowers her gaze, luminous eyes fading in the gloom. She leans down ever so slightly—for she is now taller than the elvish woman, by about half a head—listening attentively as commanded. "I... think so, yes, Miss Ozinichi. Though... I've changed a wee bit, haven't I?" she asks meekly, her gaze flicking from one companion to the next, noting their wary expressions. "I do hope I've not scared anyone. Perhaps I am a wee bit frightened, and hungry too... but I am doing my very best."

Then the beast-shadow behind her moves. It leans down, supporting itself on one immense forepaw as it brings the other up, extending a single claw to stroke the beast-girl's antler-pierced hair protectively (and a little possessively, perhaps). In a voice very much like Fiorré's own, the conglomerate thing purrs, "You are doing very well, banphrionsa. Your friends are only caring for you. And you are in control, yes! No fresh meat for Mayael, no prey for the Huntress Queen. We are all good girls here."

Fiorré nods very slightly, the beastly shadow's voice evidently granting her greater confidence, and smiles shyly at her companions. The bloodspray across her mouth, together with the reflected luminosity of her eyes, twists the smile's sweetness into something distinctly predatory. Returning her attention to Funmi, the beast-girl nods respectfully. "You are right, of course, Miss Ozinichi. Thank you."

Reaching into her scholar's satchel, Fiorré pulls out her wooden masque, holding it in her bloodstained hands and closing her eyes in meditation. As she does, some of the oddities begin to fade; her clothing mends as if never torn, her legs return to human form, returning her height to normal, and the antlers melt back into the Iobarian girl's hair. The blood doesn't fade, though, nor do the phantoms yet disperse.

"Fiorré? You... seem yourself. But there's something... with you."

He relaxes slightly at Funmi's calm demeanor and apparent familiarity.

"So you two know each other, then? And you've worked together on this, ah," he surveys the dripping fluid and looming, monstrous figure, "condition?"

He walks in a slow circle around the manifestation.

"I don't mean to pry—we've all got our secrets, I'm sure. But what is it? A part of you? Some entity you've bonded with? Something else? I've never seen anything like it in my time in the Shadow."

"Entity?" Fiorré's expression of dread belies the uncertainty in her voice; even if she can't see it, on some level, she knows exactly what the Shadow has revealed to her companions. In a small voice, Fiorré admits, "You can... see something. Here, beside me." Taking a deep breath of the strange air, the beast-touched girl collects herself for the explanation to come.

"You see... a giant beast, do you not? Mammoth-vast, all claws and fangs and thorny antlers?" Fiorré looks aside. When she speaks again, her voice is thick with emotion. "Aye, ‘tis... she is... part of me. What I... used to become. What I... always was. Am." Tears are forming in the Iobarian girl's eyes, but she does not wipe them away. "I... hurt people. So many people. Before I... discovered that. Accepted it." As Fiorré speaks, the blood on her hands (and mouth) thickens perceptibly, the energies of the Shadow transubstantiating the beast-touched girl's guilt into literalized metaphor.

"Oh. Well I wasn't going to comment on it directly but alright..."

Aphotos continues to stare up at the Shadow Entity. "Do you think it would be a problem if I held a hand out to it? I find it fascinating, if I'm honest."

Though a moment later his mind processes Funmi's words. "Err... unless that would cause some kind of trouble to you. Forget I said anything. Anyway, nevermind that, I have the same questions as our Kayal friend here."

Fiorré turns to look at the azarketi, her luminous eyes still glittering with unshed tears.

And then... the Iobarian girl blushes, scarlet as sunset, putting a bloodstained hand to her mouth and looking aside. Her expression, insofar as it can be seen past hand and hair, has a distinct overtone of oh-no-cute-boy-what-do-I-do with a side of stifled giggling. But while she may not be quite so brave (nor so forward) as Sibéal Airgetlámh, Fiorré still has perfectly serviceable instincts, and they are not going to let her pass up an opportunity like this.

Fiorré lowers her hand, giving Aphotos a shy smile. "Um, w-well... I've not ever had anyone ask me that before. But, um... you may, if you like." The Iobarian girl folds her hands demurely in front of her, striving to keep the silly smile off her face. "Though, um, I'm not sure what if anything will happen, or..."

Behind her, the beast-shadow snorts softly, looking down at Fiorré with an air of disbelief. The distraction from her woeful guilt, too, is rapidly reducing the psychosomatic blood on her hands (and mouth) to a mere scarlet stain.

As the cold dark washes over her, Fiorré screws her eyes shut, flinching back from the umbral grip of the Shadow. When she lets herself relax and opens her eyes, it is to the gloom and mist of the Material's dark reflection. Though her sight can pierce the murk to an extent true humans' eyes can't, it's still an ominous place, and the young woman sniffs at the cold, unnaturally still air before moving closer to her companions, emerging from the gloom and revealing herself in full.

What they see is... wrong.

In the monochrome of the Shadow, Fiorré Braska Wintrelle is a riot of color... but not the right ones. The young woman's eyes reflect the dark plane's unlight like a cat's, flaring with shimmering blue-violet that pierces like an arrow. Her hands and forearms are soaked in some suspect liquid, thick enough to coat and thick enough to drip, wine-dark crimson in the gloom. The same stuff is smeared across the Iobarian girl's mouth, occluding her lips in a scarlet spray.

Other alterations, while less chromatic, still catch the eye. Stubby antlers protrude backwards from Fiorré's hair like a horned crown, their points fang-keen. Her normally pristine clothing is torn and slashed, while the legs that emerge from her long skirt are digitigrade, thickly furred and terminating in razor-clawed feline paws. A matching tail, thick as her braid of hair, twitches behind the young woman.

And behind her rises a greater shadow, monstrous and mountainous, antler-crowned, quartet of indigo eyes shining in the dark. Neither fully upright nor wholly quadrupedal, the immense feline shade stalks close behind the Iobarian girl, haunting her steps and flicking wary gazes at her companions. At its feet another shadow moves, glinting silver like a plate-clad phantom.

Fiorré looks around wide-eyed, trying to take it all in. "My word," the young woman murmurs, raising a bloody hand to her mouth. Turning to Kuthek, her voice low and anxious, she asks, "Sure 'tis safe here, aye? So long as we are kitten-quiet and make no light?"

Fiorré listens closely to the words of her host and of her companions, nodding thoughtfully. She doesn't seem to have much to contribute to the plans just yet, but something appears to have pleased her anyway, judging by the way she's beaming proudly at Camilia. "I do suppose we shall be a-traveling soon enough. Though it's sure that I'll be longing for the hospitality shown me here. Hopefully when next we visit, 'tis brighter tidings we'll be bearing." The young woman takes a moment to perform the complex step that returns her garments to their apparent default, bowing once more to Miss Drannoch before something Kuthek says catches her attention.

"Lim-i-nal spaces... between worlds." Fiorré sounds out the unfamiliar word, a distinctly spooked look crossing her pretty face. "'Tis a frightful proposition you've put to me," the Iobarian girl murmurs, interlacing and twisting her fingers apprehensively. "Shan't we just walk the wood and wild of the real? I like the wild." The beastblood girl's tone is mildly petulant, the inflection of a well-off girl quite accustomed to having things just as she likes; but there's an adventuresome glint in Fiorré's eye, and it's plain that she'd very much delight in being convinced to brave this 'liminal space'.

Fiorré gathers up her few belongings, tucking them into her bag and pulling her cloak around herself. Are we ready? she thinks to herself, gaze wandering to the starry sky. Apparently satisfied by the reply, the Iobarian girl takes one last stock of her possessions—tightening a starry silken sash about her waist, stretching her legs and familiarizing herself with the weight of her platinum-traced greaves, and drawing forth an elaborate pearl-inlaid wooden masque from the bag, though she does not don this last, only holding it for the moment—before stepping quite close to the elvish wizard. "Ready to move, Miss Ozinichi." She only trembles a little as the spell washes over her.

Creeping through the night-dark streets, companions close, Fiorré keeps her eyes (and nose) alert. The mouth-watering scent of Kuthek's drinking chocolate still hangs about her companions, not quite covering up the tantalizing, vaguely-seafood-like scent of Aphotos. Briefly, the young woman bemoans her luck at attracting delicious-smelling people; first that ghoran doctor, now the azarketi. Lacking a proper solution, Fiorré tries her very best to ignore her party's delicious scents, staying focused on remaining alert and silent.

As the quintet arrives at their destination, Fiorré looks the structure over. Were it her alone, she'd creep up to that lit window and have a peek—she's always been as comfortable with vertical surfaces as with horizontal ones—but given the concealment spell and the earlier caution against breaking from the group, the beast-touched girl restrains her instinct for the moment. Instead she steps daintily up to the door and, with careful precision, knocks just loud enough for the second-story occupant to hear. Hopefully.

This is one of my favorite projects in a while, and I do hope folks like what they see! ^_^

I've been quiet for a while, but I have to say: I stand in solidarity with all the wonderful people I've worked with at Paizo, and with all the people I've never had a chance to work with (yet!) who deserve rights and representation all the same.

I hope management recognizes the union swiftly, so that we can get back to making a world we can be proud of, secure in the knowledge that the people who make it happen are able to get by.