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There's quite a bit of excellent fantasy out there that doesn't have nonhumans in it. By extension, there's no reason a fantasy game has to have nonhuman races; as for an all-humans game, why not? I've usually stuck to playing humans, because extra skills and feats. The typical variance is if I get involved in a subterranean campaign. But on the surface, hey, gimme humanity every time. YMMV, obviously.
For my two cents, I don't think a world/genre/etc. must have familiar races to be accessible to people. Given a little work on history, background, a world may have (or have not) "nonstandard" races and still be a place wherein your players (readers, whatever) may be very comfortable. How much work on research your players are willing to do is really the main factor here; if you provide a decent rundown of the races you're using, it ought not matter whether the races are "typical" fantasy-types or not.
I knew I should have played an Alchemist. Oracle of Bones witnesses another death. >sigh<
Aklo: Keilaan's eyes darted from one figure to another, as the Pathfinders pressed forward towards the tieflings' position, and her commentary fell flat upon the ears against the noise of battle.
"What would you? We are the shadow of death, in a place where death is familiar. I daresay we wouldn't welcome us, were we in yon' Prismites' place." Could we have avoided these slayings? Been slower to advance, and found some less-strident an assertion of our agendas? Squinting at the shift of a weapon, she blinked. Are we to become a plague, in our striving to burn another out?
...the science of Baconology!
Just checking in...
I've seen some of all the Doctors, thanks to the friends who introduced me to him; only seen continuously since Tom Baker (Doctor #4). Really do love the new stuff (Eccleston up). I think Tennant is my favorite of the newer guys. Also fond of Torchwood, though the series is a little erratic. Strange, how U.S. media can't seem to turn out a consistently-good series, and the BBC rocks. Of course, these days, U.S. media is pretty much propaganda and misinformation, where it's not reality T.V. shows... >sigh< Sad, but I turn to the BBC for news above any source on this side of the pond. Gah. Didn't mean to go all maudlin on you. Kinda bored, waiting for the folks for whom I'm housesitting to get back. On the plus side, I have Doctor Who to distract me! Anyhow -- and to everybody -- greatly enjoying this game. A great experience for my first play by post: thanks to all, and see you as schedules sort out!
Killing time with 5th season Doctor Who; a blast, as I haven't seen this one yet! Yahoo, 'n'stuff! Any other enthusiasts among us?
AD&D @ 8 -- Azmyth has me beat by a year, dammit. I might have played a Basic Set game at 7, but I don't really remember for sure...
Staying silent, Keilaan steps to the side for a clear shot at the door-guards, aiming for the one on her left.
Oh, Hell... For BACON!
Yeah. I've tried to catch up on a couple threads that went long, because the OP was a topic which intrigued me... only to find that by the time I've waded through pages of discussion (wanting to be up to speed on the discussion and not raise points already covered, etc.) that it's nothing but posts about bacon there at the end. >sigh< Not that I think there's anything to be done, just noting that I support your position.
"Yes... for whatever reason, the Powers behind the Mystery of Bones granted me knowledge of the Aklo tongue. When under the stress of battle, it is the only language I can use. I still understand Common, and those other languages I have learned -- Infernal, Undercommon, Aquan, and Draconic. But Aklo is all I can utter when the heat of fighting is upon me. I would be happy to instruct you, as time allows."
Keilaan advances with the others debating silently Sling or dagger? Mmn, sling, I guess, in case we do deal with archers.
"While I still have use of all my languages, 'keyl' means 'right' and 'zarzh' means 'left.' 'Talyin' means 'there,' in Aklo; if I'm pointing and shouting 'talyin...' well, you get the idea."
"Very well, Ladder; I am ready."
Sorry for the delay; the site has been rejecting my attempts to log in for most of the day...
As the adrenalin of combat wanes, Keilaan's facility with language -- aside from Aklo -- returns. Shivering, she answers Ladder: "He ran into that building" gesturing towards the warehouse, "but I doubt he stayed there. We may be out of luck as far as that goes. Though we may as well look. This reception has been unpleasant." She sheathes her dagger, and peers around the alley.
Ah, a share of the coin would be nice, but Keilaan isn't going to be pushy over it.
Keilaan steps forward, drawing her dagger, and stabs at the remaining foe.
Snarling at the failure of her first spell, Keilaan steps up behind Ladder, in preparation for loosing the healing magics of the Bones. Taking note of the building to which the fleeing tiefling runs, she casts Cure Light Wounds upon the dwarf.
Keilaan moves to put the ramshackle wall of the (shed? well? -- you see the move) at her back, and casts Murderous Command upon the foe nearest Marcus. Aklo: "Doesn't anyone in this misbegotten town speak Infernal, dammit?!"
"'Join the Pathfinders' they said; 'see the world' they said." Pulling her sling on the run, Keilaan jogs after the men, taking care to keep her pace to a gnome's stride, so that she and Tarial, at least, stay together. She growls to Tarial, "Have you noticed how boys seem to like planning things -- like a marching order -- but never stick to the plan?" As they follow after the wayward males, she cocks her head and asks "A new tattoo is an... interesting addition, but why would it bother your familiar, particularly? And I've gotta say, you hide it well. Ferret? Rat? Somethin' tiny, anyway, I guess, since I haven't noticed it yet."
Keilaan mutters, "I want to find out about the cloister, and these strange priests. The tavern we've been warned about, and I -- for one -- have no real desire to drink anything we didn't bring in with us. We'll have to talk to someone to find Ihren. Tarial -- when we decide who to try talking to, you be "good guard," and I can, if needed, be the "bad guard," if that suits?" She smiles at the gnome, and shrugs; "You're nicer than I am -- I've noticed! -- and I've got the freak factor going if it comes to scaring folks."
So, regarding marching order... When NOT trying to sneak around, I'd suggest (in order of appearance): Ladder Marcus-Tarial-Keilaan Taurven When TRYING to sneak into someplace, I would modify that to: Taurven-Keilaan Tarial-Marcus Ladder I'm not at all insistent on these formations; this is just my first thought on placement. Ladder is the crunchiest of us, and the not-stealth formation puts two (other) healers right behind him. His negative stealth (and crunchiness) suggest rear-guard for stealthing. Tarial seems (no offense) to be squishiest, so I'd place her in the center of our not-stealth formation. Keilaan does have decent stealth; she can accompany Taurven on scouting without adding (much) risk of detection -- I've seen too many rogues get ganged-upon in scouting to want to leave Taurven all alone on point. Her real weakness is her lack of Perception, so noticing stuff would be all on him. Anyway, that's my suggestion for marching orders; happy to entertain other ideas. Next? :)
I seem to be consistently holding up play; just wondering if everyone has a regular schedule of posting? I'm in Alaska, as far as time zones go, but right now there isn't any reason I can't shift my schedule to match other peoples' timing, so let me know if there's a "usual" time? I've just been checking in pretty randomly, as my days go by...
From the top of the staircase, Keilaan watches the other Pathfinders, her gaze flitting from one face to the next. What brought the others to this life, I wonder; what did they seek, what lack do they think will be met by this? I know why I am here; because the Bones wish my witness, as always. I am the eyes of Powers from outside the bounds of the living, like it or not, as I do not. As though They cannot appreciate Their handiwork without a living seer. Perhaps I shall discover what has driven them to this. Or not... we all seem well able to keep our secrets. Shaking her head, she shoulders her pack and checks her weapons, coming last to the dagger of cold iron, which she secretes in her left sleeve this time. Descending to the floor below, she walks silently to the bar, and tells Rythari, "I've left some things in the room -- my wardrobe, such as it is, and more importantly, my harp; it would be a kindness if you would watch over it while we are away. Do I owe you aught to keep the room?"
"I'm sorry to have kept you; I am ready now. Let us see what we may discover of Ihren and her guild."
Keilaan walks swiftly, her pace speeding to the pulse of her heart, until she is almost running; dodging between other pedestrians, stumbling on the cobbles of the road, nearly bouncing off a wall that happens to be in her way. Speeding towards the Hanged Man's doors, ignoring the daytime flow of people and traffic. Especially ignoring the flow of her tears, despite the impairment of her vision and the impediment of her movement. Why? Why is it always, always death? Why me? And if I am doomed to be always in Your shadow, goddess, will You never explain? She bursts through the doors to the inn, and mumbles "I'll be right with you" on her way upstairs to her room.
Aklo:
REDACTED/CENSORED/EXPLETIVE DELETED Cursing just barely under her breath all the way back to the Hanged Man, Keilaan reflects upon the difference in bearing between the Sergeants with whom she has spoken and the "common" soldiers (if tieflings may be thought common -- to a 'planeling' new to Prism). Ah, well... can't fight city hall, nor win them all. I wish I knew what that dwarf's glance meant. His eyes... more than his own sorrows did I see behind them. Lady, take note: soothe his ills when he stands before you, and send him to his eternity with smiles.
DME; Not certain how active the gods are, either in the originating mileu or in your game specifically. The ferverent prayer in my last post is -- in Keilaan's mind -- a binding bargain: if she succeeds in bribing the dwarf off the line of slaves, she will credit it to the goddess' influence, and present herself at the nearest priest/ess of Pharasma after the group's sojourn into the City Within, and explain her circumstances (an Oracle of the Bones, masquerading as a priestess, now seeking to make redress for the lie) and accept what penance and/or service the goddess may require.
Sneering back at the sergeant -- knowing her scars will ride the twist into something moderately horrific -- Keilaan nonetheless bows again, and hurries after the watchmen leading the slaves away. Walking in line with the watch, a cautious distance from them (out of immediate reach of their weapons, in case she provokes aggression), Keilaan addresses the Trims. "Forgive me the use of the common tongue; my scholarship has failed of the knowledge of the Abyssal. Will these slaves yet be sold? My Lady is capable of patience... but also of hunger; there is one, I think, She yearns to know more fully..." Keilaan grimly puts on a wicked smile, suitable to one who practices dark rites and rituals, in hopes of explaining her interest in the line of slaves... to present the appearance of an evil, hungry necromancer. She jingles her coin pouch, and continues, "Surely, one of these, doubtless now condemned, would not be noticed as missing? I would trust you to see to it that the coin reached the... appropriate... division." She opens the pouch, displaying the gold within, and quirks an eyebrow at the soldiers. This seems to be my day for prayer, Lady; forgive me the ruse, I beg, and let this work. Surely, the Trims are as venal and corrupt as any police force in Varisia? Nudge the balance in my favor, oh Weigher-out of Souls; I stand upon Your Scales this day, in the shadow of Your power, I doubt not. Hear and heed me, Lady, and I will seek out one of Your true priests, for penance and service to balance the debt. By my name, Lady, which You know as You know all our mortal souls.
to hunch the dwarf.
Keilaan leans back in her chair, sipping tea, and watches Taurven work the onlookers, nodding thanks to Tarial for the dressing. In quiet tones, she asks, "It was the slaver, yes? While I grant it is a grisly greeting for the dawn... I think it no more than he deserved, and certainly no less. To spend a lifetime profiting from misery. High time he met a painful and -- one hopes -- permanent end." She swirls her fork along the curve of her dish, glancing aside again to see how Taurven fares (or, perhaps, to avoid seeing the reactions from her companions at the table to her severe proclamation). "Ah, blast and damn... I suppose I should see to my putative office --" she gestures at her garb " -- and perchance interrogate the Trims." Rising, Keilaan stretches and spins, snapping up her club and buckler. After affixing the polished shield to her forearm, she pulls her holy symbol out of her vestments, and strides to the door. Pausing for a deep breath, she allows her face to fall into a solemn mask before stepping out and crossing the square towards the pair of watchmen attempting to remove Harkin from his final post. Approaching the Trims, she bows, and addresses the corpse: Infernal:
"Hail, Harkin, now halt; welcome to Her cool regard, made twice-welcome in Her vasty halls. Even as the sun climbs, so far shall you fall. Weighed in the scales, against brass and iron: doubtless, you shall meet your just rewards, once you have passed from Her review. Nine gates await; nine Lords debate the final place for your enduring." She kisses the symbol of Pharasma and centers it upon her chest, addressing the men who struggle with the body. "May the Lady's patience grant you long years, before you grace Her vasty halls. Has the deceased kin, within the city, to see to his burial?" I hope this works... goddess knows I'm not actually a priestess; but, by the Bones, she should support my ruse, as well-acquainted as we have been, throughout the years. to assume the dignity and hauteur of a priestess of the death-goddess.
Keilaan comes down to breakfast armed and armored, in the vestments of a cleric of Pharasma. Smiling over the food, she greets the others of her group with information: "Well, in all likelihood, our business with Ihren runs in the same step as the possibility of aiding Lomari." She quickly relates the story she had of Lomari, the theft of her gem-carved bracelet, and the description of the thief. "So, watch for a golden-haired, lady thief; I will -- should our dealings with Ihren go well -- inquire as to the chances of retrieving the bauble. We still need to find out about quarantine regulations on the City Within. Mmn, pass the dressing, will you?"
...and, have I mentioned, I hate this dice-roller? Three. Really? THREE? Ah, at least it's a noncombat roll. And thank the gods for my +7 on performance... at least it wasn't horrible harping. But dammit, the dice-gods are not on my side. Haveta find some schmoe to toss into the dice pit, for an improvement. ANyway -- Yeah, I think we should at least find out the particulars about getting in and out of the Innards and go talk to Ihren, assuming we can find her.
Keilaan shoulders her harp-case, and then pickes up the tray of used glasses. "Right, Ladder, finish up will you? Or carry your own mug down, eh?" She points at his drink with her chin, hands full. "I'm going to speak with Lomari, and find out what I may of her plight. I've no objection to aiding her: being stuck in this place, in this time, without the onus of a Mystery to draw one, well... it can't hurt to find out how to identify her missing key, and keep eyes out for it." Keilaan returns to the common room, depositing the empties at the bar with a nod to Rythari. She appropriates a chair near to Lomari, and checks the tuning on her harp before beginning a delicate, mournful tune. She does not sing, but the ballad she plays is an elven tragedy about an elf-maid lost, far from home. to evoke sorrow and melancholy. After playing for a time (or interrupting her music, if Lomari seems about to go), Keilaan turns to the tear-marked woman, and inquires softly, "Hello; I am called Keilaan. I have heard somewhat of your loss, from friends. I can promise little, but as I am to be here for some uncertain time -- if you might tell me of your key -- what it looks like, where it was lost -- I may at least add my eyes to the search, while I am here. It costs me nothing to be alert; indeed, I rely upon my vigilance: adding a thought for your lost talisman should not, I think, cause me difficulty." She looks to Lomari, eyes wide in her face, the picture of innocent interest. "Again... I have business of my own, here in Prism, which may take me far from Door, and I cannot claim to be a power here (or anywhere). I may find no hint -- but, if you will tell me the what and the where of your key and its loss, I will, at least, look."
"I find I agree with the others, Ladder," Keilann says as she sets down the tray. "Ihren seems to be, first, in possession of knowledge we need, if we are to pursue the Pathfinders' mission here. And, second, in desperate-enough straights to, perhaps, share what she knows with us, strangers to her organization and city. Recall that her distrada has been hard-hit by the plague; think, too, that the Trims have been burdened with an abundance of activity on her borders. She must be sending agents out-ward in search of resources which are in short supply within the Innards. I surmise that she may well need a group such as ours to provide her with deniability on such gathering tasks. It would not take much, I imagine, for the Trims to resort to a burning-out purge of an "infested" distrada, if the inhabitants cause them problems beyond the plague." Keilaan gathers empty mugs and glasses, setting them on the tray and then placing the tray near the door. "We ought to inquire about passage to and from the Innards; how much of a quarantine is in effect? Are persons allowed in at all? Once in, are they permitted to leave? We may need to cultivate some of the Trims, as distasteful as that sounds." She grimaces, producing an astounding twist in her facial scars, and then shrugs before continuing. "I think we'd all do better to sleep this night than to dive into investigation; best to be sharp. And -- this is a wild guess, I admit, but I feel it in my bones, that, given the shadow-nature of the plague -- I, for one, would feel better about exploring a plague-ridden desmenes in daylight."
So I went and switched Keilaantara to be my default alias, after that game post that's headed "Cheeseweasel." >grumble<
Keilaan slips downstairs, places her order at the bar and, while a tray is being assembled, strides to the party of Varisian half-orcs. "Hail and well-met, fellow travelers; it was surprizingly sweet to hear a voice in Varisian cant." She leans forward onto their table and drops her voice. "There is another guest here -- an inhabitant of the city -- who has an interest in any information you might have about a particular kyton; you have a chance for profit, should you inform him. He will be here, in the common room, on the morrow. You may have noted his repairing upstairs with my companions. He seems well-informed of persons and events in Door; I do not know how long you have been here, but if information would serve you better than coin, he is still at least worth a conversation." Glancing to the bar, Keilaan offers a shallow bow to the half-orcs, and concludes her speech thusly: "My name is Keilaantara; I wish you well upon your journeys. I have yet to establish an address here in Door -- yet know yourselves welcome once my shrine is a going concern." She produces a Pharasmite holy symbol from within a fold of her tunic, and spreads her empty hand in a pose of benediction. "May the Lady's patience grant you long years before you visit Her vasty halls." to impress the half-orcs with the proper fear and awe before a representative of the goddess of death. Neither strolling nor scurrying, Keilann tucks away her holy symbol, and picks up drinks before returning to the meeting, smiling absently as she crosses through the crowd.
to examine the bloodstone with Detect Magic -- just in case.
"Rest easy; we do not work for the 'Trims' -- indeed, speaking for myself, given the nature of our erstwhile employers and the fine care they have taken to see us here" the sarcasm fairly drips from her voice in this last phrasing "I am tempted to say I am freelance." Keilaan glances about the group, and continues. "However, Jaren Crall instructed us to seek you out, and -- for the moment -- it is to him, and through him to the Pathfinder society, that we owe allegiance." "While I am tempted to accept the token payment of yon' bloodstone -- despite the common nature of the gem, it does, in fact, reside among my favorites -- I will say that I would have tried to aid anyone so tangled in compulsion. Was it a matter of ignorance, or malice, do you think, which landed you in such straights? That is, would the person or persons who 'gifted' you the box have known it to be a peril, or had they passed it on innocent of its ill-effect?" "However... the payment I think we -- as Pathfinders -- would more happily accept must be, not polished stones, but the service of your polished tongue; what information you might possess, regarding the beginning, course, and range of the plague which -- pardon the repetition, plagues Door, and Prism, itself. For, you see, that is the root and center of necessity which has brought us to this place, your aid, and the hospitality of our hosts." Keilaan leans forward with some hint of eagerness about her, looking intently upon Red-Jack. "I do not imagine that Crall would send us seeking you were you not reasonably well-informed: what can you tell us, sir, in regards to the Planar Plague?"
Enjoying everything so far; the multiple possibilities are great -- much more like a real life than a single-track. And I haven't noticed any problems with your English, so that's well-enough by me (as a native English-speaker, who strives for the use of actual English more than the U.S. idiom in which I grew up). Bloodstone, also called Jasper; a mottled green-and-red stone, typically opaque. Its colors tend towards deep and rather dull (hence, its listing as a semi-precious, second-or-third-tier stone). Keep it up! Very happy to be here.
Keilaan pauses on the stair, casting her gaze around the common room; seeing her companions gathered at the tiefling's table, she points her steps to join them, nodding to Rythari in passing. At the table, she settles her harp (in its case) in a chair, remaining standing, herself. "Forgive my delay in joining you; after our passage, I felt the need for a bath most strongly." She looks at the box in Marcus' hands, then to the presumptive owner thereof. "Would this, then, be the Red-Jack, I assume?" to hunch Red-Jack
to plumb the puzzle-box
"A room first, please -- and a bath. All else to follow." Keilaan digs into her beltpouch for a handful of gold coins, sliding five of them across the bar. "Inform me when I've used this up, and I'll have tea sent up to my room." She pauses, then adds "Thank you."
Passing through the market, Keilaan is more lost in her own thoughts than in the place itself. This is not what I expected... but then, the dreams are always cryptic. I suppose I should wait until I know more before deciding that I got it wrong... or right. Pharasma knows a plague like this is certainly typical of the sort of thing they draw me to. As the group strides past the slavers' quarter, her thoughts turn to Ladder; hoping that Dwarven honor can deal with walking PAST a fellow-Dwarf in chains without untoward action. Glad none of my countrymen are to be seen in shackles. And, at least humanity seems welcome enough here. It must be trying, knowing that many will assume one to be property, or prospective property. She looks at the scars on the slaves, then glances down at her own scars; in addition to their odd coloration, her own scars seem old, despite their new-minted redrawing of her flesh. We are all slaves, to one master or another, really... if to nothing else, to our own desires. I wonder, will his odd humor survive this city? Will any of us emerge unmarked -- hah! -- from this sojourn? At the threshold of the Hanged Man, Keilaan stops a moment as an idea springs into her occupied mind. I really must find a way to gain an audience with this 'Lady Dreamer;' perhaps it is only a naming, a title... but possibly... If she is so named for CAUSE, she might be able to interpret some of the nightmares that have brought me here... Well, here we are. Let's see what waits within..."
Well, so when my Curse adds another language, I'll pick up Abyssal... until then, I'll be pestering people for translations.
"I suppose that's so -- food at the inn, I mean, Taurven" Keilaan replies. "Marcus; a pleasure. Likewise, Ladder and Tarial -- and thank you, I guess." Suddenly blushing, she looks to the gnome woman and stammers, "Oh, goodness, that's rude. I'm sorry. Just still a little... well, I'm adjusting to my 'new look.'" Sighing, Keilaan puts on one pack and shoulders the other, carrying her harpcase in one hand. "And if we go directly to the Hanged Man, I can maybe bespeak a room and drop off my wardrobe" -- this, shrugging with the shoulder of her second pack. "And the sooner we find Red-Jack, the sooner we can begin our investigation..." Aklo:
"...and the sooner I can redecorate that wizard's sitting room with his guts..." "And, uh, were there any specifics out of the patrol-leader's speech I really ought to know?"
Standing with her burdens, Keilaan readies herself to stumble through the market, keeping her free hand near the dagger sheathed at her back.
There's really no point in learning Abyssal, in the regular course of things: it just gives demons yet another chance to lie to you... >cocks eyebrow at DM Easy< ... of course, [i]some[/] people seem to like it. ;)
Waiting for the patrol to march out of earshot, Keilaan thoughtfully pulls out her buckler again, propping it on a windowsill of the Lodge while drawing out a pair of brass-and-iron wands from her pack. Glancing at her companions, she begins binding her hair up and back, into a bun which she secures by thrusting the wands through its bulk, peering at her reflection and muttering in between asides. "Well... my thanks for dealing with the Watch, and I hope that that..." she grimaces, pauses, then shrugs and continues "... well, call it a language -- isn't the usual patois." Her hair dealt with, she turns fully to the others, smiling broadly -- which twists her scars into new not-words. "Ghastly, aren't I?" she chortles; "Which I guess is all to the good -- I'll fit in well enough here." Sniffing the air, she adopts a thoughtful pose. "I don't suppose any of that lecture was directions to a food stall? No matter, we can always follow our noses -- is anyone else hungry? A snack on the way to the Hanged Man wouldn't be amiss." She adjusts her gear, hefting a pair of backpacks and an old, battered harpcase into a pile against the Lodge wall. "I am Keilaantara 'Marukh -- call me Keilaan in the short form; I hope we needn't stand on formalities? And I really AM hungry, despite" she gestures vaguely at the sky, the street, the strange folk "all this. Let's find some food, and perhaps a porter..."
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