Reta Bigbad

Lady GaGaaaaahhh!'s page

7 posts. Alias of Snorter.


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I love his little bow tie; all dressed up for a wedding!

I still have some ununsed cake, just blow the dust off, and it's good as new.


<blows dust off twenty-year-old, mouse-infested wedding cake>


Hulking Hurler wrote:

Seems like we have alot in on common and, if it's not to forward, maybe we should move in together.

Why, Ah do declare, ah yam flattered. And so polite!

But it feels so sudden!
Though ah don't know if ah could ree-sist such a tall, strapping fellow as yawurself.

Wait till Mammy hears we have a gentleman caller!
She will be so pleased.
She has always taught me, to always re-lie on the kindness of strangers.

<eyes flutter>


The goblin bard turns to chop at the snake, still berating everyone.

Attack 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 2 = 22
Confirm 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (15) + 2 = 17

Damage 2d4 ⇒ (3, 1) = 4

"Die, stupid No-legs! Dirty trick! Not brave, like gobboes!"

The snake is lifted in the air, on the point of her knife, collapsing in a heap.
She then looks round, and staggers up the stairs, away from the fight.

2 poison saves (since I missed one earlier)
1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19
1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18


The goblin caster starts screaming at the others to fight on, bolstering their nerve.
The goblin warrior in the main room has effectively delayed, but not by enough to change the running order.

"A witch! A b&**+!
Put her in a stitch!
Go stroke her,
With a red hot poker.
Poke, poke, poke, poke
Poke her face!"

Sorry, but it had to be done...


"GAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Poison damage 1d2 ⇒ 1 Con

I don't know how familiar you are with the changes in poison between 3.5 and PF, but not all failed saves result in immediate damage. This one does, since it has no onset time, and she will be subject to further saves on future rounds, until she shakes it off.


A sudden, howling screech comes down the stairs, from a previously unseen enemy. All those who speak Goblin can tell this is a female voice, but one filled with an uncharacteristically forceful quality, as if from one used to being obeyed.

"Kill the pickle-thieves!
Smash their brain-pans!
Scoop out the jelly for your bread and jam!"

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she points at Galstok with her jagged blade.

"You! Fool! Drop that stick and grovel to me!"

You feel your feet sliding from under you, and your grip on your hammer failing, as though your palms are covered in reeking vinegary sweat.

Reflex save!