About Luce the Beast
* = In saddlebags
Total Weight = 98?
If an animal companion is subjected to an attack that normally allows a Reflex saving throw for half damage, it takes no damage if it makes a successful saving throw.
Twine, Chalk, Incense, Soap, Rope (50’ ), rough map, whittling tools, hand axe, snare wire, cook pot, water-skin, skinning knife, tarpaulin, deer pelt blanket, small hammer, torches, flint & steel tinderbox, lantern with 2 pints of oil, outdoor/ traveling clothes, smoked meat (rabbit), hard tack/biscuits, 2 bottles of elderberry wine.
Ritual participants share their vitality and luck with one another.
Component Cost: 10 gp
Market Price: 150 gp
Key Skill: Heal (no check)
Time: 5 minutes
Luce Winterscliffe was delighted; her father had broken his leg. The peaks of Winters’ Cliff could be treacherous, especially after the un-seasonal sleet. Old Jarl had been up in the hills searching for one of his lost rams, the aging animal had taken flight during the storm and Jarl knew how dangerous the hills could be. He was honest, stout with a hearty sense of humour; everything a good farm-holder should be. The small group of farms that composed the hamlet, named after the peaks they sat upon, looked to him as their informal leader. Of course his stern, stoic ways sat better with the community than his children; all had a streak of stubbornness in them. In fact it was this that caused Luces’ older brother to leave home, word from the neighbours was that he had joined a mercenary company in Downholme.
The young man, Kyle, had an independent streak and innovative ideas about how things should be run. Constantly he clashed with his father; though the man was not unresponsive to new ideas - he had years of experience on his side and seen young fire-brands burn to ashes due to their concepts. Kyle left one night after a loud argument and Luce didn’t see from him again. Despite this Luce was happy at home; her mother and grand-mother had a large library and loved to read to the children. Many a long winters’ evening was spent at the fire-side listening to her old gran reading the hand-written manuscripts whilst they spun wool.
Old Jarl was grimly despondent; he had a good harvest of wool the second of the year. Which he felt could make a good price in the market with the forth-coming weather. The town was a few days away to the South-East on their rickety cart. She had been chosen to go take the goods to Downholme in her father’s stead. Giles, her younger brother at 14, was too immature, especially after the antics of last Harvester. The wool of their prize ewe, Coral, had not been the same since.
Luce could tell her mother was secretly pleased by the result, she knew Luce had turned down the local lads. Marriage was not on her mind at the moment and the rough young farmers cared more about their bellies and their herd than romance, music and heroic tales. Her ruddy faced mother, once the village beauty, had given her a bottle of wine and word of advice as she left for the town.
The journey to town for Luce was an amazing one, despite the fact she had traversed these roads many a time it was always in her fathers’ company. In fact she had not spent a night unsupervised on her infrequent visits to the town. With her new-found freedom, she was going to make the most of it. Her father had told her to seek out the owner of a reputable Inn to stay at and given her a bottle of his home-brewed elderberry wine (or sloe-gin?) to give to his old friend. Nobody expected her back soon; the sales of the wool would take a while.
’Jarl’s gone on one of his jaunts to see one of his doxies’ her mother used to joke.
From a glance she appears like a normal young farming woman. But her heritage is apparent in the little differences to her appearance, marking her as not human. Warm almond shaped cat-like eyes with just a rebellious hint of kohl and fingers that tapered into dark claws.
The smile across her face makes her look more youthful; mountain air, clean living and lack of worries show upon her face.
A heavy woollen shawl covers over the multiple layers of heavy wood-smoke scented elk skin leathers she wears. The Winters’ Cliff Mountains having long been known for the predators, which feast upon the unwary.
She has pale skin, with a slightly ruddy health glow to her cheeks from spending long days tending the sheep upon the moors. Her grandmother had shown her a flower whose roots could be rendered for a moisturising balm.
Thin downy fur covers her body up to her neck, with a soft tactile quality unlike humans’ coarse hair. She was glad of it to keep her warm the cold northern nights.
Sold Party Loot:
Sutra ia aghast at the vote; "OK, this is a bad idea but..." she takes a breath "I am....XXX My people were...highly technical, paranoid and religious, thus I have a X coded to my genetic make-up. Unfortunately no-one else can use it, it also involves slight telepathic scans. So please I beg you not to kill me." Sutra virtually bursts into tears.
"I will work for the good of you all! I know there is at least 1 Militant, if he protects me he can begin his scan of me to confirm my identity." she tries to pull herself together - laying out her case logically. "Someone will probably die tonight, if it is me then you lose 40% efficiency - normal people; we will probably be destroyed by the mutants."
"The people I investigate, I will tell you their role and mutation level, but not their Name. So they can contact me if they wish. I calculate by radiation and exposure levels that there are approximately:
"If you still kill me, then take note of those that want to kill an X!" she looks downcast, but in her heart it sings this is her destiny maybe if people trust they will survive.
If I survive this game will be very different, an open XXX! I might not be able to post too much more, off out for the rest of the day.