Maelcolm Strom's page

Could be a trap… Could be regular folks. It was hard to tell if the voice was lying, but the fear seemed real – real enough to risk the trap. He had the knuckle-duster on, so he takes the gamble.

”Woah! Don’t shoot! I’m no monster. My name is Lock. I’m looking for answers and a way out - not trouble. I’m coming forward real slow.” He walks forward slowly with his hands away from his belt. He hoped his vision would let him see these folks before they saw him, just in case these were actually creatures like Doc.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (3) + 5 = 8

Lock quickly returns to the relative safety of the shed. He recalls what he found, largely as a pretext to avoid being outside with that uncanny thunder. ”It looks like Doc went over the north wall. I think we can climb it, too. There’s also a door. I’ll check it out. I’m not sure what's the best choice. Maybe, they’re all shades of bad. The lightning and fog just feel wrong to me. I don’t recall the sky clearly… but I don’t think it was like this.” He waves vaguely over his shoulder.

When he’s sure the laughing thunder has died away, he moves to the other door, listens at it, and then tests to see if it is unlocked or not.

Perception (listen at door): 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (7) + 5 - 2 = 10 Spooked
Perception (detect traps): 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (12) + 5 - 2 = 15 Spooked
Stealth (open the door quietly?): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (7) + 6 = 13
Disable Device: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (11) + 7 = 18

Lock slinks past the rubble and ghosts along the far wall, trying to see all of this strange courtyard.

Stealth: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 16
Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18

We are out of the chute and at ground level. The map has been updated.

Lock coils the rope and returns it to his pack as he glances out the door of the gardening shed. The sight of the yellow fog… brings bile to his throat. It is too familiar, from the dream. He slides his fingers into the brass knuckles in his pocket, for strength. ”Gonna scout this yard a bit. If you hear me scufflin’ come running.”

Then the coarse-looking man moves quietly into the courtyard and rounds the corner of the shed, heading north.

Stealth: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (19) + 6 = 25

Lock examines the chute with a grimace. It was the least bad of a bunch of bad options, in his opinion. He pulls the grapnel and rope from the pack. He hefts the grapnel like a weapon briefly, considering how best to use it. Trying to throw it up the chute and hoping to catch on something seems like a fool’s errand… but it could be used as a climbing claw. Might work.

He quickly returns to the Doc’s butcher table then takes and stows (in his pockets and belt) any tool that could be wedged into a crack in the chute. They weren’t as good as real pitons but they’d be better than nothing.

He returns to the corpse pile and starts to mount it. ”I’m rubbish as a climber, but I’m gonna give this chute a try. It’s better than waiting for Doc to come back. If I find a perch, a level spot, or an exit… I’ll secure the rope. If you feel three tugs, start climbing.” He hands the coil of rope to Veil and starts working his way up into the chute.

Hopefully, I can get a bonus or two with the improvised gear.

Climb: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19

Lock goes up the stair of corpses, just enough to see if it leads to a door, hallway, or some other exit.

Sorry, I missed the stairs were totally blocked. So, we do have all of ‘our’ equipment, but our armor and weapons are replacements from other victims. I’ve got no problem with that.

Lock reassesses. ”OK, the stairs are too rickety. Which means Doc either used a secret door, ghosted through a wall, or somehow got up that…”, he realizes most of the corpses were probably thrown down it, ”…that slaughter chute.”

He digs into his backpack to answer Legion’s question. He’s relieved that much of his common gear was discarded. ”I got rope and a grapnel. Not sure if there is anything to catch it on in that chute but we can try. But first…”

He moves to examine the walls and floor around the bodies, looking for the hidden exit he hopes Doc used.

Including a few rolls for searching different spots.
Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (4) + 5 - 2 = 7 spooked
Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (3) + 5 - 2 = 6 spooked
Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (2) + 5 - 2 = 5 spooked - well those rolls aren't going to help.

Lock feels a bit more in control with a real weapon in hand and his gear back in his possession. He puts the viol in his pack. It was too nice to be left in this abattoir. Having looked in the dark corners, he offers the only two exit options that he can see… because they didn’t have time to excavate another one. ”I see two ways out… the stairs or maybe trying to climb the furnace’s chimney. I’m voting for the stairs. Whaddaya say?”

Lock looks at the pile of gear. Some of it he recognizes like old friends. "Hey, get over here! My stuff is here. I'm betting some is yours." He quickly pops the two ampules into discrete pockets sewn into the lapels of his duster, gathers up his alchemical kit and weapons, andhttps://paizo.com/store quickly 'suits' up for trouble.

He looks around until he finds his hat. He knocks the dust and dirt off it before putting it on. Damn, I missed this hat.

"So far, that's the only way out I've seen. I wouldn't mind another route." Lock moves in the opposite direction, searching through cupboards and into the dark grannies, looking for gear or another exit.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (8) + 5 - 2 = 11 Shaken

With the bodies picked clean of valuables, Lock expected all their useful gear (truncheons and the like) was gone as well. Dammit! Bad luck. He checks the chains on the wall to see if any bits are loose or broken off.

Before he’s bowled over by the stink of the dead, Lock returns to the main room. ”Got some news… We’re in the basement of – I’m guessing – a hospital or sanitarium. I found the stairs up. The bad news? There’s a bunch of bodies in the other room – inmates and hospital staff. It looks like some crazies like Doc are running this place now. Sooo, I’d suggest we search the rest of this basement and then get the Hell outta here.”

Chains. I keep checking chains because they can make a decent weapon and/or if you wrap a small section around your fist they might (DM’s discretion) count as brass knuckles. :)

How high up do the stairs go?

I’ll build a loot sheet tonight.

Craft (Alchemy) DC16: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (8) + 8 = 16 squeaked out the win!

The man pulls the stopper from the vial, touches the rim to collect a tiny drop of the fluid, then runs it between his finger and smells it. His mood improves. ”It’s a healing draught. Don’t ask me how I know, but I’m sure. Guess we can afford to make one mistake.” He replaces the stopper and hands the vial to ‘Veil’ since she just introduced herself. The less useful goods (unless they need to bribe someone) he tosses into a jacket pocket.

“He is dead?”

The man tries to ground himself in hard truths, hoping it will help to shake the fog from his mind. ”Yeah. He ain’t sleeping, sister.”

From the murmurs in the room, all of them are having memory problems. Might as well address that elephant. ”My memory is gone, too. And I guess we shared that nightmare – or hallucination. I’m thinking we’ve been drugged. We wait long enough, it’ll leech out of our bodies. In the meantime, names…” He had the doctor’s keys and clearly knew his way around locks enough to create a pick. Mr. Key? Mr. Lock? Those sounded like real names and something about having a joke for a name was familiar…

”Call me ‘Lock’ or ‘Four’, since there are four of us.”

”You can call me Summoner, I suppose. Anyone see another way out of this horrid hole?”

”No, I think we’re gonna need to find our way out. I got the doc’s keys and a ‘pick’…” he holds up the fork, ”We’ll need gear and weapons, in case we run into Doc or her pals.” He flashes to how quickly Doc was able to kill those conjure birds, ”Honestly, I’d rather we avoid Doc unless we got a fully-cranked ballista aimed at her. So, we need to go quiet and careful. And scrounge everywhere for anything we can use. With luck, we find a door out or a good spot to hide, just ‘til the drugs wear off.”

Putting the ‘scrouge’ ethic into action, Lock goes into the darkness where the Doctor fled, to search the corpses for anything that didn’t benefit those dead but might keep this quartet alive.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (16) + 5 - 2 = 19 Shaken

Mael pauses in his search of the sack, sits back on heels, and regards the elf for a moment. ”That was you? Nice work with those birds.” he says with genuine admiration. ”Unless you’re keen to meet that ‘doctor’ again, you should probably get out of that cage. Our best bet is to not be here when she comes back.” Motivation dispensed, the man gets back to poring over the contents of the sack.

The rough-looking man glances at ‘the talker’ for a moment. Right. He’s checked out. No help there.

He takes a quick inventory: no weapons, no memories, no idea how to get out. That left him with fists, a fork, a ring of keys, determination, and brains… to handle the psychotic doctor and whatever ‘staff’ she has. Not exactly a fair fight.

He pockets the keys and moves to check the sack cautiously, hoping to find something useful and not the severed head of the doc's last 'patient'.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (4) + 5 - 2 = 7 shaken

The cell door swings open… Mael glances at the doctor’s implements hoping to see a useful weapon in the lot. Howevere, that’s not his immediate goal. He quietly slides across to the other cell door and works to unlock it. He huddles over the lock, in case the freaky bird attacks him.

Stealth: 1d20 + 6 - 2 ⇒ (13) + 6 - 2 = 17 (Shaken)

I like you are being creative…

Thanks. I’m just working with the tools at hand. Like real life, you never know what will work. So, I’m not disappointed the mechanics of the idea didn’t work. It was a gamble but I figure doing something is generally better than doing nothing.

Mael scrabbles for the dropped keys and then gets to work on the lock.

MOVE: grabbing keys
ACTION 2: working lock or moving to lock maybe?

Question: Is the lock built into the cage door or is there a length of chain holding the cage shut and the lock is on that?

Given the surreal dream followed by this nightmarish reality, Mael practically jumps out of his skin when a bird suddenly appears between the cells and starts swooping on the doctor. ”Nine Hells!” Not for the first time in the last few minutes, he questions his sanity and whether he is currently drugged.

Mael has to admire the victim’s courage and he doesn’t let it go to waste… literally. He grabs the latrine bucket then heaves its contents towards the doctor’s feet. The bucket hits the bars but the filth flies.

HIT vs square AC5: 1d20 + 2 - 2 ⇒ (7) + 2 - 2 = 7

I’m hoping this works like a splash weapon targeting a square (or the intersection between the doc and me). I have no idea if the filth will grease the area or just distract the doc somehow… but hopefully it helps in some way.

Mael is genuinely pleased to receive the fork, but not for the reasons the ‘doctor’ thinks or her suggested meal. ”Hey, thanks, Doc! ‘Preciate the gift!” He begins humming while rubbing and straightening the fork against the bars. It might look like he’s refurbishing and polishing it. In actuality, he’s trying to configure the tines enough to make a half-decent lockpick. Of course, having the tool and getting out of the cell are different matters, particularly with fear lending persistent tremors to his hands. He bunches up his fists several times trying to reduce the tremors, but it just isn’t working.

And trying to pick a lock with a homicidal doctor just a few feet away isn’t exactly confidence building or smart. Even in the best of moments, this was a tall order. Mael would like to bust out of the cell, put the doctor down like the mad dog she is, and rescue the fella on the table… but the odds are heavily against any of that happening. The doctor’s suggestion may have inspired an idea, however.

Mael moves to the wall to polish the fork against it. He looks at the other prisoners. ‘Sackcloth Girl’, as he calls her in his head, clearly wants to kill the doctor. That’s good. None of them (except for maybe himself) look like they want to be here. He can’t imagine they all haven’t done the math on their chances. He glances into the waste bucket to see how full it is. I bet a couple buckets of spilled s^&t would make the floor VERY slippery. If we can get the doctor close to either cell, get her feet out from under her with some filth… maybe we’ve got a chance to get the keys and work together.

Mael keeps up his cheery conversation while working on the fork. ”Hey, Doc, how many surgeries do you do in a day? Is this like a sun-up to sundown job or what? It’s gotta be tiring. I worked a slaughter house one summer and after just half a day of carving meat, my shoulders ached like you wouldn’t believe! I know it’s not like what you do but I figure it’s kinda close. Same sort of motion, right?” Mael has no idea if he ever worked a slaughter house but it sounded believable and hopefully ‘relatable’ to the doctor. He would have preferred sticking to the truth. Being caught in a lie could come back to bite him. But the pay-off might be big. He needed an ‘in’ with the doctor unless he wanted to end up being the next side of beef under her blade.

Bluff (slaughter house lie): 1d20 + 3 - 2 ⇒ (17) + 3 - 2 = 18 (shaken)

So, she’s insane but not a raving lunatic. Bad luck.

Mael tries to sound personable, despite the fear of being on the table next. ”Oh, come on. You don’t like to talk about your work? I’ve never heard an artist say that before. Let's have a little chat to pass the time. Are you really happy with the quality of your tools? You can't be. Look at that fork... it's crap! The tines don’t even line up! I probably have better scrap in here somewhere.”

He begins hunting around the cell presumably looking for scrap metal to prove his point.

Mael is looking for any small pieces of metal or wire that he might use as an improvised lockpick.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (3) + 5 - 2 = 6

Mael glances around to quickly familiarize himself with the cell and this ‘prison’, if that’s what it is. He does a double-take at seeing his cell-mate. He recalls the fella from the dream – the confused man. He offers the man a terse nod and hopes the fellow isn’t some psychotic that is about to dine on his liver.

His eyes fall on the tabled victim as well as the healer’s kit comprised of rusty garden implements and kitchen cutlery. It is NOT an encouraging sign for the future. This reality wasn’t much better than the nightmare he just woke from. And escaping it – like that dream – is the priority.

Mael feels in his gut that he isn’t a hero… but he also can’t abide some poor bastard getting cut on. If he can bait the ‘gardener’ into coming over, maybe he can put her down or wrestle the keys away from her… or both.

Fear rises up in him as he considers the dangerous gambit he’s about to play, but he tries to keep any tremors out of his voice. He leans his head against the bars and growls at the man on the table. ”We heard you. Now, shut up! Can’t you see she’s working?”

He addresses the ‘gardener’ casually, ”You are doing some good work there… but your tools. How can you do your best with that hodge-podge of crap? I mean the rust adds a little something but some of those blades are so dull, you might as well be using a wooden spoon, am I right? More effort to cut and the result is just sloppy and unprofessional. Where’s the artistry, the respect for the craft? Might as well just bash him with a rock if you don’t have a range of sharpnesses to display your skills. Am I right, or am I RIGHT? Hey! I’ve got some skill honing blades. It’s amazing what you can do… rough honing against a stone wall and then a bit of polishing with the water ladle. How about you give me a tool or two you’d like sharp and I’ll get to work. I got nothing better to do in here. Whaddaya say?”

Diplomacy (to persuade): 1d20 + 8 - 2 ⇒ (20) + 8 - 2 = 26 shaken

Mael glances around for an escape route and finds... none. Trapped. Checkmate.

A broken picture mirror hanging askew on the wall draws his attention. It shows the only non-horrific face in the room. A week's chin stubble, receding hairline, a plug nose poorly fixed after a break, haunted eyes, some scars… the man rubs his chin and watches the reflection imitate the move. So this is what I’m working with. He shares an encouraging but wry smile with his doppleganger. Good to meet you.

Can’t flight so… fight. He turns his attention to the shark-toothed albino with the sepulchral voice. He glances at the wicked razor in the dead-white hand. Even sick with dread, Mael returns the smile and offers a deadpan quip. ”Sorry, Pal, I don’t need a shave.” Then he charges forward trying to strike the albino down… but fear makes his legs jelly and his swing is slow and badly timed. Nevertheless, he puts up what fight he can.

STAND: Iron bar (crit: 20/2x | B)
Mods: Improvised, light mace-ish, charge, Inspiration (2 pts)
HIT: 1d20 + 2 - 4 + 2 + 1d6 ⇒ (1) + 2 - 4 + 2 + (5) = 6 | DAM: 1d6 + 1 ⇒ (6) + 1 = 7

FWIW, Mael has low light vision and darkvision 10’.

Mael stops and weighs the options. Assume the skeletons are working for the Fog... The left passage was the safer bet to avoid the skeletons. But, if he can sneak through the doorway that the skeletons think is clear… then maybe the Fog goes down the obvious paths?

It is all supposition and risk. All he knows is he can’t run forever, fog doesn’t get tired, and now it set guards along his path. He needs to be more wily fox and less jackrabbit. He takes the gamble and tries to sneak past the skeletons and through the dark doorway…

Stealth: 1d20 + 6 + 1d6 ⇒ (12) + 6 + (1) = 19 (Inspiration Pt)

Words written in blood - OK, it happens. Oozing blood that FORMS words - no, gotta be drugs. Maybe, MAYBE none of this is real, but I’m not winding up like that elf to find out I’m wrong. He turns and runs from the fog, from the blood words before they spell out something even more disturbing.

The math is simple. The fog took two of them - maybe more - and it is stalking him. How do you fight fog? The skeletons didn’t even see him. They are scary but real and fallible. At least he has a chance against them.

Maybe the skeletons have moved off and I can get through that door. Come’on Lady Luck! If not… Well, that’s what the iron bar is for.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (14) + 5 - 2 = 17

What kind of weapon does the iron bar count as? Does it get the improvised weapon minuses?

Think, dammit, think… The open doorway in intriguing. It might lead to a good place to hide or a way out. Better than being a rat in this maze of alleys. Mael looks hard, trying to see what the skeletons are looking at… but it is just too far and too dark.

The man regards the bent iron bar in his (first time he’s noticing) scarred and meaty hands. He weighs the bar and his brawler’s fists against the armed and armored skeletons. He vaguely recalls a fight in a dark alley. Did I win? I think so. He can almost smell the blood in the air. But he’s pretty sure fighting people ain’t the same as fighting skeletons of people.

Fear lends speed to his assessment. One on one, with surprise… Maybe I got a chance. Two on one, that’s a bad, bad bet. He weighs the alternatives. Sneaking past is possible, if he gets real lucky. But it just gets him down another alley. That doorway could be the best way out. Maybe that’s why the skeletons are guarding it. But to get through the door, he’ll need a miracle or… f@ck me …help.

The only help available to even the fight is back at that ruined temple. Mael is pretty certain the woman is a hallucination. What real woman wears a head-to-foot sack-cloth in Ustalav?! But the confused man could be real. And even if just one of them is real, that’s better odds against those skeletons.

Decision made, Mael backs away from the inattentive skeletons as quietly as he can. As soon as he is out of their sightline (or they spot him) he runs as fast as he can back down the alley to the gap in the wall.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (5) + 5 - 2 = 8 Spooked
Stealth: 1d20 + 6 + 1d6 ⇒ (12) + 6 + (1) = 19 (Using an Inspiration Pt – LOL, well I suck)

The iron bar gives Mael a tiny sense of security… It is real and tangible. Or at least it deadens a hint of the anxiety that is his entire reality. But he can’t afford to stand still. Speed is an ally, hesitation – an enemy. He lunges forward, continuing his headlong flight. Mael caroms down this new alley, eyes peeled for shadowy dangers but also opportunities. If he can find a way up onto the roofs, he might spy the shortest way out of this low-rent maze and how far he is ahead of the fog. Maybe I'll find a good hide on the roof while whatever-they-are hunt the alleys.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (4) + 5 - 2 = 7 Spooked

Mael feels in his pockets… nothing. What did I expect to find? Moving on to Plan B, he scans the rubble, looking for anything that could pass for a weapon: a spar that could be a club, a length of iron, or even a solid brick. His search is interrupted by talking. Maybe it’s a person, maybe a hallucination. Either way…

"What unit are you both with? Wait, are you with a unit?"

”Pal, I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” His own rumbling bass voice comes as a surprise to him. Guess, I’m a man… or a big, strappin’, farmgirl. After a quick hunt for a weapon, it’s time to decide.

Maybe those fog figures will overlook this gap just like I almost did. He doesn’t like the tight walls but the alternative might be worse. He shoves himself into the small side passage, hoping it widens soon and provides an escape route.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (10) + 5 - 2 = 13 Spooked

I'm looking for any sort of weapon if it can be found quickly (a couple rounds max) and then pushing into that side passage.

Nothing makes sense.

Everything is disconnected and unreal… …or maybe too real. It’s like a bad trip he thinks with absolute conviction.

The man, who doesn’t actually know he’s a man yet, takes a split second to wonder at that. Wait. How do I know that?

He then wonders how he knows about bad trips but doesn’t know if he’s a man, a woman, or something else. What else is there? His only other conviction is that he isn’t going to waste time sussing out his gender or any other mystery in the face of the alarming suns, grasping fog, or shadowy shapes.

His third (and final) conviction emerges. RUN. He bolts down the hallway curving left, acting on pure instinct. There might have been other people in the alley, but it didn’t matter. The fog would catch the slow before the quick so… Be quick. Be REAL quick. As he runs, he looks for lurking dangers, other turn-offs, and any place that might be a good hiding spot.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 - 2 ⇒ (6) + 5 - 2 = 9 Spooked