I'm still willing to wait it out. Hopefully this isn't due to a major issue and we can continue on when it gets resolved.
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Marcais sops up the last of his meal with a hunk of bread and starts to get ready for his evening prayers.
"Interesting proposal," Marcaius answers back to the gnoll. "I think that it would, although it's far too late to go fishing at this time of night. I once travelled through a catfish farm in Outsea over in the River Kingdoms several years ago. The nice fellow who ran it told me that catfish like to retreat to the mud in the evening. However, he also said that there was a rather large specimen who propelled the deep waters at all hours and was quite feared by the locals for its size and prodigious appetite." "Therefore I suggest that we save some of this stew for the morning if we're going to go fishing, unless we can acquire a large harpoon, in which case we can leave right now."
"Oh my, yes," Marcaius says between bites, wiping his chin with his sleeve. "There's no guarantee we'll be coming back this way. Very important business to see too, you see." He motions to Falstaff to pass the bread, and tucks back into his meal.
"I am Marcaius," says the priest proudly; Gabriella's moment of hesitation with her praise hasn't seemed to penetrate his brain. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. We also appreciate your deigning to break bread with us this evening."
Just a heads up, I'm going to be traveling out of town tonight. I should have internet access upon my arrival, but if the unforeseen should happen I shouldn't be out of commission for more than a day. Use Marcaius as needed until then.
Since he's waiting for night to fall before praying for spells, Marcaius decides to assist with chopping the tree.
After about six whacks the priest drops the falchion to the ground, puts his hands on this knees and wheezes. His years are catching up to him, and he did little effective damage to the tree.
"Interesting," Marcaius says. "It's a spell I can cast, but not one that I often prepare. Shall we keep it or sell it?"
"Oh, I had horse once while traveling through Galt," Marcaius says conversationally. "They steamed it in a cabbage leaf with a mushroom pâté. It was okay, but heavy on the sauce. I'll pass on the orc though; I try not to eat anything that speaks a language I know as a general policy."
Marcaius looks through the pile of loot but finds nothing that catches his interest. "I'm good," he tells Aviz. When Jaro turns down the offer to escort the woman, the priest just shrugs at her apologetically. "What he said. I'm sorry, but we do have somewhere that we need to be. But take heart! At least your personal doom has been put off for a while longer, so you have a good chance of making it there safely before the end times arrive for us all." He smiles as if to indicate this was a heartfelt consolation.
"We'll just have to agree to disagree," he concedes. "The truth shall be revealed in time. For now, I think there are still wounded that need tending." Marcaius starts to head towards Dorian, the woman, and the downed guards, motioning for the others to follow.
Thank you. Keep in mind that most of his pet theories extend from his paranoia; I actually have no idea if this encounter was planned or random.
"Sorry," he calls back to Dorian, "That was my only healing spell prepared today. He can have my potion if he needs it, though."
Marcaius nods in recognition of Jaro's gratitude and crosses his arms in mock defiance of the strix's outstretched hand. "Nonsense," he states matter-of-factly. "My apparent ignorance of orc blood composition aside, signs are everywhere, you just have to know where to look and decipher what they mean." "Take this attack, for example. Would you think we just happened to stumble upon an ambush by random chance, while we happen to be on this assignment? Preposterous. We were obviously expected, but why? And by whom?"
"Huh," he replied, considering this. "You really do learn something new everyday." He rubbed his whiskered chin in thought, looking the nearest dead orc over this way and that. "Well, if that's not normal, why did it happen? Poison, maybe? Although they seemed pretty lively for poisoned folk, orcs or no. It's a sign, I'll bet you my tabard, but what does it signify?"
Putting away his weapon, Marcaius sidles up to the partially-healed Jaro and takes a look at him. "Hm. Still pale." Without much ceremony, he practically slaps a hand on his shoulder and fiddles with his skull-moon unholy symbol, murmuring a few words.
"There we are! Fit as a fiddle!" He then turns toward Choraak. "I'm not all that familiar with orc blood. You mean that it doesn't normally fizzle?"
Yeah, I'm gonna second this. If it's too cumbersome to adjust the profile each round, even a current hp total in bold during combat posts would help.
Screaming something inarticulate, Marcaius whips his flail in a wide arc and charges at the orc flanked by Jaro and Choraak. orange
Marcaius whips aside the flail, flicking off the excess gore. He grins and waves at Choraak, pleased with his work. "Ha! I told him so!" Looking around for more enemies, he spies the others advancing on the orc to the right of the cart and move to join in. orange
Marcaius howls in glee as the orc's attack grazes past his glamered armor. "Filthy brigand! Tell your masters they'll not get me! It is foretold!" Practically whirling with the counter-force of the blow, the priest swings the twin heads of his dire flail at his enemy.
"What? WHERE?!" Snapping out of his reverie at the sound of the commotion, Marcaius grabs his flail and jumps off the cart, looking around frantically for attackers.
Back on the cart, Marcaius is still busy crunching numbers combing his brain for bits of obscure lore; he continues to remain oblivious to what the others are up to.
The priest nods enthusiastically back to Jaro. "Certainly! It will give me time to rest my feet and think about today's omens. You have only to shout if you need me."
Marcaius walks along near the rear of the group, taking in as much of the scenery as he can see.
I don't mind it at all, but I would keep in mind that most of our characters don't know much about strix beyond "scary reclusive bird-men who don't like Chelaxians", so I'd expect some of the jokes to go over our heads. Choraak may have to really work at it to get a laugh, but time and familiarity should go a long way towards it.
"Huh," Marcaius says in reply to Choraak's jest. He didn't really want to eat an elf. He couldn't imagine that they'd taste very good to start with. "Er...Yes, I'm ready to leave as well."
"I'll take a healing potion, if you please," Marcaius says, fishing out his coins from a pouch. "I'm pretty sure I'm able to cast the ones you mentioned as needed, and I don't have enough for the more expensive ones."
"Excellent," the priest concurs. "So we just need to find a seller at this hour. Is three enough, do you think?"
"Oh, okay," Marcaius agrees calmly. "That sounds like a good idea." His face suddenly twists into an expression of concentration. "Healing," he says suddenly. "Wands. Potions. Will we need them? The journey may be long. We have money. Maybe we should buy some from here before we leave."
"Sure, if you all are in a rush." He pats Hershel companionably on the snout.
"I'm Marcaius," the priest says with a little wave hello, still trying to get up to speed. He seems a bit more lucid than a moment ago. "Did you say that you were going to confront some sort of coming destruction? That just so happens to be what I'm traveling to see firsthand. If you know where it is, I would be grateful if I could follow you all to it. I'll even help deliver your things on the way, if you'd like. And a donation to my preaching circuit would be put to good use."
For whatever reason Roll20 still has me listed as John B. even after I changed the name in my profile to Bob Evil. In any case, either one of those is me. As for my usual schedule, I usually work midday to evening with no private internet, so I'm more likely to post early in the morning or late at night, CST. And I'll try to keep my character's crazy hobo schtick in the background so as not to run it into the ground.
While the negotiations were ongoing, Marcaius was deliberating internally about what to do. Anyone who cares to listen would hear the following mutterings from the back of the group: "--no, no, they could be some of them, they'll try to get me...but is it a sign? What if it is...? 'She shall be found in the West, and you shall know her not, but trust her you shall, for the way is long and treacherous'...2x3/2=3+3=6, and six are we...but I was going to go south, not north...I could use a new blanket...so many new omens, I need more time..." He stops massaging his temples and looks up at the group. "...I'm sorry, did we already agree? I wasn't listening."
Now it was the preacher's turn to be confused. He'd never given the social structure of dogs much thought before. He also still hasn't yet noticed the two strix or the elf watching them, wrapped up in the conversation as he is. "That's...quite interesting. There is a faraway star known as Sirius, also called "The Dog Star", which--"
"Er-- Did you happen see something over there, on that rooftop? I can't quite make it out from here."
A hopeful smile was framed by Marcaius' scruffy grey beard. He was actually interested in listening! Well, gnoll or not, he couldn't let this chance slip by. "Indeed!" he says, happily. "As well you should! The sixth configuration on the cusp of the thirteenth parallel indicates that when the Follower shines it's pallid light upon Aucturn's shadow, the Thin Men will leave the Kingdom of the Godless en masse in a futile effort to escape what is to come. This will happen on the fourth day, making it the eleventh sign, don't you see? 13 minus 6 plus 4 equals 11! It's all so self-evident when you realize where to look!" He stops smiling and looks mildly concerned, pointing at the wolf across the way that's glaring at Falstaff. "I say, that dog has been staring at you for quite some time. Are you by chance carrying any sausages on your person? You may be standing upwind."
"Mmm. I suppose s--" Marcaius turned to answer the question and found himself face to face with a gnoll. It was wearing a large cloak that hid most of its body from view, but it was a gnoll, no mistake about that. Now, Marcaius had travelled pretty extensively on his mission, and he'd seen gnolls before, but generally they were either slave traders from northern Garund or demon-worshipping raiders who attempted to kill/rob/enslave/eat people if given the opportunity. You certainly didn't expect to meet one engaging in polite small talk in a random Chelaxian village. Should he be screaming? No one else seemed to be screaming. Or running for that matter. That was good, it meant they probably weren't being raided. And Cheliax was renowned for its slave trade, although this was a small village and he hadn't seen many actual slaves. That usually went on in the cities. Yes, that was logical. This gnoll must be a slave trader on his way to the city, which is why nobody seemed to be alarmed by his presence. Best to act natural. "Tell me, friend, have you heard the news? Oblivion is near, and the Skull-Faced Moon will soon descend upon the Spire to devour all that is. How do you plan to spend your remaining days?"
Marcaius took an empty seat on the edge of the square, and stuffed the folded remnants of a large sign that read 'THE END IS UPON US!' in big hand-painted print inside his backpack. He shifted the double-headed flail aside from its holster and stretched his legs, limited as they were by the battered scale mail that he wore. He was tired, but not disheartened; two people actually stood and listened to his preaching for nearly a whole five minutes today, and one woman had dropped a silver shield into his donation cup; all in all it had been a more productive day than many. As usual his warnings about the imminent apocalypse were met with silence or the occasional jeer, but he had long since been use to it. Besides, the town guard hadn't given him much trouble (yet), and he could afford to spend a few more days in this village before moving on with his message. His work was so very necessary, after all, especially in these troubled times. And then there was the matter of that note...
Heya! Google drive has also been problematic for my groups sometimes (can't log in, can't see the map), but I've seen it work before. You do what you're most comfortable with.
Awesome, thanks so much!
Well, you gotta do what you think is best, rather than take on more than you can reasonably handle. Nothing to do but cross our fingers. Good luck everybody!
*quietly nudges magic 8-ball out of sight with foot*
Just a heads up, I didn't change any of the crunch or fluff, but I fixed some grammatical errors in my profile and added a spell component pouch to my gear (it was already paid for and included in the cleric's kit and carrying capacity, I just forgot to list it the first time around). I also substituted the holy symbol and holy text for an unholy symbol and unholy text, because apparently that makes a difference for a negative energy channeler.
I know I missed your question, bob, before you put up your character, but the amount of undead won't be insignificant - they make excellent shock troops, and I just really like em. No worries! I just wanted to know so I could plan my feat selection; there's not much point in taking Command Undead if they only come up once or twice in the entire campaign. It also make Versatile Channeler a more viable option, although I was planning to pick it up anyway to boost my healing power.
Bob Evil here, all set. Here is Marcaius, an Azlanti street preacher for Groetus intrigued by the looming threat that the mysterious army poses. Statistics:
Marcaius
Male middle-aged human (Azlanti) cleric of Groetus 1 CN Medium humanoid (human) Init -1; Senses Perception +3 ------------------------------ DEFENSE ------------------------------ AC 14, touch 9, flat-footed 14 (+5 armor, -1 dex, +0 shield, +0 size) hp 11 (1d8+3) Fort +4, Ref -1, Will +5; +2 vs. madness and confusion effects ------------------------------ OFFENSE ------------------------------ Speed 30 ft. (20 ft. in armor) Melee dagger +1 (1d4+1/19-20) or
Ranged light crossbow -1 (1d8/19-20) Special Attacks channel negative energy 5/day (DC 14, 1d6), destructive smite (+1, 6/day) ------------------------------
*ACP applies to these skills Non-Standard Skill Bonuses
Languages Azlanti, Common, Thassilonian Special Abilities:
------------------------------ SPECIAL ABILITIES ------------------------------ Bonus feat [racial] You gain a bonus feat at first level. Broken Mind [trait] You are used to living with your own madness, and gain a +2 trait bonus on saves against madness and confusion effects. Cleric Channel Negative Energy 1d6 (5/day, DC 14) (Su) [class] Positive energy heals the living and harms the undead; negative has the reverse effect. Cleric Domain (Catastrophe) [class] Cleric Domain (Entropy) [class] Destructive Smite +1 (6/day) (Su) [class] Make a melee attack with morale bonus to damage. Improved Channel [feat] Add 2 to the DC of saving throws made to resist the effects of your channel energy ability. Mathematical Prodigy (Knowledge [arcana]) [trait] You gain a +1 bonus on Knowledge (arcana) and Knowledge (engineering) checks, and one of these skills (your choice) is always a class skill for you. Paranoid [drawback] Aid Another DC 15 for attempts to help you. Scholar of Ruins (Knowledge [geography]) [trait] You gain a +1 trait bonus on Knowledge (geography) and Knowledge (dungeoneering) checks. One of these skills (your choice) is always a class skill for you. Selective Channeling [feat] Exclude targets from the area of your Channel Energy. Skilled [racial] You gain an extra skill rank at 1st level and an additional rank whenever you gain a level. Touch of Chaos (6/day) (Sp) [class] With a melee touch attack, target takes the lower of 2d20 for each d20 roll for 1 round. Spells:
------------------------------ Spells ------------------------------ (CL 1st, Concentration +4) 0th (at will) detect magic
1st (2/2+1/1) cure light wounds
Domains Catastrophe*, Entropy** *Destruction subdomain, **Chaos subdomain Gear/Possessions:
------------------------------ GEAR/POSSESSIONS ------------------------------ Carrying Capacity Light 0-50 lb. Medium 50-100 lb. Heavy 100-150 lb. Current Load Carried 92 lb. Money 20 GP 0 SP 0 CP (0.4 lb.)
*Purchased as Cleric's Kit (16gp) (44 lb.)
Background:
A man in battered mail, a double-headed flail strapped loosely to his back, stands on a busy street corner. He holds up a hand-made sign that says 'THE END IS COMING' and shouts loudly about signs and prophecies and numerology, wild gray hair whipping in the dusk wind. His violet eyes search wildly about for any sign of attentiveness, but most ignore him, and several people cross the street when they spot him ahead. But he is undeterred; they must know what he knows. The message must get through.
"DON'T YOU SEE?! OPEN YOUR EYES! THE SIGNS ARE HERE! THE END IS UPON US! WHY WON'T YOU LISTEN?!!" **************************** The man known simply as Marcaius [mar-kai-us] (or 'Marcaius the Mad', 'Marcaius the Daft', or 'that damned lunatic street preacher' by the locals) was not always a priest of Groetus. As a younger man, he was born into a minor Taldan noble house, but rejected his surname in the embrace of his Azlanti heritage. Like many young modern Azlanti, Marcaius had a fascination with the romanticized glory of the ancient society, and devoted his portion of the family inheritance to financing a life of scholarship. He studied the arcane art of conjuration and was educated at some of the finest universities that Avistan had to offer. Among the subjects that captured his imagination was ancient Azlanti religion; although hardly devout himself, Marcaius found himself drawn to the imagery of the grand temples and the opulent priesthood of deities such as Acavna, Amaznen, Pharasama, and Groetus, and the young noble often traveled to the site of rumored ruins and artifacts of the great empire. It became his dream to discover the remains of an Azlanti temple, one that would reignite interest in Azlant's culture among the populace. Eventually, ancient texts recovered at no small expense hinted at something so impossible, Marcaius couldn't help but be intrigued by it: the possibility of a Azlanti temple to Groetus that had been magically transported to the surface of the god-moon itself. Marcaius fixated on his dream of discovery coming true, became determined to bring back proof of the temple from the Great Beyond. Historical records had shown that all who had attempted to make contact with Groetus' moon and survived were rendered irrevocably insane, but the young noble was nonplussed. Against the advice of his family, he used up nearly all of his wealth, connections, and magical knowledge to construct a protective amulet for the sole purpose of traveling across the moon unharmed and perfectly sane, and to teleport him back home at the first sign of danger. Loaded for bear for the expedition, he bid his family and friends farewell and cast the spell that would send him across the planes to meet his destiny. He was discovered nearly a month later locked in the ruin of his private sanctum, gibbering mad and scribbling nonsensical warnings on the walls in a progressively disturbing variety of writing materials. The amulet hung from his neck in a twisted lump. The following years were a blur. Marcaius was institutionalized, disowned, and eventually dumped onto the street. Homeless, he wandered as he may, for reasons that made perfect sense to him only until the next contradictory thought entered his head. But he was not afraid, for he knew, deep down he just knew that he was the only one who wasn't fooling himself. He had seen truth back on that moon, in all of it's terrible, horrible glory, and it was his charge to wake up the masses to the farce that they were all living. It was all coming to an end, and so what did Azlant, or nations, or gods, or anything matter? Nothing really mattered! And if nothing really mattered, then all were free, don't you see? Free, from everything! But nobody else seem to realize this, so they clung to their institutions and their rules and their beliefs, and remained blind to their freedom, and they insisted that he play along as well. Well, stuff that! He would wake them up, open up their eyes, tell them about what he'd seen there on the face of Groetus. He would be an agent of the only god that mattered, the Harbinger of Last Days, the God of the End of World, the Apocalypse Moon. They'd see. They'd all see, because he'd be the one to show them. Crafting his very first unholy symbol from discarded refuse, Marcaius has spent years on the road since, preaching his message far and wide, and he's been encouraged by what he's seen. Something big is coming, and for once he's not the only one who seems aware of it. An army approaches unlike any ever seen before, and the people prepare for war. Could this be it? Could the end finally be imminent? He must be there to see it! This might be what finally wakes them up once and for all! Appearance and Personality: Marcaius is a middle-aged man of average height and build with wild, stringy gray hair and eyes of deep but faded purple, proof of a strong Azlanti heritage. He wears a light gray tunic hemmed with pale blue trim, over which is worn beaten mail armor that looks several years past optimum use. His stare is unnerving, and prolonged conversation with him quickly reveals his insanity, and he makes reference to obscure arcane phenomena and nonsensical (and often contradictory) places and signs as if they were common knowledge. Still, he always seems to appear to care for the well-being of others, even though there's some sense that he fears that whomever he speaks to is terminally ignorant.
There's a sort of nervous energy that seems to follow him around. Although he can be prone to bouts of mania when excited, paradoxically he is often quiet and seemingly lucid for long periods of time. Above all, he always looks like he desperately wants to tell you something important. |