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Sorry for having been so unresponsive. Unfortunately, due to real life circumstances, I simply don't have the time to devote to all the campaigns I'm currently involved in. As such, I'll have to bow out of this game. Remove me from the active players, if you would.
Margût looks skeptically at some of the less sneaky members of the group, but says nothing.
Margût shrugs, fingering the tip of his blade with a weary look in his eyes. He has clearly had this discussion before. "Do as you will," he growls impatiently. "But reckon this: They'll know we're here. They'll be ready. They won't think twice about killing each and every one of us."
Margût scoffs and stands up, reiterating his point. "Kill it. The wretch knows nothing..."
To make Henris' point clear, Margût steps forward and puts his sword under the kobold's chin. "જવાબ આપો, અથવા હું એક પછી એક બંધ તમારા ભીંગડા છાલ પડશે." Draconic:
"Answer, or I'll peel your scales off one by one."
Margût watches in disgust as the kobold grovels for its life. "We should kill it. Even if it speaks the truth, its tribemates won't listen. It is weak."
I'm still around. GM_Ragged doesn't seem to have posted anything since last week, though. I hope everything is okay... :/
Margût snarls at the kobold, kicking it on the side to quiet its whimpering. "Want to try talking to it?" he asks Henris.
Margût begins the day by mixing some more of his foul-smelling concoctions, likely after being driven to the edge of the camp by those attempting to eat their breakfast. After this odoriferous morning ritual, he goes to poke at the kobold prisoner, seeing if it has regained any of its mobility—or at least its faculty of speech—after a night of rest.
Margût slumps down on a tree stump, setting down his pack and the prisoner. He sharpens his sword and pointedly glares at the paralysed kobold as he waits for the poison to wear off. The hobgoblin hisses softly as he works on his blade, seemingly telling the kobold something in its own language. "એક અવાજ કરી અને હું તમારી જીભ બહાર કાઢે છે પડશે." Draconic:
"Make a sound and I'll cut out your tongue."
So it seems. I assumed cutting the kobold down wouldn't be too much of a bother, so I didn't explicitly mention it.
"I speak dragon-tongue," grunts Margût. Once the others are done gathering bundles, the hobgoblin starts to scout for a safe campsite.
Sure, it's easy, which is exactly my point. What's the point of rolling? Goblins, kobolds, orcs and their ilk are such common creatures that just about every child would have heard stories about them—unless there is some specific reason that they wouldn't have. Just like they would have a general idea of what a wolf is, or a dragon. Whether or not they know anything specific is another thing entirely. Of course, you're the GM and whatever you say goes. It's a nitpick, really, but this is just the first time I've ever seen anyone do it.
Margût glances between his companions and the other cocoons. "Just grab 'em," he snarls annoyedly. "We can open 'em somewhere else. What, scared of getting your hands sticky?"
Do we really have to roll for kobolds? They're basically common pests. That's like not knowing what, say, a rat is. :P Getting more detailed info on their culture and whatnot, that I'd understand.
Margût offers Roscoe an ugly smile, yanking the still wrapped-up kobold up by its tail and throwing it over his shoulder. "I can poke it," he says. "But not here. The screaming will attract more danger."
Margût spits on the ground and curses in the guttural Goblin tongue, angry at himself for not realising the obvious. "F*cking gobs! The little bastard led us to the spiders..."
Recovering from his sudden convulsions, Margût springs forwards, his muscles seeming to pulse and shift under his crimson skin in grotesque ways. With jerky but exact motions, the hobgoblin mixes another vial of explosives and lobs it at the spider. The canopy around the arachnid explodes in an inferno, scorching the trees and consuming the surrounding webbing.
Margût leaps away from the spider, using his teeth to tear the cork away from one of his stoppered vials. The mixture within looks disturbingly like pure quicksilver, but he does not hesitate to drink the entire thing with one big gulp. He seems to collapse momentarily, audibly gritting his teeth as his entire body is wracked by painful muscle spasms.
Margût grunts in agreement with Blaughter, finding no flaw in Houk and Rocoe's reasoning. "Reconnaissance is most effective when the enemy isn't at high alert," he says, using more words than he is usually comfortable with.
Margût taps one of the dangling skulls with the tip of his sword, sniffing the air and glancing around suspiciously.
"...in a group as small as we are, we cannot treat any individual's life as expendable." I'm so glad you caught that. Margût totally thinks of halflings in the same terms as most hobgoblins think of goblins: expendable goons. :P
Margût's eyes flash with indignation at Henris' interruption, but something in the wizard's rebuke seems to catch his attention. The hobgoblin listens to Henris' words with some interest, mentally assessing what he perceives as the wizard's attempt at asserting his own authority. He nods approvingly, adopting a more military mien and straightening his normally stooped posture to stand at attention. "Understood," he grumbles through gritted teeth, leering at Houk expectantly.
Margût wipes a smudge of dried blood off his blade, continuing to grimace at Houk. "Think you can goad me?" he snarls. "Think again. Ask the priest, if you think me a coward..."
Margût snorts at Houk, twisting his already fearsome visage into a sneer. "Bah! Human tactics, maybe."
Margût squints at the grotesque effigy, using a hand to shade his eyes from the non-existent glare—or at least, for a human, there was little light in the thinning forest. After a moment of silent deliberation, he points his sword at Roscoe. "You," he snarls. "Go take a look. Sneaky-like."
I'm for sharing everything equally, barring any in-character decisions that might skew that one way or another. Handing out items as they benefit the group at large is fine, though if someone wants something non-essential (like non-magical jewerly or art items) I think they have to take that as their share of the spoils. That's what most of my groups have done. Pretty much all of them, actually. My real question was, how do we want track what we've gathered? Before we have the opportunity to sell or share it, as I assume we won't split most of the treasure until we are back in town and have liquidated everything that hasn't been claimed. Does someone want to be the treasurer? I can do it if no one else wants to, though my math is dubious at best...
How are we planning on tracking loot, by the way?
Margût's pointed ears perk up at the mention of an enchanted weapon. He starts scouting along the edge of the swamp, trying to see what would be the safest way to get across the marshy terrain.
Margût lets out a satisfied grunt as he starts counting the coins. He tosses the gold chain to Henris, letting the self-proclaimed jeweler appraise the trinket.
Seeing that the group has been denied their prize, Margût curses harshly in the guttural Goblin tongue. He descends into the den, intent on finding something to make the trip worth their while. The hobgoblin pays special attention to the pellets, knowing they might contain something of value that the owlbears were not able to digest...
Margût spits out a gob of blood, quickly mixing another of his foul-smelling concoctions. Staggering to his feet slowly, Blaughter hawks and spits a large glob of bloody phlegm onto the ground near the downed owlbear. Soulmates, clearly.
"An' you too." He adds, gesturing to Margut. Clearly uncomfortable with the positive attention, the hobgoblin mutters something indistinct and continues to focus on the task at hand.
Minah looks to the others, then offers: "Does anyone need healing?"
Orono trots back to the owlbears and hunches down. She starts looking for their tracks. Margût joins the search, sniffing the air like a wild animal as he moves over to where the beasts burst from the underbrush.
I'll be able to start brewing potions next level, assuming we have the extra cash. I can use a wand as well, if necessary. With the adjustments I made to Margût, I should be able to switch between melee and ranged pretty well. However, like all alchemists, I'll do better at both when I have the time to prep. Those buffs don't quaff themselves! In any case, two surprise owlbears are pretty rough for any second level character (even if there are a bunch of us), so I wouldn't really judge our combat capability just yet. Unless, of course, this is the general level of difficulty we should expect, in which case we should probably start working on our back-up characters. ;P
Margût spits out a gob of blood, quickly mixing another of his foul-smelling concoctions.
"This looks like a mated pair. There might be a nest nearby. Owlbear eggs - do they lay eggs? - could fetch a pretty penny. Or at least make a tasty omelette." The hobgoblin nods affirmingly, kicking one of the corpses as his wounds slowly knit themselves together. "Yes. Very pricey. More than their stinking hides."
Margût grits his teeth as the owlbear's beak tears into his flesh. He slashes and parries, attempting to protect himself while keeping the beast distracted. His tactics prove far too conservative, however, not coming close to harming the enraged creature.
Just one of them, unfortunately. Maybe Houk is a bit delirious from blood loss? :P
Margût starts making his way towards the next target, drawing a curved short-sword as he skulks into position. He kicks Houk along the way, waving his saber at the remaining owlbear. "What're you, blind? Back on your feet, maggot!"
Seeing Blaughter go down, Margût hesitates for only a brief moment before rushing over. As he runs, he snatches yet another vial from his belt. "Keep it busy!" he snarls at Houk. The hobgoblin moves to cover the crumpled form of the priest, positioning himself between Blaughter and the owlbear. He kneels down, pouring the thick, greenish brown tincture down his companion's throat. The potion tastes of fermented animal droppings and pungent herbs—the smell alone is almost enough to enough to wake up the dead. "Up, you fat oaf! No time for napping..."
What action would it be to make an unconscious character drink a potion?
Thanks, boss! I'll update my profile ASAP, assuming there are no objections to the following... Change Log (Fire Bomber → Grenadier):
Brew Potion → proficiency with the short sword
Poison Resistance → Alchemical Weapon Poison Use → Precise Bombs as a bonus discovery
The only real downside from swapping to Grenadier is that I'll have to wait until next level to grab Brew Potion. Not that I have the money to craft anything yet, anyway.
@GM_Ragged: Looking at my build at this point makes me realise that I would probably have been better off going with the standard alchemist. Either that, or the hobgoblin archetype. The latter would actually make me a somewhat viable melee combatant, so I could switch between tossing bombs and helping out at the front. Do you mind if I switch a few things around, or are we in retrain territory by now?
Margût grabs a small glass tube filled with a yellowish substance, vigorously shaking it overhead before throwing it at one of the owlbears. The liquid seems to react to the motion, bubbling intensely and taking on the colour and consistency of fresh blood. As the glass shatters on the beast's flank, its contents instantly catch aflame, filling the air with the sickening stench of sulfur.
You can still five-foot step and attack, right?
My action will be the same as previously stated.
Oh, sorry. I might have jumped the gun on that one. :S
Recognising the dangerous predators, Margût quickly procures and downs a vial of thick, lead-coloured liquid. He takes a step closer, while keeping the group between himself and the owlbears. He was interested to see how his new companions would handle themselves against such fearsome foes...
The hobgoblin seems much more content after escaping the hateful rays of the sun, and the incessant babbling of the humans at the keep. Having grown up in a forest, similarly vast and murky, he feels right at home in the woods. Yet, there is a persistent feeling of unease, a memory that refuses to fade: he could still smell the bitter smoke from the Chitterwood as it was consumed by the flames...
Turning to Orono, he says, "If you'll forgive the indulgence of my curiosity, how is it that you have come to befriend the spider? I must admit, I have never seen the like." Margût eyes Orono with similar curiosity—and not a small amount of suspicion. "I have," he growls. "But not amongst humans." Looking around, Blaughter takes a big deep breath and lets it out in a content sigh. "Right peaceful spot this place is. A fella'd be hard pressed not to think about retirin' to a secluded cabin, seein' a place like this." The hobgoblin scoffs. "There'll be time for rest when we're dead."
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