McAnally Clach-Ghuail's page

Mac plops down in the endless white, looking around for the voice of his best friend. [color=brown]"I don't understand. What happened? What about Freyja? Grevayne? Are they okay?"[/color]

But that's not the question that's been burning his thoughts for the seconds or eternities he was swallowed in darkness. That's not the anxious fear that has plagued him through this endless passage. It's not the question he needs answered.

He looks up into her face, tears welling in his big brown eyes, and mutters, [color=brown]"Was I a good boy?"[/color]

Mac decides this is a big g&~***n "nope" and tries to wriggle free.

CMB: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (1) + 12 = 13

Go f~&~ yourself, dice roller.

Mac nods eagerly and slips up to the other door, opening it as quietly as possible and peering inside.

Stealth: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (10) + 13 = 23

Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (15) + 18 = 33 (+8 vs scents)

Mac cocks his head curiously at the metal person in the corner. He glances behind him and waves Grevayne over, finger to his lips.

Mac nods and steps up to the door, retracting his claws and opening the door as quietly as he can.

Once he's cracked it open enough to look in, he scopes the room out.

Stealth check to open the door where the noises are coming from, Perception to look around.

Stealth: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (16) + 13 = 29
Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (13) + 18 = 31 (+8 vs scents)

Dayum! Not bad.

Mac looks at the little room, then at the narrow stairwell, then sighs and shifts back to human form. He does, however, keep his claws out. When Grevayne is ready, he leads the way up the stairs, drawing out his wolfish instincts to sniff his way up the stairwell.

Back to human, using another minute of Minor Wolf Form and keeping the ol' claws out.

Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (15) + 18 = 33 (+8 vs scents)

Mac prances in place a little after Aubrin heals him, then pads out into the previous room to join Grevayne at the door.

He snorts indignantly at the dhampir's comment, turning his muzzle up at him. He can so fit through doorways! Just a little snug, is all.

He pokes his big head toward the door, eyeing it carefully and snuffling.

Perception vs Door: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (17) + 18 = 35 (+8 vs scents)

Mac limps over to Aubrin and whimpers plaintively. Now that Grevayne has healed up some, Mac looks significantly worse than his friend.

Mac whimpers and limps slightly from the grievous slashes and burns, but stands his ground and bites ferociously at the slag.

Mac Attack: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (2) + 13 = 15
Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (3, 3) + 18 = 24

Not gonna bother with the trip attempt.

Due to some lame-ass specific wording in the text of the Charge action, I cannot charge past the ooze and end my "charge" in the square next to that bench thingy. The movement of your charge actually has to end in the closest adjacent square of the enemy or you can't charge them.

Mac rushes past the ooze and deeper into the room in order to make room for his friends, then pours the power of Magdh through his veins. His skin ripples and his bones crack as fur sprouts and parts shift, leaving a massive Dire Wolf standing in front of the giant fire-metal poop stack.

Move, then activating Major Wolf Form. Using Wild Vigor too because why not. 10 temporary HP.

Mac nods toward the double doors. [color=brown]"Fire. Burning. Over there."[/color] He takes up position near the double doors and looks them over carefully.

Looking for traps, mainly, but anything out of the ordinary as well.

Perception vs Double Doors: 1d20 + 17 ⇒ (10) + 17 = 27 (+8 vs scents)

The massive wolf dips his head, then begins the violent, gruesome process of warping his body back to its human shape. He shakes his head as if to clear it, sending his matted, tangled brown hair and beard swishing back and forth. You're pretty sure a squirrel just fell out.

Mac extends his claws, then allows himself a partial shift back to wolf form. His nose and mouth elongate slightly into a short snout, and his ears become pointed and furry. He snuffles the air as he steps through the broken door, looking for trouble.

Switching from Major Wolf Form to Minor Wolf Form. No temporary HP in this shape. Also it works in 1-minute increments instead of 1-hour so he's not going to stay in this shape very long. 3 minutes or so.

Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (17) + 18 = 35 (+8 vs scent)

Mac sits and licks his bloody chops, then watches with a low whimper as Mal-skend enters the cave alone. He needs at least some moonlight to see by, unlike his dead-not-dead friend. He turns to Freyja, chuffs once, and looks back at the dark cave, awaiting his friend's return.

AoO: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (18) + 13 = 31
Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (2, 1) + 18 = 21

If the AoO killed Leif, Mac will move over his body and bite once at Hillmer. But if that didn't kill Leif, both attacks are going at him instead.

Mac Attack: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (11) + 13 = 24
Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (4, 2) + 18 = 24

Woopsie Daises: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (14) + 15 = 29

Mac Attack: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25
Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (6, 3) + 18 = 27

Woopsie Daises: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (8) + 15 = 23

Mac decides Leif looks as delicious as his friend and tries to bring him down to open his belly.

Mac Attack: 1d20 + 13 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 13 + 2 = 19
Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (3, 3) + 18 = 24

Woopsie Daises: 1d20 + 15 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 15 + 2 = 37

Mac Attack: 1d20 + 8 + 2 ⇒ (13) + 8 + 2 = 23
Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (5, 4) + 18 = 27

Woopsie Daises: 1d20 + 15 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 15 + 2 = 29

*sob* Nat 4 on the attack, nat 20 on the trip. D:

Mac should actually be large since he's already in Dire Wolf form.

Mac has no idea what the heck it is, so he noms.

He gon et Thurt.

Mac Attack: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (20) + 13 = 33
Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (5, 1) + 18 = 24

Woopsie Daises: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (11) + 15 = 26

Mac Attack: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (18) + 8 = 26
Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (1, 3) + 18 = 22

Woopsie Daises: 1d20 + 15 ⇒ (15) + 15 = 30

Confirm: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (9) + 13 = 22
SUPER Nom Nom: 2d6 + 18 ⇒ (2, 2) + 18 = 22

Depends on how far the daylight spills into the cave. If it doesn't spill at least 30 feet past the cave entrance, then no. Mac can't see them. At least 30 feet and he's good, since as a Dire Wolf he has low-light vision, but I'm guessing it's less than that.

Mac hears the stirring of creatures and smells their stink wafting from the cave, and emits a low, dangerous growl of warning to his companions.

Mac nods, and his form shifts, cracks, bends so very wrongly, and swells grotesquely, sprouting fur and fangs, until a massive dire wolf stands beside the others. Mac chuffs once then steps into the cave, peering about.

Using Wild Vigor for 10 temporary hp.

Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (14) + 18 = 32 (+8 vs scents)

Mac shrugs. He isn't terribly concerned where they go, as long as there are hobs there to kill.

Mac grumbles something about "dumb farmers and their dumb food" before plopping down in a corner with a plate of something warm and stuffing his face a little more vigorously than is probably necessary.

Mac heads into town to check grain supplies, healer's kits, dry goods--whatever they might need to wait out a siege. He focuses on bandages, salves for burns and stitched wounds, jerky, oats, and fresh water. Those will be most important during a siege. But he also keeps an eye out for anything interesting or unusual that might help.

Survival vs Siege Supplies: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (5) + 14 = 19

*sob*

Mac watches Grevayne go, frowning. He can sense his friend's distress but has no idea how to help. Pawing unhappily at the ground with one foot, he shrugs to Freyja and also heads to the inn, though he gives Mal-skend some distance.

At the inn, he waves to Gestelle cheerfully, and orders a beer using a complex series of intricate hand gestures (aka the "drinky-drinky" motion). He never thought he'd miss having someone to talk to, but the cleric's use of the share language spell has reminded him what socialization feels like, and just how trapped he's been inside his own head--first as a wolf, now as a man.

He wonders if he'll ever find another person who has shared life experience. He kind of doubts it.

If unbothered for the ten minutes it takes to finish his beer, he also heads up to bed. Unlike his friend, sleep comes quickly and easily.

Mac auto-succeeds on the Survival check.

Mac chews thoughtfully on a sandwich. [color=brown]"Need more fighters. When being hunted, a prey's best defense is in numbers. The herd is not large enough to fend off this predator."[/color]

Mac, having spent basically the entire exchange with his finger digging at a particularly large, sharp booger, finally wrests free his prize and, after admiring its profile on the tip of his finger, wipes it absently on his pant leg before following the others.

I was useful! :P

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19

Mac leans in to Grevayne and Freyja and mutters, "Don't mock them. He seems like the kind not to take kindly to meanness. Be funny. Everybody likes funny."

Mac gives a screech to the guards below, then circles them excitedly, before flying off to reach his friends first. He lands in front of Grevayne, shifting back into human form as he does, and grips his friend in a hug. Even having left his side for only two days, he is relieved to see the dhampir once more.

[color=brown]"City people are idiots,"[/color] he says into his friend's shoulder. He pulls away and begins telling Grevayne about the conversation with the mayor.

Nah dude. I'm right there with you. I'm all for streamlining in pbp.

Mac eats a solitary breakfast, keeping slightly apart from the guards. Real or imagined, he always gets self-conscious around strangers, believing every glance his way to be one of fear or disgust at his powers. They surely aren't what one would consider "civilized." Mac spent decades--maybe centuries, he's not sure--as a wolf. Even after weeks back in his human form, the scent of raw, bloody meat makes his mouth water and the actions of humans (and humanoids in general) often confuse or irritate him.

He pulls a skewer with a whole cony off the spit, with meat that looks rare at best. He bites into it and nearly spits it out, the sheer bloodiness almost making him gag. He remembers for the fiftieth time that humans aren't supposed to eat raw meat, and drops the skewer back onto the spit to continue roasting, grumbling to himself under his breath.

Eventually the meat is cooked a little more thoroughly and he tears unenthusiastically into a haunch. It tastes like grease and little else. As handy as it has been being able to transform into a falcon, and as much as he's enjoyed riding the currents in the sky, he really misses being a wolf all the time. Life was simpler then. Eat what Oona gave him, or hunt for it. Feel the rush of kill-or-be-killed in the throes of the hunt or the battle, side by side with his best friend. He likes Freyja, and he has grown to like Grevayne, but they are not Oona.

He misses Oona.

After his miserable breakfast, Mac says to one of the guards, "We should be close. We made good time. Keep following me. I will stay on the wing and look out for my friends. If you hear me call, you will know I found either them or danger. Either way, the sound will mean something." He then steps away without waiting for an answer and Wild Shapes into a falcon, perching on a nearby stone and waiting for the guards to finish their breakfasts and be ready to continue.

Again, using Wild Vigor with the Wild Shape for 10 temporary HP. It lasts until I leave my Wild Shape form or they get used up, whichever comes first.

Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (11) + 18 = 29
Survival: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (19) + 14 = 33

No RP, Mac is just gonna pass out as soon as it's time to make camp. Despite finally being able to talk to the people around him, he's pretty frustrated with the mayor and his cronies so he's just going to go to sleep without talking to anyone.

I assume since Mac can understand him, the spell is still going, at least for the moment?

Mac snorts. "I will not be riding. Horses are for my friends. I fly. Follow me."

He leaps into the air, his body cracking and melting as it morphs into a falcon, and takes to the wing, heading in the direction from whence he came. He keeps his eyes at once on the horizon to gauge his direction, and on the ground to keep an eye out for his allies.

I assume we won't reach the other party tonight, but just in case, I'll make a Perception check as well as my Survival check to head in the right direction.

Perception: 1d20 + 18 + 6 ⇒ (20) + 18 + 6 = 44
Survival: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (18) + 14 = 32

AW YISS. I added in the +6 to his Perception automatically since I assume spotting the herd of refugees led by the party would be sight-based. If he has to like, sniff them out or something, put a -6 on it.

OH ALSO. I hope it doesn't end up being relevant, but just an FYI, he used Wild Vigor when he shapeshifted. He has 10 temporary HP that lasts as long as he's Wild Shaped (he can WS up to 15 hours a day now).

Mac scowls. City people are absolute idiots, he has decided.

"I will go. I don't like cities." He strides out of the room and waits outside to be directed to the people heading for his friends.

Mac looks absolutely flabbergasted. They're not doing... anything?

"I think maybe you're using the wrong word. In my language, 'seriously' means... well... 'seriously.' The Ironfang en't just a bunch of hob mercenaries. They're organized. They got crazy magic. They made a big tower appear in Phaendar overnight! Hobs poured out of it and killed or enslaved the town within hours. I was there. They took Trevalay, and two other Chernesardo forts. My friends took those back, at least. We can do that for you too! But not if you don't take this danger seriously, for real serious, not just talking serious. My friends are really good at this stuff, but it's still only four of us." He pauses, then corrects, "Five. Aubrin's with us, I forgot. But that's still just five." He chews his lip, trying to think of what else to say. He's just not that good at this, dammit. If only Grevayne could become a falcon, that would be better. He's smart, at least. "I don't like cities. The big walls and the lots of people. It makes me uncomfortable. But that doesn't mean I want to see people hurt. Lots of them will, when the hobs attack. You have scouts, yeah? Send scouts! Let them see. It's worse than you're imagining, I promise you."

Never mind that he has a +0 to Diplomacy lol. Technically better than Mac's -1. :P

Mac has 1 hero point left and dangit, this seems important. I'm going to use it. Still only gives me a +7 but here's hoping.

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (7) + 7 = 14

ahahahahah NOPE

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (1) + 6 = 7

Oh that's just f%&$ing perfect.

Mac shrugs and nods. "Grevayne explains in the letter, yes? I am not good at uh..." He struggles to find the word. "... tactics! That's the word. Not good at that. I fight by charging in as a wolf and killing enemies. Grevayne is smart though. He said the hobgoblins have tactics. I don't know what they are. Maybe he put them in the letter?" Mac adds helpfully. He's not sure why they aren't more concerned about the content of Grevayne's letter. Maybe Grevayne didn't make it clear how immediate the danger is? "I think Grevayne said they will attack in twelve days, but that was two days ago now. Your walls are very bad. You might want to fix those, if you can." If his words were offensive to those gathered, he clearly doesn't realize it. He simply gazes mildly at them, waiting for them to respond to the letter explicitly stating an army is about to attack.

Mac blinks. "Uh. Yes." He turns to the man who touched him. "Magic? My friend does Magic! He wrote the letter." He points at the letter the mayor is holding. He is oddly proud of the fact.

Kn (local) Untrained: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (11) - 1 = 10

Apparently I share an Int score with Mac, because I've been calling the language "Kellid" when that's his friggin' ethnicity. The language he speaks is Hallit. DERP.

Mac points at himself. "Mac."

He then stares awkwardly, waiting for her to continue. He supposes she doesn't speak Hallit, since she hasn't spoken to him in real sentences. He sighs; is there not one person in this stupid town that speaks Hallit?

If only there was a druid around here. He knows the Sacred Tongue, of course, and a smattering of the language of Magdh's children, the Fey. But he doubts this woman knows Sylvan, and she damn sure better not know Druidic.

He crosses his arms and scratches his head. Grevayne would know what to do. Of course, Grevayne speaks lots of languages. And if he were here he could just translate for Mac. Stupid friends not being able to turn into animals.

He raises his hands in a shrug at the woman. "Bruidhinn Sylvanidh?" he asks hopefully.

Mac doesn't understand the words, but when the second guard yells and raises his hand, Mac gives him the side-eye and steps back. When the guard doesn't immediately attack him, he decides he must have been giving him an order of some kind. Mac dislikes the guard immediately.

Still, since he doesn't know what the Hells the guy said, he supposes the best thing he can do is wait. Maybe the first guard went to find someone who speaks Kellid. Surely someone in this stupid city speaks a real language? A druid would be better, but he doubts that's going to happen.

He folds his arms over his chest and waits for something to happen, doing his best to be patient.

Poor Mac.

Mac digs out the paper with the letter from Grevayne on it and repeats himself as best he can.

"Take mee to Mayore Caw..." He pauses. Was there an 'R' in there? Maybe there was. "Craw? Bort? Kent speak Cyommun." Wait, was the 'Y' sound on the second syllable? Dammit. Why didn't everyone just speak Kellid like normal people? "Comm...yun?" He's starting to get flustered. "Org... Argent? Argent massive!" He waves the piece of paper again, as if that will make them understand. Seeing the guard tighten his grip on his spear, Mac grumbles to himself in Kellid about the idiocy of other languages and then just holds the piece of paper out in front of him, waiting for them to take it.

He gonna hunt some field mice lulz

Mac flies down to the road. They probably won't let a bird in. People in cities don't like animals unless they can control them. That's dumb, but not much he can do about it. He lands about thirty feet from the gate and shifts back into his human form, waving frantically at the guards.

"Take mee to Mayore Cawbort! Kent speak Cyommun! Orgent messive!"

Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (12) + 18 = 30
Stealth: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (1) + 18 = 19
Survival: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (4) + 14 = 18

Ungodamreal

Mac grumbles to himself and launches into the sky, wild-shaping into a falcon mid-leap. He soars high overhead at as swift a pace as he can without overdoing it.

Mac has 15 hours per day he can spend on Wild Shape, in one-hour increments, so he should have enough to get him through most of his traveling day in the sky. He'll take two-hour breaks to travel on foot before lunch and halfway between lunch and camping for the night; that should make for 12 hours of flight and 4 hours of foot traffic, leaving him with 3 hours of emergency Wild Shape if trouble comes up while on foot.

Mac nods solemnly, stuffs the letter in a pouch, and leaps into the sky, transforming in mid-air into a falcon, and soaring off in the direction of Longshadow.

Survival to keep the right direction: 1d20 + 14 ⇒ (2) + 14 = 16

He flies for a full four hours before searching for a place to land and make camp, somewhere secluded and hard-to-spot. He doesn't care much if it's comfortable, as long as he won't be bothered in the night.

Perception: 1d20 + 18 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 18 + 6 = 29

Adding the +6 for it being visually-based.

JFC of all the g!+%!$n times to roll low.

He lands and transforms back into his human form and finds dirt, twigs, and leaves to cover himself with and mask his scent from predators while he sleeps. He does make a fire--in the frigid winter nights, it's basically a necessity--but hopefully the flames and partly masked scent will deter any nighttime visitors.

I can roll a Stealth for that if you want, or another Survival check. Up to you.

Once Grevayne explains what the situation is, Mac considers the freed prisoners for a while. A pack does not abandoned the old and the young--they still have much to offer the pack's survival. He shakes his head.

[color=brown]"Can't wait, can't leave them. I'll go ahead. I can fly fast. Ten hours of flight will make better time than even just the three of you on foot. I will warn them."[/color]

Mac eventually lands and reverts to his human form to help with the bodies, but he keeps well clear of the funeral pyre. Hobs smell best when fresh and coated in their own blood. Cooked hob meat just smells wrong.

Instead he hangs out by Marhzan and keeps an eye on him while the others set about making the pyres.

Mac coos a little, puffs his chest feathers once more, then takes to the wing, keeping about fifty feet above the party and flying in slow, lazy circles, keeping an eye out for danger.

Did you like my +18 Perception? How about +24 Perception on visual-based checks? Mmmyeah!

Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (3) + 18 = 21 (+6 vs Visual)

PFFFT not that it matters when I roll a g@~@$$n nat 3.

Mac briefly considers flying after the last harpy, but she's faster on the wing than he is by a fair margin. He decides to fly in a lazy circle, landing near Grevayne with a flutter of wings. He puffs himself out and preens a little, showing off his new form to his best friend.

Mac flies straight at Harpy #2 and attempts to make her life miserable with his powerful beak.

Bite vs #2, Charge, PA: 1d20 + 8 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 8 + 2 = 26
B/P/S Damage: 1d6 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

As a reminder, his natural attacks bypass DR as if they were magic, cold iron, and silver.

Spending a hero point so Mac literally doesn't die. Anything but a nat 1 will save now.

Will: 1d20 + 17 ⇒ (7) + 17 = 24

Mac walks up to the edge of the cliff, then stops and realizes what he's doing. Huh, weird. Why would he walk off this cliff--

--without turning into a motherf!$+ing falcon first??

The transformation is equally as disturbing as his shift into a Dire Wolf, but for the opposite reasons. His bones split out of his skin and marrow and chunks of fibrous material blast out of the splintered ends before shoving themselves back into his flesh, which withers and shrinks. His legs shrink and stunt as his arms break, crack, and extend, the hands vanishing into a long wingbone, which rapidly grows feathers. His body collapses in on itself, cracking and rippling, as feathers tear through his pores, and his nose and mouth warp and meld into a long, hooked beak. Bright eyes glare at the harpies as a shockingly muscular falcon stands where a human did only a moment ago.

The entire process took perhaps four seconds.

Falcon form! RAWR! In this form, he's Small instead of Large, has a Fly speed of 60ft with Average maneuverability, and I'm also using Wild Vigor to get 10 temporary HP.

Kn (nature): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19

[color=brown]"Harpies,"[/color] Mac mutters to Grevayne in Kellid. [color=brown]"Strong fliers. Don't listen to their song. They'll lead you right off the cliff face."[/color]

Mac lopes along easily, his long legs letting him keep up with the gnome without trouble. He hopes there are more hobs wherever they're going; he's still hungry.

Mac blinks in surprise at the gnome and says in Kellid, [color=brown]"Uh. Hello."[/color]

He then calls out of the tent. [color=brown]"Mal-skend! I found a gnome."[/color]

Taking a cue from Grevayne, Mac shifts back into human form and starts rooting through the large tent for anything of interest. He gathers up anything written down to bring to Grevayne; he can't read Common, but he knows sometimes people do dumb things like write down their plans. Why are people so dumb? Oh, well. Grevayne is smart, so he will use it to kill the dumb hobs.

Perception: 1d20 + 18 ⇒ (19) + 18 = 37

RAWR