Sensing that he is no longer centre stage, Melfoil decides it's time to rejoin the conversation.
"Why leave the murder weapon behind, you ask?" He spins stiffly, arms outstretched in address, smiling to Dannigad, the guards, Diana, and Leon. The display looks not unlike a pirouetting scarecrow. "It's possible that our assassin in absentia dropped it, in panic. That the sight of us four, the conduits of justice that we are, shook the killer's composure and forced a hasty retreat; nerves so rattled that they could no longer grip the handle of the blade as they ran."
Melfoil takes Leon's wrist and gently guides his hand away from the pommel of his axe, offering the barbarian's bicep for appraisal. "This is indeed a plausible explanation of events."
Melfoil moves from Leon's arm and sidles up behind Diana, spidery fingertips coming to rest upon her shoulders. "Though can we exclude the possibility that the weapon was left behind deliberately?" Melfoil speaks through Diana's nest of hair, offering her up as a puppet. "Perhaps, for someone magically attuned to trace its origin, to move their King blindly into check? Can we assume it was just the oversight of a villainous ego?"
Springing back in front of Dannigad, he continues, "And nevermind the third possibility. That the killer, through magic or subterfuge, assumed an incorporeal form, thus making the retrieval of his weapon a physical impossibility. That, perhaps, he issued out of this alley in the guise of a fog, or a malodour, or even..." Melfoil's eyebrows rise, creating hard creases on his forehead. "...or even in the form of the very air we breathe right now!"
Melfoil waits a beat for the gasps, then concludes. "Whatever the case, what is clear is that we were here at ground zero of this murder and are therefore the most knowledgeable of the events passed. So, I would suggest assisting Diana with her divination rather than hindering us with incarceration. Maybe then we could reach the perpetrator before they strike again."
Melfoil spins on his heels to greet Dannigad, his face glowing like a pale moon in the dark alley. He offers his open palms, tossing a small, empty flask over his shoulder before raising his arms above his shoulders.
"Now, now, Dannig-"
There is a piercing crack and tinkle as the flask smashes against the cobblestone. Melfoil flinches at the sound, then continues.
"Dannigad, let's just slow down here. Why don't we all put on our thinking helmets and examine the scene that we have, most regrettably, found ourselves in the midst of. Of course, I agree with your first line of inquiry, Dannigad. My first thoughts would also be why is there a dead woman by the wall? However, the question you should be asking is how, not why. Because, as you can plainly see..."
Melfoil shuffles over to the puddle of flesh, palms still showing, and moves a flap of skin with the toe of his boot.
"That this injury was caused by no mere knife wound." He winks to Diana, "No, this was caused by some kind of foul and, uh, evil magic. Yes, I believe there is an evil killer on the loose. This woman, the poor soul, was the first, but I would wager not the last, victim of a diabolical murder plot. I know this because I, no we, saw the hooded assailant in the flesh, or cloth, rather."
Relieved that he still hasn't been attacked by the guards, Melfoil straightens his posture and lowers his hands.
"What's more Dannigad, or perhaps you would prefer Danny, no? No. What's more Dannigad, is that we are travelling in the company of the recent widower himself, a just and noble paladin! A paladin who I am sure is eager to speak up any second now and vouch for our moral integrity. And besides, disregarding all of this unpleasantness, since when has a little murder gone against the grain of this society, anyhow?"
Diplomacy:1d20 - 2 ⇒ (14) - 2 = 12
Melfoil nods and smiles to his companions behind him.
"Only thing worse than a screaming patient is an incompetent doctor."
Daaaamn Diana, ya got me.
Diana's gaze hit Melfoil hard. A knot grew in his throat. In her eyes he saw something familiar: that same faded light, that glaze of disappointment. She had looked down at him in the same way that his parents had in the years before his exile. They had pitied his ignorance, his obsession with the physical instead of the magical, and he feared that Diana was pitying him now. As Justin's wound magically sealed, Melfoil's wounds re-opened.
"Whatever. I could have cured him had I the time to prepare my potions..." He mumbled, mostly to the alley wall. He turned away from Diana as she began her divination ritual and searched for something in the alley that could find so as to distinguish himself as useful. Perhaps the assassin left some tracks behind? A chipped cobblestone or a scuff on the brick? Anything that might hint at a direction to move toward next. He popped Timur out from his neck, who landed wetly on the stone, to cover the ground more thoroughly while he turned his attention to the admittedly un-scalable walls.
Perception:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (6) + 10 = 16
By the Gods, let there be something here to go on, lest we end up back at that damnable tavern. Or, worse yet, that melodramatic tree.
Melfoil hears the shattering of a flask followed by Diana's cursing and suddenly feels quite foolish holding his 'en-garde' battle stance. Leon confirms to him that he is currently threatening a wall.
"Ahem" Melfoil clears his throat and sheathes his blade. "Yes, indeed, it appears the hostile has fled. Exactly as planned."
Justin's groans catch his attention and Melfoil cocks his head toward the paladin. His eyebrows arch when he sees the jumble of flesh next to Justin. Now THAT is an interesting shape for a human body to be in, he thinks, wearing a maniac grin that betrays his thoughts to the group somewhat. Curiosity compels him to go over and investigate, but, as he contemplates where to make the first incision, Justin's groans pull his attention once more. Melfoil glances again to the fallen Paladin.
"Oh, now when did you get here? And with such a nasty cut on your shoulder." Melfoil lifts the cleft pauldron to get a better look at the wound. Justin whimpers as Melfoil's needlepoint fingers probe around his exposed, bruised skin. "This is utterly brutish handiwork. It looks like you visited a butcher. Lucky for you, you've fallen into the hands of a surgeon."
Melfoil begins to search his brace. "Now where on earth did I put that curative solution?" He pulls out flask after flask of highly volatile explosive. He mutters under his breath and leaves them resting next to Justin's head, who begins to sweat from the heat radiating from the flasks. Or, perhaps, it was just the fear of being so close to a mad alchemist's tools. At that point Melfoil remembers that he hadn't prepared any non-combat solutions during his stay at Mad-Maddies. He looks down at Justin and caresses his brow. "Well then, this is not going to be pleasant for you at all. If at any point you do feel any pain, please, keep it to yourself. It will be much harder to concentrate if you don't. Nothing worse than a screaming patient."
With that questionable reassurance, Melfoil, barely containing his glee, pulls out needle and thread and digs into the Paladins flesh.
Suture Justin's wound:1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8
I'm back. Let's get the gang back together and revive this thing!
Melfoil lands with a clatter, artfully slamming his stomach onto the hilt of his rapier to avoid gutting himself on the pointy end. He springs up onto one knee to preemptively cower before his assailant but sees nothing except thick, milky white all around. The only sounds he can hear are distant winds and his own raspy, breathing. He quickly comes to two conclusions: Firstly, he has winded himself. Secondly, this is no ordinary street fog.
Illusion magic. Melfoil narrows his eyes. The crutch of barrow-boys and low rent entertainers. He slides a frost bomb into his bombchucker. Despite seeing and hearing nothing, his senses insist that danger approaches. He needed an answer, but what? Friendship? Could friendship be the answer? No, friendship was never the answer. He would need to act alone. Melfoil frantically aims the bomb around the fog, but he can't find a target.
Perhaps...
His impulse to act overrides his logic and Melfoil aims directly above him and fires off the bomb. It disappears quickly, and silently, into the fog. He takes a step to the side and braces, holding his rapier out in front of him to greet whomever comes to visit.
Hoping to delay the bomb falling back to the ground and exploding, probably by a turn. My target would technically be the ground, so I guess I'll need to REF save the splash damage when it lands. Let me know if I need to make an attack roll.
Melfoil flies through the air, limbs trailing behind him like fluttering streamers. He is approaching the hooded figure at an alarming speed. He pats down his vest for a concoction that could help and pulls out fistfuls of empty vials. He had drunk his supply dry. With only a few seconds left to act, Melfoil pulls his rapier to the tip of his head and shapes himself into a thin profile, like an arrow in flight. He has only an instant to aim his flight toward the assassin.
Fly skill to hit assassin with body:1d20 + 8 ⇒ (16) + 8 = 24
And even less time to regret his decision.
To hit with rapier:1d20 + 7 ⇒ (19) + 7 = 26 Damage if hit:1d6 + 4 ⇒ (6) + 4 = 10
Melfoil, whose skin was once the scrubbed clean white of toilet porcelain was now, well, the other colour toilets tend to be. Unimpressed, he exhales loudly through his nose causing great, brown excrement bubbles to form at his nostrils. He gives Timur a light pat on the behind, burping out the last two spouts of fire harmlessly into the damp bucket over its head. He then resigns himself to Leon's grasp, deflating over his shoulder with a hangdog expression.
As he bounces up and down on Leon's shoulder, Melfoil catches glimpses over the heads of those thronging the streets. Pedestrians, spruikers, enforcers; the path ahead is a tangle of bodies. Leon was doing admirably to push through the crowd whilst holding two people, but Diana had made one thing very clear: they needed to get to the alley right now.
Melfoil shouts out to the street, 'Move aside, everyone. I am officially declaring a state of emergency!'That ought to get through to them.
The throng continues to throng. 'Are you not listening? I said there is an emergency! Can you-I'm sorry? No, I don't want to buy anything! WELL, I wish the same to YOUR mother!'oh, very well then.
Melfoil squirms atop Leon and produces a bulbous, red flask. He then plucks Timur from his neck, shoves the flask into its gullet, and shakes it violently. Melfoil holds his hand tightly over Timur's mouth as the toad rapidly inflates and its skin turns a bright, irritated red. He aims the toad's mouth ahead and releases. A 15 foot cone of fire erupts from Timur, combusting the air just above the heads of the crowd ahead of Leon.
Fiery Breath (damage if needed):4d6 ⇒ (4, 4, 2, 1) = 11
Despite Melfoil's limp but best efforts, Diana wrenches his arm from his side. He begins to protest, but as Diana's third eye opens, Melfoil quietens. Though he despised its adherents, Melfoil respected the magical process, and Diana had also proved to be a capable, deadly mage. Instead he licked the wet patch on his forearm, contemplatively.
Salty with a hint of tin. Perhaps blood. Perhaps more?
Leon's boisterous return derailed this train of thought. Melfoil took a glass, still silent, and continued to watch the others speak to the Paladin. As Leon questioned, however, Melfoil's curiosity increasingly aroused until, as happy as a goldfish, he felt a compulsion to return to a conversation he had willfully exited only moments earlier.
"Yes, how did you get here? If you do in fact know of an entrance, perhaps we can make this a mutual exchange of information: Your dearly beloved, who I am certain has come to no harm, for a location."
Melfoil feels a trembling in the air around Diana as he speaks, so respectfully takes his volume to a whisper, leaning into Leon's ear as he does so.
"If there is an entrance, Leon, there must be an exit. A thin point in the perineum of this world and the other." Melfoil gives Leon a smirk and a hearty squeeze of his oversized pauldrons.
"Can we help?" Melfoil touches a finger to his temple. "I know it may be difficult for one in such an advanced state of torpidity, but, if you can, cast your mind back to less than a minute ago, wherein I offered the services of our entire group to you. Perhaps, perhaps, the answer to your question lies there."
Melfoil's exasperation continues in heavy sighs, "Look, I'm sorry. I'm sure you are a man of unshakable faith and good intention, but we haven't had the best run with helping others as yet. Despite our best efforts at charity, my soul feels decidedly under-nourished. I just...just talk to Diana."
Melfoil turns his back and cradles his head in his hands, exiting the conversation to everyone's relief.
"It's like leading a pig to slop." He mutters, probably too loudly.
"I'm quite well, thank you. And you?" Melfoil rubs a wet hand on the paladin's pauldron, making a sharp squeaking sound. He then pulls over a stool with his foot and plants himself in front of the man. Melfoil notes the paladin's blank expression and continues.
"Don't worry yourself, it was rhetorical. Mad Maddy has asked that, firstly, we make ourselves known to you." Melfoil opens his arms and nods in the direction of Diana and Leon. "And, secondly, to help you find whatever it is you're looking for, so that you could possibly cheer up and stop diluting the revelry with your gloom. Maddy also mentioned one other detail..."
Melfoil drags the stool closer to the paladin, staring up from waist-height and whispering, "...that you are alive"
Melfoil lets the silence fill with the drunken jeers of the tavern before adding "So, any task that we humble adventures could perform for you? It's obvious that you're achieving very little on your own right now, standing here, silent, not moving. Though I suppose inaction tends to be a virtue in the order, doesn't it?"
Melfoil notices the empty glasses piling in front of Diana, Leon and Stumpy and is afraid he is falling behind in this grog race. He sculls another beer, dropping the theatrics this time.
Beer #3:1d20 + 7 - 2 ⇒ (14) + 7 - 2 = 19
counted this as Melfoil's second drink, if his toad trick was successful. Feel free to add further penalties.
Melfoil scrapes the silt off his tongue with his teeth. "Another!
He takes his next glass with both hands and inhales the beer, chewing the dirt dregs to get them down faster.
Beer #4:1d20 + 7 - 4 ⇒ (2) + 7 - 4 = 5
But something causes the liquid to stop halfway, leaving it to bubble in his chest. Melfoil plucks a vial from his brace and takes a sip, hoping to make the whole digestion process run a little more smoothly.
The room seems to spin with the second hand of the clock as the nauseating moment passes, but eventually the knot of beer unties itself and Melfoil can focus again. Just in time to see Leon groping for his fifth drink.
"Ya think yer alll that, ya big brarbrarian? Melfoil slurs, "Watch this."
Melfoil takes his fifth drink to his mouth, holding the counter top to keep the room still.
Leon rockets a mug down to Melfoil, who...
Reflex Save:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (6) + 10 = 16
...gets his fingers to the handle in time, stopping the beer from overshooting the bar. He takes a long look at the swirling chunky-brown head of his drink. He can feel the stares of Leon and Stumpy scanning over him, checking to see what stuff he is made of and whether that stuff is the right stuff.
"A spot of good-natured competition, is it?" Melfoil says, head still down. It felt like he was back at magic school, trying to fit in with his classmates at the potion brewery.
Unlike back then, however, he was a little more canny. Melfoil taps the bar twice to get his familiar's attention. "Here, Timur." He calls. (may as well name the little bugger)
Timur leaps onto Melfoil's hand and sinks into his flesh. It burrows up to the right side of Melfoil's neck, just short of the chin. Melfoil presses his neck to his shoulder, squeezing Timur's mouth open.
"I accept your challenge, Stumpy." Melfoil declares, before very, very carefully turning to sit perfectly profile to the others and pouring the beer directly into Timur's gaping mouth.
Sleight of Hand to avoid anyone noticing Melfoil's deception:1d20 + 11 ⇒ (18) + 11 = 29 Timur's Fort Save:1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14
Melfoil slams the empty glass onto the counter top. "Exquisite! Like liquid ambrosia!" Melfoil theatrically wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then licks each finger in turn. He believes this to be a convincing rendition of enjoying a drink.
Perform:1d20 - 2 ⇒ (7) - 2 = 5
Melfoil picks up the next glass and downs it himself, not willing to push his luck. The liquid scrapes his throat the whole way down. Melfoil has to swallow several times before he can speak again.
Melfoil raises an eyebrow at the memory goop in Maddy's hand, absently flicking the thick, black hairs of his toad familiar as he contemplates Maddy's offer.
"My my, Maddy, you are full of surprises, aren't you? I, with every intention of speaking for us all, say that we'd be happy to rid you of your paladin problem in exchange for such an exotic material."
Catching the stares of his comrades, Melfoil returns an enthusiastic thumbs up.
"Though, I don't suppose anyone else sees the irony in a tavern owner being the one to give us memories rather than being the one who would take them?"
Melfoil waits smugly for his wit to impress upon his audience.
"No one?"
I'm happy to press the Paladin for details, but we can rest first if we need to refresh spells
He continues past her to the bar and takes a spare stool. He pulls the tumour-toad from his neck, the flesh stretching and snapping like strands of bubblegum, and places it, belly first, on the counter top. He wipes the toad across the surface once, pushing pools of yellowing liquid into the elbow of his neighbour, then swivels on the stool and leans back, resting his arms on the now cleaned surface.
"What do we have to show for our efforts, Maddy? Nothing. Not even a modest pouch of gold. It's far too late for charity to heal our souls, so how can you expect us to endanger our very lives on a goodwill basis? Well, I do have a theory, after meeting this Ashen Lord: most people just don't understand brilliance when they see it. They never will. Bred with limited cranial capacity, you see." Melfoil taps a finger to his forehead, "Retards frontal lobe development. It's a real pity, but I suppose it's a burden that gifted adventurers must endure."
Melfoil scans the room. It's somewhat comforting to see the dependable chaos of Mad Maddy's tavern. It was becoming one of the few things Melfoil felt he possibly understood in Purgatorium. Amidst the rabble his eyes fall on the stoic paladin.
"Has the paladin moved since we left? Surely he hasn't been standing there, in that same spot, this whole time. Unless, he's not another of those...you know..." Melfoil makes the same tapping motion to his forehead again, nodding in the paladin's direction.
"What exactly is he doing here?"
Melfoil smacks his lips at the mention of returning to Mad Maddy's.
"You know, that damnable tavern would be a blissful respite from all this unpleasantness. How long has it been since we left our lodgings there? How long since we slept? Hey! Do you remember that glum, old tree we met?" Melfoil chuckles, "You should've seen it Diana. A wise oak bemoaning his fate of being pecked apart by crows for an eternity, with all of the feeling but none of the impetus of his limbs. A real treat for a weary traveller." His dry lips crack as he smiles at the memory.
"However," Melfoil continues, dropping his levity and brushing his lank, sweat-soaked hair back. "I am not certain that our business here has concluded. The four of us were, as has been discussed, the first and only individuals to both discover and defeat this new shadowbeast threat. This technically means that we have the most expertise in handling this matter. Tactically, it would be remiss of you to let assets such as myself, and my friends, walk. Especially since these Attemnai and Enlightened, as you call them, will be wanting answers, of which, I presume, you possess none. Not to discredit you and your magic eye's abilities up until this point, of course."
Melfoil clears his throat as his desire rises, bubbling into his voice. "And besides, it is a mutual interest to us both to learn more about these creatures; that which can grant death to the deathless."
Melfoil is slow to understand the purpose of Maldrek's charitable words for Sila at first, but the solemnity in which the Lord of Ash receives Maldrek's sympathies reveals the genius behind the melancholy. It is indeed the perfect opportunity to ingratiate himself to the Lord of Ash with but a few words of commiseration.
He steps forward and, hand over his heart, pronounces, "Oh! Yes, of course. My bosom swells at just the memory of the Sila's inspiring visage cutting through the battlefield. It is no exaggeration to say that, till her gruesome end, her strength and determination was unbowed like...like some manner of courageous metal bar, or perhaps a similar hard, valorous object."
Melfoil adds a small, respectful curtsy after his eulogy.
Bluff respect for the dead:1d20 - 2 ⇒ (6) - 2 = 4
With the pleasantries of the conversation concluded, Melfoil presses on to the issue that still inflames his fascination: the nature of the Shadowbeast.
"What Maldrek says, I fear, is all too true. The beast underwent a process I would say is akin to hypergenesis and I believe its consumption of Sila indicates not a metabolic drive, but rather an evolutionary drive. Several factors lead me to this conclusion, foremost being the beast's exploitation of Sila's living tissue. In particular, when it...err.." Melfoil trails off before completing his full hypothesis, perhaps because he had been softened by the group's shared trauma, or perhaps because he sensed the growing depth of the hole he was digging for himself.
"Right you both are. Let's leave this cursed den at once."
Melfoil looks to Diana, who looks to Leon, who looks to Maldrek, who then looks back to Melfoil. The gentle patter of wet flesh hitting the cave floor can be heard. Melfoil breathes in as if to speak, then stops, not wanting to interrupt anyone else. He fiddles with the pockets of his vest, taking a vial from his brace and idly spinning it in his fingers; the toad's eyes track its movement instinctively. The group stands in silence.
Melfoil puts a foot forward, "Perhaps now is a good time to depart?"
He steps forward again, toward the exit and past Targ, who is still softly weeping. He reaches a hand out to Targ's shoulder hovering above him without making contact, not quite sure how to proceed. Melfoil shakes his head and brings his hand back. Better let the others deal with him.
"I'll lead the way, I rem-"
The toad's tongue darts out and grabs the vial in Melfoil's hand, reeling it back into his mouth and swallowing it whole. There is a low hiss of air as the toad shrinks on Melfoil's neck until it looks no bigger than an infected pimple.
Toad casts reduce person on self
"Right," Melfoil continues, "As I was saying, I remember the way out, I think. So I'll go ahead and take the initiative here and, uh, leave." Melfoil turns his back on the group and strides confidently into the dark, winding tunnels of the cave, toward the exit.
Melfoil reappears with a hand on Maldrek's shoulder, decidedly distant from Diana and Leon.
"Huzzah, we are a team once more!" He proclaims, "I knew we could find a compromise. Let us look for Diana's child as cooperative non-combatants, in exchange for our continued tolerance of Leon. Another victory for civility!"
Melfoil addresses Maldrek, gingerly fingering one of his neck-spikes as he does so. "It really does fill you with a peculiar feeling of warmth feeling, doesn't it? To see such kindness, that is. A nice, growing warmth deep in your gut. A rising, moving warmth..." Melfoil pauses, then retches. He groans and leans forward, beads of perspiration appearing on his face. He wags a finger in front of Maldrek's face. "Hold that thought, friend. I have a, *hurk*, minor abdominal complaint. I think the stress of all this fighting has had a far greater impact on my BRRGRLGL-"
Melfoil loses all articulation as a jet of bile crashes into the back of his throat. His jaw involuntarily locks, then widens, as a large mass appears in his throat. A putrescent black juice drips from his nose while Melfoil gags helplessly, his eyes bulging out of their sockets like two, ripe grapes. His mouth crowns, revealing a veined mass of flesh, lined with striations of gristle and patches of thick, dark hair. Melfoil drops to all fours and, with a final, wet heave, the mass of flesh pushes its way out of his mouth and onto the ground, along with a stream of viscous, black afterbirth. Melfoil gasps for breath while the mass slowly uncurls. Four soft, fleshy legs reach out and find the ground. The mass rolls itself upright, revealing two green, blinking orbs that stare at Melfoil. Melfoil stares back, ropes of saliva still running from his mouth onto the creature in front of him. The creature croaks, then shoots a long, sticky tongue from its mouth to Melfoil's neck, which it uses to pull itself up onto Melfoil's shoulder. It instantly fuses with his flesh and rests there, protruding like a goiter, it's two green eyes gazing unfocused around the cave. Melfoil closes his mouth and stands himself back up, his knees trembling.
"*cough* I'm terribly sorry about that. I fear that may have spoiled the mood somewhat. You were saying?"
With a start, Melfoil opens his white eyes wide. The light burns, blurring his vision, but it is a welcome pain after the thick darkness he had been staring into for the better part of the day. His maniacal lust for power and knowledge was just a small murmur at the back of his mind, now. It always did come in waves. Looking around he could faintly see dark chunks covering the walls which, judging by the greasy slick he could feel between his fingers, meant that the plan had worked and the shadowbeast had been felled. His face broadened with a toothsome grin and he breathed in deeply. The whole cave stank of their explosive success. He began to merrily wave his arms and legs through the puddle of gore he lay in, making entrail-angels, as well as mentally preparing a rousing congratulatory speech for the group. Then the visions came...
***
The mood shifted dramatically. An emotional heat now filled the cave and, for once, Melfoil is lost for words. He stands off to the side, nervously wringing his hands. The vision of Diana's loss had brought to his attention something that he often forgot: he was in the company of real people with real feelings. A seed of guilt grew in his chest; he felt compelled to clean the shadowbeast's ichor from his hands. Melfoil's silent contemplation was interrupted, however, once he caught sight of Leon, who wore his intentions plainly on his face. He wore the ‘I-could-kill you-right-now’ look, of which Melfoil was very well acquainted with, not just from Leon. Now seemed like a prudent time to talk his way to the safe end of Leon's axe, if there was one.
"Diana, Leon, consider this before anyone gets dismembered" Melfoil approaches the pair, hands raised and speaking in a measured tone, "I believe it’s a safe assertion that none of us are here because of our saintly behaviour in our past lives. I admit that, yes, Leon isn’t looking too trustworthy right now. Yes, he looks like a complete monster, which, if you think about it, he always did. I mean, take a look at him. The man’s not a lumberjack. That’s a murder-axe, not a wood-axe. ” A small movement of Leon’s hand toward his axe handle sets Melfoil’s train of thought back on track. “But I digress. I digress. I’m certain that if we were all scrutinised, our past inspected for any trace of filth, none of us would come out of the wash particularly clean. I daresay our amnesia has been a boon to our professional harmony.”
Melfoil begins to get caught up in his own speech. He extends his arms and starts to gesticulate liberally. “Which brings me to another point. We’re putting a lot of faith into a completely unexplained phenomenon. It’s like taking testimony from a ghost! There’s simply no traceable evidence that this is not just another deranged weapon of the environment in Purgatorium. As a matter of fact, I happen to know of at least a dozen Fungi that can cause group hallucinations-”
Melfoil looks to Diana and is buffeted by her palpable fury. He is suddenly aware of his hand movements and shrinks back to his neutral, hands-up approach. “Though, for the record, there have been no shared visions of me murdering children. I think that’s an important fact that must be stated.”
Melfoil waits for his last comment to sink in so he can gauge the reaction of the room. As it currently stood, it did not look like his words were having the desired effect. Slowly, Melfoil reaches into his vest and pulls out a small, black vial. “Well, can’t say I didn’t try.” Melfoil downs the black liquid and, in an instant, he completely vanishes from sight.
Extracts (all cast on self)
lvl 1:
Cure Light Wounds x1
Expeditious retreat x0
Reduce Person x2
Targeted Bomb Admixture x0
lvl2:
Alchemical Allocation x1
Invisibility x1
Enshroud Thoughts x1
Prepared Mutagen: USED
Bombs p/day: 8 left
Driven by a singular purpose, Melfoil initially doesn't feel the deep cuts the bone shards make. He pirouettes and leaps around the bone shards as they crunch into the walls, each one causing a jet of blood to spray from his body. It isn't until he reaches the glowing sac and pulls out his rapier that he notices the thick rivers of blood pouring from his arms. As a precaution, he quaffs a a small, blue flask, before surgically striking the sac in an attempt to excise the glowing mass.
Melfoil shakes the dormant flames in his jar, tutting at the unreliability of magic. After a half-dozen shakes the dancing fire reignites, sending a tingling heat through his fingertips. (half-action to reignite)
With the faint glow of the fire now lighting the group, Melfoil sketches out a plan.
"Here's the state of play. We've got two potential lightbombs, left and right, Targ stuck in the middle, and only four of us." Melfoil traces a map of these positions in the cave dust as he explains. "I say we divide and conquer. I'll take the light source on the left. Whatever's in there, I'll throw back here. Leon, you take the right side. You've got a good arm, so I trust you can cover the distance." Melfoil pauses to reach over and lightly squeeze Leon's bicep. "Ahem, moving on. Mal, you're going to be our catcher, as you're the only one who can see anything past his face. We'll need a way to see you as well, so try to be, uh, shinier somehow. As for Targ..." Melfoil grins toward Diana, "Keep the beast interested. We need to keep Targ alive long enough so that we can hook the bait, as it were. Once Leon or I passes the lightbomb to Mal, detonate it right inside its slavering gullet." Melfoil laughs giddily, the trek through the darkness clearly taking a mental toll. "Let's go!"
Melfoil breaks from the group without waiting for their consent to the plan and charges toward the left cavern, holding the jar of flames in both hands as he runs. (I should be able to cover the 30ft in one move action, provided I'm unobstructed)
Oh right, Clarice. Glad we have someone sensible on the team, Diana. Anyway, I've got that bottle of magical fire, which should act as a torch right? Otherwise I threw our only light source into the belly of the beast earlier. :)
Melfoil, on the other hand, looks on with wide, unblinking eyes. He stares at the spot where Sila stood only seconds ago with mouth agape and lips still stained purple. It defies all physiological laws, he thought. It's perverse, grotesque; an affront to nature. It's a creature of utterly intoxicating power. He takes another vial from his brace and downs the green liquid, fixing his gaze on the cave formation the Shadowbeast had retreated to. Who knows what else it is capable of,
what it might do when cornered and desperate.
Cast Expeditious Retreat on self (+30ft land speed)
"It's not over yet, friends.". He turns to the group and smiles maniacally, his teeth streaked with green. "Why don't we catch up to it and put ourselves back on top of the food chain?"
He gives each ankle a shake, to limber up, before sprinting at inhuman speed past Targ, past the horses, and toward the caves.
The wall of bone and flesh takes form in front of Melfoil, separating him from the Shadowbeast and the rest of the group. In the mass of writhing limbs of the wall, he spies a small, bony arm; its exposed patches of muscle making it twitch sporadically. It looks vulnerable, almost child-like. Melfoil reaches out a hand to touch it, inching closer to the wall.
Targ yells at Melfoil, who flinches and draws his hand back. The moment is lost and Melfoil refocuses on the task at hand. He crouches low behind the wall, peering around its edge and watching the Shadowbeast with curiousity. As he does so, he takes small sips from a thin vial, taking care to lick up any of the purple froth that bubbles over its rim.
Cast Targeted Bomb Admixture on self - Double Int bonus to dmg for 2 rounds
Melfoil had been waiting for a chance to strike the Shadowbeast, watching as it twisted in and out of the physical. He had a potion already locked into his sling, but he found it hard to track the beast's formless movements. The longer he stared into the shadow, the more unsure of himself he became; it all began to feel pointless. Dark thoughts entered his mind. You know they'll win in the end. Melfoil lowered his arm. What's the use?. He was sweating. Looking down, he sank into his despair. The will to fight had drained from him and he let his arms hang limply by his side.
A warm light blinked back up at him from his belt. Diana's stone. Perhaps...he thought, taking the stone into his off-hand. Perhaps that is enough. His curiosity overcome his despondency and he dropped the stone into the blue mixture locked into his sling. The bottle glowed a deep, emerald green. Melfoil smiled.
"Worth a shot." He said, as he took aim at the Shadowbeast's chest. He catapaulted the potion forward, curving it slightly through the air. As it flew, he leant back and squinted, watching to see if he managed to sink the stone's light deep enough into its chest to reach the heart of the monster.
I'll combine my attack for last round into this one, so the preparation of the stone into the frost bomb and my mini-existential crisis can be considered to be the first round.
I'm going to leave some space here in case anyone would like to further add to this scene. Just reply to this post so we know for sure.
Melfoil dives elbow deep into the sand after the stone, grasping it tightly to his chest. The stone's warmth can be felt through his leathers, stirring a giddiness in his chest. He chuckles, inbetween coughing up gobs of sand, and rights himself once more. Melfoil places the stone in a secure pocket next to his codpiece, which makes it faintly glow. "Oh my..." He mutters to himself, before his attention is drawn back to Diana.
"Hmmm? Oh, yes. The soul. They do seem quite partial to its taste, which I suppose is of some concern if you're attached to your metaphysical wellbeing. But don't think that they won't tear the husk to get to their corn, especially when they so ravenously desire it. I'm sure you, like all of us, know that feeling too: when you've been deprived of that which you want the most." Melfoil steps in front of Leon, toward Diana, and makes slow, plucking motions with his fingers, extracting the kernels from an invisible corncob. He continues, "When you've been starved to the point of derangement, when all thoughts have deserted your succour save your lust, your need, for those juicy kernels to burst open on your lips once again. When just the smell of it would drive you to tear and gnaw at the walls that bind you until your fingers bleed and your jaw breaks." He arches his back and leans in closer, until Diana can feel his hot breath. "I pray that you're right, that these monsters might content themselves with just your soul."
Melfoil pauses, then tilts his head back. Blood had begun to flower around his nostrils. He pegs his nose with his fingers, to stop the bleeding, and resumes. "Or not. I mean, what do I know about the mind of a shadowbeast? As to their physicality? Well, they don't appear to be corporeal in a conventional sense. However, if their matter can be stopped by light, I'd say they have a structure of sorts that operates on, perhaps, a photonic level that - good heavens is that one looking at Clarice?"
I'm going to leave some space here in case anyone would like to further add to this scene. Just reply to this post so we know for sure.
Melfoil dismounts his horse with a huff.
"Oh you do go on, don't you Leon? Look what you've done to the poor girl! She'll have no tears left for when the shadowbeasts strip the flesh from her body." Melfoil offers a small bow to Diana, "The name's Melfoil, the brilliant elf."
Melfoil grins, ear to ear. Diana's compliments had re-inflated his ego, and made him much more talkative again (to everyone's joy, of course). He darts his tongue out to wet his lips before continuing.
"Oh, and for the record, I adore your shiny rock. Tell me, where did you chance upon such a wondrous stone? If you have not as yet, uh...scried its import, I may be able to have a closer look and extract some use from it. Sounds agreeable, no?"
Melfoil's sunken eye sockets cast deep shadows onto his face in the light of the stone. This stone was the most interesting thing to have happened to him in a day's ride. He leers forward, fingertips trembling, itching with desire.
As Targ rode ahead, those words hung in the air with Melfoil. Could that really be true? Could he really just will himself away from this arid hellscape, perhaps even to somewhere pleasant? He was wary to believe such a thing; it reeked of the same mystical idealism that had kept his dimwitted elvish brethren devoted to the forest. Nourish the mind with fantasy and you'll stunt your reason. Still, Melfoil had seen enough to assume that order had lost the battle to chaos on this plane. Also, he was apparently dead despite all of the contrary living he thought he was doing, so that had made him a little less sure of himself of late. Melfoil closed his eyes and tried, with a great deal of effort, to think of a safe, comfortable place. His mind went completely blank. He opened his eyes again to see the endless expanse of nothing before him. Melfoil cocked his head, unsure of whether he had learnt anything from the exercise. He leaned back into his saddle and addresses the others.
"Well, this is terrible. And thoroughly unstimulating." Melfoil lowered his voice, "You know, we have these horses now. We don't have to play counselor to Sila and Targ and their dysfunctional relationship. I mean, you don't go to the 'End of Hope' if you're happily married, do you? This is their problem, I say we let them work it out themselves. We already helped them with their flaming bull problem, anyway. Plus, as I recall, you've had a less than pleasant experience with these shadowbeasts, Leon."
Following Leon's lead, Melfoil steps forward to address Targ. As he does, his body starts to deflate until, with a rubbery snap, his frame constricts back to its regular gauntness.
"And I am Melfoil." He announces, beaming, blood running steadily from both nostrils as his body struggles to re-knit itself after the sudden trauma. Melfoil continues, "Tell me Orcman, is there anywhere nearby where we might escape this damnable heat? Perhaps, given the level of civilisation around here, some sort of pleasure-tent where one might indulge one's self?"
Melfoil looks to the dug in domes and shrugs, "I suppose any mirthy hole will do me. Just need somewhere to compose myself before meeting the Lord of Ash."
A look of consternation furrows Melfoil's meaty brow as the soul is consumed by Leon, who admittedly deserved the prize. Loud, nasal breaths rumble out of Melfoil while he watches, standing there in the boiling sands. Sweat begins to pool in his clavicle, running in streams off the tips of his fingers. The corners of his mouth bubble slightly.
"WE SHOULD MOVE." Melfoil barks through his engorged larynx. "IT'S HOT AND BORING HERE."
Melfoil watches his slack-jawed partners scrutinise the barren desert and suspects that the party's spirit for exploration will trump his sound reasoning. A stream of sweat worms itself into his left eye, causing him to shut it tightly before he speaks again.
"FINE. LET'S LOOK AT SAND."
Pouting, Melfoil kicks the sand around the outskirts of the arena. He halfheartedly looks for anything of interest in the wasteland.
Perception:1d20 + 8 ⇒ (18) + 8 = 26
He stops, however, when he feels the sting of heat against his cheek. One of the dancing flames had strayed playfully, and painfully, close to him. Tongues of fire lick at him, causing brief, but intense, rushes of pain. It feels invigorating. It feels powerful. Melfoil grins as he takes an empty vial from his brace, his eyes alight with the reflection of the flame.
Going to try and bottle this dancing fire for my personal use. I'll roll Kn:Arcana to identify how to handle magical flame, then sleight of hand to deftly capture it. What could go wrong? Kn:Arcana:1d20 + 12 ⇒ (20) + 12 = 32 Sleight of hand:1d20 + 11 ⇒ (18) + 11 = 29
Arms still locked in place, Melfoil stands a fair distance from the exploded bull, muscles twitching. He froths awkwardly, not fully comprehending what happened to the bull or what to do with himself now. But then he sees the soul. His thoughts abandon him and the hunger returns, pushing Melfoil forward.
Melfoil frowned at the hot wastes. His feet hurt from the walk and his clothes dripped with sweat. This place was far, far below the level of opulence he expected of a 'Lord'. When the fiery bull exploded onto the scene, enshrouded in flamed resplendence, Melfoil sighed loudly. Another day, another unpaid job.
Reluctantly, Melfoil uncrossed his arms and pulled a tube of bubbling brown liquid from his brace.
"This should do it." He murmured, then took a swig.
Hiking his pants above the knee, Melfoil placed his feet deliberately, putting his weight on his forefoot, and held his hands out in front of his chest.
"I'd wager we just need to get a good, hard grasp on the beasts ho-OOOORGHRGHG." Melfoil's body exploded outward in layers of muscled flesh. His frame nearly doubled in size as he transformed into a bulging, barrel-chested brute; probably about the size of Leon. Melfoil's eyes, two bloodshot pinpricks under his thick forehead, stared down the bull as it was making its charge toward the group.
"You wanna tussle? We can tussle, beast." Brown foam dripped from the sides of Melfoil's mouth as he spoke.
Leon rattled Melfoil's brain; he looked around the room with glazed eyes, his thoughts felt soggy. Melfoil tried to lift his head off the table, but he felt far too out of practice for moving. He was certain he must have been lying here, in this condition, for weeks. The boisterous patrons had slowed to a halt, the sounds of laughter and heckling sounded far in the distance. The whole scene appeared to him as a still life...
Then Mefloil's rogue ring-finger wormed its way into his view and flipped him off. Melfoil's senses rushed back to him and the bar sprang back into motion. His eyes sharpen to the direction of Maldrek's conversation.
"Lord of Ash? Lord of Ash..." Melfoil smiles, "It sounds like Maldrek has an in with someone of high, er, less dubious social standing than our current company."
Melfoil wobbles over to Maldrek, still uncertain on his legs, and begins to nod and smile along with their conversation in an imitation as close to real interaction as he can manage.
Melfoil held his drink up to the light and tutted at the silt and debris. This will have to do. He plunged his left hand into his drink, gave it a dainty swirl, then began to work his finger-stump with a rag, cleaning and prepping the area. He then took out the Warden's finger from his belt-pouch and dropped it into his drink.
"Excuse me, gents." Melfoil addressed the creatures that he shared elbow space with at the bar (He had not yet reflected on the barkeeper's rant on assuming gender). "This might get a tad messy. I do hope you understand." He continued, attempting to give a charming wink while gagging himself with a leather strap. He then splayed his left hand on the bar, took out a small scalpel and, with all of the finesse - and none of the foresight - of a surgeon, cut a thin slice of flesh off the top of his finger stump.
Blood burst across the bar top. Melfoil bit into the leather strap, shouting muted expletives. He dropped the scalpel with a shaky hand and clumsily produced a needle and thread from his vest. He took the alcohol sodden finger from his glass and lined it up with his gushing stump. He sculled his drink, removing the leather strap from his mouth momentarily, before poising the needle and thread over his hand. He dug decisively into his and the warden's flesh, sewing his stump and the finger together. Each tug of the thread caused a pitiful whimper to trickle out of the saliva soaked leather gag.
But, after an excruciating moment, the surgery was complete. Melfoil looked down at his new finger; the seams bulged with pooling blood. His field of vision narrowed and his nerves berated him with messages of hot pain. Melfoil took a half step away from the bar. He thought briefly of the old tree in the courtyard and his eternal suffering. He smiled.
"Good as new." He muttered, turning quite pale.
Then he collapsed face first onto the bar in a pool of saliva, beer, and blood, becoming the fourth group in the bar that the patrons gave a wide, wide berth to.
Melfoil wilts in the ice cold water, turning a more translucent white than normal. He leaps out of the tub, his long, ungainly legs sliding through the soapy water on the floor. He takes a moment to compose himself, his big black eyes searching wildly around the room, before scooping up his belongings and his towel and balling them in front of his groin. He quickly follows Mad Maddy and the rest up to their quarters, all the while tightly clutching the scroll to his chest.
By the time Melfoil reaches the sleeping quarters, warmth has returned to his extremities and he enters with a more limber, albeit still unnatural, loping stride. He makes his way to an unclaimed bed and sits on the corner, dressing himself in no great hurry, stretching and yawning while the quaintness of the room enters into his mood. He notices a small cobweb by his bedhead and runs the tips of his fingers through the sticky silk. He smiles.
"This place reminds me of..." Melfoil pauses as his mind catches up to his mouth. Reminds him of what? He has never before been here, or in fact anywhere outside of his Toad prison. So what was this strong sense of belonging he now felt? Comfort soon dissolves into fear.
"...it reminds me of a place I might have known." Melfoil continues, covering his faltering with some vague mysticism.
Melfoil can't shake the feeling, however. Every motion he goes through plays parallel in some lost part of his memory. While he grinds and filters his concoctions through his alembic, while he boils an incense medley to perfume the room, even while he washes specks of reagent from his face in the cracked bathroom mirror, déjà vu haunts his every action. Right up until Melfoil closes his eyes and falls under the weight of sleep, Mad Maddy's cabin fills him with a sinister homeliness.
Morning comes and lifts Melfoil out of a dead sleep. He drowsily pushes himself out of bed, flips his pillow to turn a visible bloodstain face-down, and ambles downstairs to join Leon. Melfoil spies him sitting at the bar, staring at the other patrons in the usual personal-space-ignoring Leon way and moves to join him. Pushing past a largely disgusting creature and its disgustingly large friend, Melfoil slaps his hand on the bar and hails the barkeep.
"Barkeep, good sir, I'll have your strongest drink to kick off this morn'" Melfoil leans over to smile and wave at Leon while he awaits his drink order.
Melfoil's eyes widen as he reads over the runic symbols on the scroll.
"Oh Leon, stay your curiosity." Melfoil sinks his nudity into the bath.
"This is not for your eyes. oh no, no, no..." he trails off, leaning into the back of the tub, holding the scroll with both hands and devouring it with his eyes. He breaks his gaze only once, with a start:
"Do you think it would be impertinent to get some alcohol in here? I could really use the purest spirit they have on shelf." Without an immediate answer to his questions, Melfoil returns to the scroll again.
"One should always perform at their best, regardless of an audience."
Melfoil may have completely misunderstood Leon's comment, but no one corrected him. Attention was instead drawn to the fact that he, with his gear balled up to the side, was already stark naked.
He dipped a finger into one of the baths, "Ah! Still a bit hot."He sat obscenely on the edge of the bath and bent over, retrieving the longish-shortish container from his belongings.
"Perhaps while we wait, we should investigate our haul?" Melfoil said, beaming. He gave the box a customary rattle and then pried it open, revealing the contents for all to see.
Melfoil jogs to catch up with Maldrek then turns to the rest of the group, shrugging.
"I'm sure Mad Maddy isn't that mad. Surely that'd be a tad too obvious for this place, which seems to really revel in its own obtuseness. It's probably just a marketing trick, an embellishment to stand apart from the other taverns in the area."
Melfoil continues on and keeps pace with Maldrek, shoulder to shoulder, as he moves forward through the crowded streets. His strides are strong and deliberate, carrying with them a real sense of purpose. It was a refreshing sight, considering everything up until this point had been utterly chaotic.
Smiling, Melfoil leans in and whispers to Maldrek, "You have no idea where you're going, do you?"
Melfoil then scrutinises the streets, letting loose a sharp whistle and holding his hand out in an attempt to hail the nearest vehicle, or monstrosity, that could ferry them to their destination.
"Mad Maddy's, anyone?
The throng moves past Melfoil, unperturbed, and prompts him to alter his approach: "I'm willing to pay?"
Looking for a ferry or guide to take us to Mad Maddy's Perception:1d20 + 8 ⇒ (1) + 8 = 9
Melfoil was pulled through the streets like a fish on a line, buffeted constantly by the dervish of sights and smells of the manic Purgatorium. Faces snarled into view and disappeared as quickly as they came. An 8-foot tall scaled woman assaulted Clarice and was beaten back by the party before Melfoil could scarcely quiver an excited lip in lascivious awe of her improbable physique. Then, again, yet another new face stepped into frame. Introduced as Lieutenant Dannigan, Melfoil finally found a place for his eyes to comfortably rest, feeling at ease in the presence of Dannigan's elvish features. A compulsion to answer Dannigan struck Melfoil, spurred by a faint, but nagging feeling that he was being written out of his own story.
Stepping over Clarice and squeezing past the still tightly coiled and testosterone swollen duo of Maldrek and Leon, Melfoil comes face to face with Dannigan, "I think that, perhaps, we could come to a mutual understanding, no? We, downtrodden and weary travelers that we are, could use a roof under which to spend the night. Otherwise we might be more compelled to spend the night at the complaint...desk."
Melfoil extends a hand out to Dannigan. "Do this for us and you have my word, elf to elf, that we can let such an obvious transgression of Purgatorium protocol go unreported."
I'll chuck in a bluff roll here, because I'm taking liberties with with my knowledge of where we are and what is happening Bluff:1d20 - 2 ⇒ (11) - 2 = 9
"All you need is for us to play scarecrow for a day? Hah!"
Melfoil turns to the rest, listening for echoes of confidence. Instead, he sees a battered, sorry lot, wearing the trials of the past few hellish days in the dried blood under their fingernails and the viscera tangled in their clothes and hair. Leon especially looks like his vitality has been wrung out of him; trying hard to hide wounds that had not healed. A much overdue sobriety weighs against Melfoil and presses his smile flat. He was tired, too.
"I think, tree, your eternal suffering will have to be endured for another day. We are in no shape to be tending to the needs of others...right, comrades?"
"These elixirs require special training to handle..." Melfoil pouted, under his breath. Though, watching the others celebrate being alive together, he did feel a deep shame that he couldn't, or didn't, help them. However, after a quick huff of the noxious gases rising from his alchemical brace, this remorse had dispersed with the exhaled fumes. The familiar warmth of blood welling in his nostrils returned and Melfoil whistled merrily as they walked down the streets.
***
Hearing the wizened tree's offer, Melfoil steps forward, flinching slightly as the crows screech and flap at him.
"Speak the terms of your trade, tree. We are in large supply of strength and - oh for Findeladlara's sake!" Melfoil raises the sole of his boot to see the viscous strands of sap he had just trodden in. The crows' raucous cawing taunt Melfoil like a jeering crowd.
"Look, just drop the mysticism and tell us what you want." Melfoil taps his sticky foot impatiently.
Something in Leon's dejected look stops Melfoil mid potion quaff, leaving the vial resting just short of his lips. The sight stirs a memory in Melfoil, to a time when he may have conducted some research into animal husbandry or some such; it was a bit hazy. He offers Leon his best consolatory shrug before continuing to pour the contents of the vial into his mouth and gargling loudly.
"It's probably for the best, Leon." Melfoil says, spitting the contents back into the vial and smacking his lips. "Come on, somebody grab Clarice and let's go"
With a surprising spring in his step, Melfoil's thin legs lope ahead of the party toward the city.
Extract cast on self using Alchemical Allocation=Expeditious Retreat
Melfoil, again, is distracted by finding out more about something's insides, even at the cost of his allies' personal safety. He slows his sprint down to a jog as he approaches the mailbox and has a peek inside.
After a sticky dismount from the toad's tongue, Melfoil lands on the ground with an undignified splotch. As he brushes himself off, he looks up petulantly at the gaping toad.
"You know, it's a well known truth that the simplest explanation is always the most correct one." He continued, resting his forehead in his hand, "Which, of course, would explain why we were inside a GIANT BLOODY TOAD!" Melfoil was still a little bit grumpy from missing the last meal. The visions hadn't helped his mood, either. The words Leon had spoke were still lingering in his thoughts:
"What the hell was that knife-ears? Do you know each other?" Do we know each other? I'm sure I would remember such miscreants...
His angry consternation soon dispersed as he took in his surroundings. The landscape was sick with despair, the rolling wave of dark eyes casting an ominous shadow over the landscape. This was not the time to be brooding. Melfoil heard Leon's entreaty to the toad and chimed in, offering some advice.
"I don't think you'll get much out of him" Melfoil raps a knuckle against one of the metal spikes. "Not until we get rid of these, at least."
Taking a step back to examine the spikes and applying some of his explosive nous, Melfoil tries to find any structural weakpoints in the spikes that could be exploited to, perhaps, give the toad some room to move his mouth, or to make the spikes easier to extract.
Perception:1d20 + 8 ⇒ (13) + 8 = 21
Shortly after, however, Melfoil's mind wanders again. He meets the Toad's eyes with a covetous gaze.
"But I do agree that the toad could be a very useful ally indeed..."
Melfoil approaches the Toad's body, brandishing the blue scimitar and an empty vial, his thoughts comfortably returning to its well-lived home of animal violence.
Melfoil is attempting to scrape some toad juice from its skin into a vial, for later distillation and use. The nature roll is for correctly identifying where a toad might secrete poison/hallucinogen/magic juice and to extract without harm (to himself, harm to the toad is less of a concern). KN: Nature:1d20 + 12 ⇒ (4) + 12 = 16
"Oh, rapturous victory! We strike true, yet again comrades!" The pint-sized Melfoil attempts a triumphant rally that, given his current stature, would be better called a victory jig.
"Comrades?"
Melfoil strides up to Clarice, Maldrek's knees, and Leon's ankles and soon himself sees the tantalising wormflesh that is preoccupying the rest of the party. The wave of gluttony returns to Melfoil, crashing hard against his senses and flowering into a sanguinary bouquet. As his heart pulses harder, the extract wears off and Melfoil begins to stretch back to his original size. It's been too long.
"Oh..." His mouth makes uncomfortably wet sounds.
wormbuffet:1d20 ⇒ 3
***
Transfixed by his prize, the Warden's Axe, Leon leaves the severed arm by the wayside. Melfoil, however, is less dismissive. He throws a few sideways glances before placing his fingerless hand over the Warden's, mock wearing the new appendage. He smiles, before aiming his rapier between the ring finger and the knucklebone. With a surgical thrust, the finger is separated from the hand and swiftly scooped into one of Melfoil's pouches.
Shaken but not deterred, Melfoil sizes up the Warden as he begins the familiar ritual.
"How predictable..." he mutters as he realises that, with a little ingenuity and a heavy overestimation of his talents, he can simply outsmart the axe. After a quick examination of his remaining extracts, Melfoil decides on a small green vial and drinks it eagerly. The mixture takes effect immediately, shrinking Melfoil and his equipment to be adorably Clarice-sized.
With a clattering of metal and glass, the Warden's axe crunches against Melfoil's armoured torso and slaps him to the ground like a wet noodle. Melfoil lies still for a generous moment, gasping for air. Obviously rattled by the blow, he grabs a blue vial with a trembling hand before finally steadying himself back onto his feet. He takes a swig, wincing as the liquid hits his bruised insides.
Melfoil notches another flask into his sling and circles around the edge of the battle toward Leon.
"In my opinion as a practising physician," Melfoil slugs another alchemical blast into the wormguard and continues his uninvited advice, "I'd get out of that acidbath quickly."
Melfoil steps through the portal to face the Warden, his buckler in hand, longbow slung over his back, rapier nestled at his waist between tightly filled pouches and a redundant scimitar, and wearing a brace of reagent filled flasks laddered down his chest. He had obviously taken the adage always be prepared to heart, dressed up like a Swiss army drugstore.
I'll roll my attack now to save time
Melfoil plucks a flask from his brace and slips in a pearlescent tablet. He shakes the mixture with a quick flick of his wrist, causing it foam and hiss violently. Sliding it into a sling-like device, he takes aim at the foremost wormbeast, hoping to engulf all three in the imminent BANG.
Frost Bomb:1d20 + 7 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (14) + 7 + 2 + 1 = 24 Damage to Target(cold dmg, FORT save or staggered):3d6 + 5 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (3, 1, 6) + 5 + 2 + 1 = 18 Damage to 5ft radius (REF save for half dmg):8 = 8
I have precise bomb, so I should be able to avoid hitting any party members in the 5ft radius, I hope :)
