Mokmurian the Great's page

Also, as a side note, I stayed up late last night and got another background vignette done. Admittedly, it's of the 'medium-length Tolstoy novel' variety - I have a tendency to ramble a bit when I write.

As regards my character, after looking over the Lost Kingdoms splatbook, I realize that "proud Sarkorian" and "wizard" would not exactly overlap - I'm probably going to go with shadow bloodline sorcerer instead. I'm just trying to figure out a way to make Arcane Trickster work with my character concept - I apologize for being so flighty with this!

With the guardian's fall, Nidintu relaxes as the forest shrine seems to revive, cleansing itself of the malign magic that had twisted its purpose, and after wiping down his axe blade and returning it to its sheath on his back, he bows his horned head and closes his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer as Tristian completes his own worship.

As Tristian and Xavin exchange pleasantries, Nidintu wanders the ruined temple, nodding approvingly as he examines its workmanship. At the young cleric's words, however, he makes his way over to the impromptu group. "Stag Lord, no - Stag God, yes. Little Roots here and I are both servants of Erastil - thought we'd stop by, do obeisance and all that." He extends his callused hand hand in greeting, giving one of his uncannily wide grins. "Name's Nidintu-Bel - blacksmith, coppersmith, tinsmith, bladesmith, farrier, stonemason, cook, and all-around craftsman, at your service. Used to be a bandit, too, but working with my hands is more fun." At the sight of Tristian's holy symbol, his eyebrows raise. "Haven't seen a Sarenite priest around these parts in decades! You know, my wife Vaniya worshiped the Dawnflower - she's a good goddess, she is."

The Hagfish:

Zeldrith grins as Jargie tells his story. "No worries - Arrian's a good man, and I'm glad to count him as one of my friends. You've no need to fear for him under my watch - anyone who so much as lays a hand on him will have to do it over my corpse!" He reaches up and ruffles Arrian's hair with one hand. "You know, Arrian, you remind me of Young Zenvir, one of the scouts from my old mercenary company. He had orc blood, like you, but he wouldn't so much as hurt a fly. Stammered something awful, too, but had a keen mind - it got so nobody was willing to play cards with him, since he won every time."

As Ano heads towards the cathedral, Zeldrith's head turns to look at her. "You're going to the cathedral, Ano? Mind if I join you? I haven't had the chance to visit, and I think that now more than ever I need the guidance of Desna." Assuming the catfolk doesn't object, the mercenary follows her as she heads towards the new stone building.

The Cathedral:

Zeldrith stands nearby as Ano recites her hymn, his own head bowed as he prays - not close enough to disrupt her own worship, but in the courtyard alongside her. Once both are finished, he makes his way over to his friend. "My grandmother Tilara once told me something about the cathedral here - she was actually a priest here, you know, back in her youth. You see those seven stones there, at the center of the courtyard? Apparently, they've been there for thousands of years - matter of fact, she said that the town itself was built around those stones. They form an altar to Desna - it's said that each one represents one of the seven spires of Desna's palace in Her realm. Holiest ground on the Lost Coast, supposedly - at least, for our faith."

The tiefling grins, closing his mismatched eyes as he breaths in deeply. "You know, if you close your eyes, you can almost feel it. Almost hear the people who came here in ages past - some laughing, some singing, some just sitting and watching the stars. Each worshiping in their own way. It seems like any moment, I might open my eyes and find myself face-to-face with someone from a different time - an old wise woman, perhaps, just after the Chelish came, asking for guidance to deal with the settlers from the east; or maybe a simple shepherd, seeking refuge in this island of peace as Earthfall raged around him."

He opens his eyes, glancing at Ano. "You know, you haven't told us much about yourself. Was there anything in particular that brought you to Desna's faith? Some great epiphany? Or were you raised in the faith?"

I just realized that I had gotten behind with the Inventory Tracker - I hadn't updated it for the Sootscale Tribe's gifts. It should be up to date now, as well as sorted alphabetically by item name, with the coins at the top in decreasing order of value - we've got a +1 weapon potency runestone, if anyone wants it, or if we want to save it for our new player.

Burning Sands (although I actually thought the damage increased as leveled, but it doesn't...disappointing)

Consider it another benefit of having a tiefling frontliner. You can cast it with impunity in Zeldrith's spaces - even with max damage, his Fire Resist 5 still covers it, and if the enemies don't have the same, 1d4 extra fire damage per round with no save is nothing to sneeze at - as 1st-level characters, the fire damage alone could take out any of us in four rounds.

Choosing Lesser Warblood Mutagen and Minor Elixir of Life as my infused extracts.

A Shortcut to Fangberries:

Nidintu grins as the Wildwood Band comes across the thicket of thorned bushes. "Fangberries indeed, Roots! I used to love these when I was a kid, I did - let's see if I still remember how to pick 'em!"

Survival (Trained, Medium Armor): 1d20 + 4 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 4 + 2 = 15

The towering pitborn makes a valiant effort, gathering a few good handfuls of berries, only to hiss and jerk his hand back as he badly cuts himself on a cluster of thorns, spattering the red berries with droplets of his inky blood. In a moment, however, the jovial elf is back to his old self, laughing his injury off. "Not as spry as I used to be, looks like! No worries - it'll wash off no problem. There was an old rhyme about this when I was a boy - how did it go? 'Fangberry, fangberry, ruby prize / Fingers dart like dragonflies / Good boys nimble, smart boys quick / Slow boys feel the fangberries' prick.'" He looks down at his bleeding hand, grinning. "Now this one's stuck me, I was supposed to turn around three times and clap my hands or something, else the Kallas Devil would steal me out of my bed." His grin falters, and he sighs. "Seems pretty stupid when you're all grown up, doesn't it?"

Following the crowd gathering for the consecration of the new cathedral, Zeldrith takes his place in the town square, smiling softly. A pleasant little town, fine weather, and a holy festival - a good day, by all accounts. As Father Zantus begins his speech, he bows his head in prayer, closing his mismatched eyes as his thoughts stray to his goddess...

...only for his head to snap up when the screams begin. Looking around for the source of the commotion, he scowls as the mad chanting fills the air. "Goblins! Stand your ground! To arms!" His hand darts to the hilt of his sword, but as Donimah casts her spell, he whirls to face the Shoanti mage, seemingly lost in some past battle. "You heard the sergeant - mages, hold your position!" Strangely, the mage's spell fails to take hold on the mercenary - some quirk of his fiendish heritage seems to resist the scholar's magic. Instead, Arrian grows to immense proportions, the redirected magic wreathing his form in golden sparks.

Target of Donimah's spell changed - Zeldrith isn't taking any actions yet, as it's not his turn, but we should be good for the goblins to act.

As the dromaar herbalist reappears, Vhekk remains silent, his obsidian claws clicking against his staff as his onyx gaze seems to bore into the stable. After a moment, he speaks. "This dry weather calls to mind a tale from my homeland. A thief set a fire in a caravanserai owned by the Imperial Bank to hide her theft of a rare Osirian artifact - it was the dry season, so the flames spread, and in the blink of an eye, half the building was gone and a dozen people were dead in the blaze. The trade masters complained for days about the lost items."

He turns to Yorah before continuing. "Yorah, your idea is a good one, but I think we could improve it. You said that the bandits were eating their horses, yes? If that is so, they are likely almost out of supplies, and the three horses left in the stable represent the remnants of their food. If we were to set the horses free, climb to the roof, and set the stable ablaze - with a flaming arrow, perhaps, or a spell - then the bandits would have no choice but to respond, and in this cold, I doubt they will be able to bring water from the well. With the thieves in disarray, we can strike - with them outside and their food and their sick inside with us, I don't see how they can do anything but surrender."

"I mean, I've literally only known you for a day, so I have nothing to compare it against. But I can certainly relate to being sneered at for being poor. Had to deal with that literally my whole damn life. And while I can't say I've been 'cursed,' I know what it's like to be looked down on for what you are. My father was Shoanti, so people think me a superstitious horse-f***ing brute, and any actual Shoanti I've met...well you saw what happened at the White Deer yesterday. I suppose that means we have more in common than I initially expected."

At the mention of the White Deer's innkeeper, Zeldrith's face darkens. "That lā mitluku targīgu? I think that's just an issue with him." He glances around the Rusty Dragon before continuing. "This place seems nice, and the innkeeper hasn't insulted me yet - I was thinking about getting my things and staying here later. I had a few choice Shoanti words to say to that guy at the Rusty Dragon - though they're not the sort I'll repeat with ladies present." He gives a proud grin. "Matter of fact, I can curse fluently in twenty-one languages. I bet you can't name someone else who can do that!"

"And there I suppose is something shared between us too. Father wasn't born in Riddleport. He only went there because the Shadde-Quah banished him for...something."

The young mercenary shrugs. "I suppose I'm the odd one out here in that regard - my family's lived in Magnimar for as long as anyone can remember. My grandfather Endru was a gravedigger, and his father before him was a carpenter. Like I said earlier, it's said we're descended from kings - we've been dirt poor as long as anyone can remember, but we also have a family curse of sorts, and I've only ever heard about those on noble houses." He gestures to his mismatched eyes with his seven-fingered hand. "Every so often, a child from my family is born with different-colored eyes, one red, one black. Of course, usually, it's more than that - I have hooves, and my sister Vayath has fingers like knives - but it's always at least the eyes. Most of the time, there's nothing really wrong with the children - my nephew Revek has quills for hair, and he's the most sweet-natured little kid you're likely to meet. Still, the temple of Iomedae is notably more enthusiastic about helping ordinary poor people than it is about helping poor people with mouths that looks like they're full of knives."

"I’m gonna go…check on my mother. Cherry can you keep him company while I’m gone?"

As Ano leaves in a hurry, Zeldrith shrugs and continues his meal. After an awkwardly long silence, he sighs. "I-I'm sorry - I've never met any talking birds before, so I don't really know where to go with this conversation. Do you... like eating seeds, by any chance? I'm afraid I don't really know anything else to say."

"Blood magic, hm? Some kind of sorcerer? I'm by no means lucky enough to have any kind of innate magic, just born into a family of local career alchemists. Some kind of archaeologists? Don't see Thassilonian runes often on bodies. Oh, where are my manners? My name is Juriya Arima, pleasure to meet you!"

Zeldrith takes the new arrival's hand, nodding in greeting. "Zeldrith Angothane. And no, I'm no scholar, simply a mercenary - this symbol was considered good fortune where I grew up, and I thought I'd need luck if I'm to make my living by the sword. As for the magic..." He snaps his fingers, and a spark of flame appears in the air above his hand for the briefest of instants. "...to tell you the truth, I don't really know. They say that my family is descended from kings of old, great mages who ruled the mountain folk far to the west. We're poor enough now, of course, but..."

His train of thought is interrupted as the new arrival bursts in, a seemingly nonstop stream of words flowing from both the cat-person and the bird accompanying her. The young pitborn looks at Ano blankly, clearly baffled. "...I-I'm sorry, what?"

As the food arrives, Zeldrith relaxes, though he does stare at the napkin in confusion for a moment. Before too long, however, he is eagerly eating the provided food, talking through mouthfuls of eggs and sausage. "Later today, I was going to check around town, see if I can find some work. I've got a strong back and a willing attitude, and there are plenty of ships in town for the festival - I could help unload cargo, try to make some money."

Zeldrith too, considering he's a scholar of Thassilon too. I do plan on taking Eldritch Heritage relatively early on (Aberrant specifically) so we can be sorcery buddies too (kind of), though be prepared for Donimah to look down her nose at you at least initially, resenting your natural proficiency with spellcraft while at the same time apparently only dabbling with it. Let me know if she comes of as too passive-aggressive.

No worries - I'm fine with it. The two might not like each other initially, but they have a great deal in common. Both are outsiders to Sandpoint, both are arcanists, and both have an interest in Thassilon. As someone who grew up with a brother who shared a lot of the same interests as me, I predict that they will either be best friends because of their similar natures or hate each other with the heat of ten thousand suns for the little differences that get on each others' nerves - these two states are not mutually exclusive.

Funny how much she sounds like Nidintu...haha!

Well, not unless she stomps around everywhere, yells at everything, and says "Thrice-tenth" a lot. 'Voice of reason' is a very subjective title in the Wildwood Band - Nidintu manages it simply by not breaking the fourth wall (Roots) and not reciting poetry written by a madman (Carageorn).

The way I was reading the module, all the giant camps at area A2 were meant to convey that taking the fortress head-on would be a suicidally stupid idea - the module almost forces players to find alternate ways in (calculating the entirety of the Jorgenfist camps, it comes out to a total CR of around 22 - enough to theoretically defeat some of the weaker Spawn of Rovagug), and if you do choose to include stone giant traditionalists working with the people of Sandpoint, they could easily tell the PCs about the entrance at A4.

As for the killing-en-masse part, it mentions in the module that Mokmurian has forbid the rank-and-file stone giants from entering the boundaries of Jorgenfist, for fear that they would desert if they knew of the depravities that go on therein. Thus, it follows that all the giants encountered within the fortress - that is, all the giants that the players are meant to directly fight - are members of his inner circle to some extent, and thus are complicit to a greater degree than those outside (the giants in the camps are ex-slaves being manipulated by their former overlords, and if the players follow the module as written, they won't kill any of them, while the giants inside the fortress are by and large collaborators with said overlords, with the exception of Conna and Galenmir if you choose to have either of them side with the PCs). If all goes well, the players won't actually kill any giants except for the evil ones - as mentioned before, only one or two of the giants in Jorgenfist itself could reasonably be considered innocent, and the raid on Sandpoint turns into a rout as soon as either Teraktinus or Longtooth - both high-priority targets and both irredeemably evil - are slain.

This also solves the problem of the cannibalism. Area B5 is a minor part of the module at best, and if you don't want to remove it entirely, you could just present it as the excesses of Karzoug's disciples rather than an integral part of the culture of the stone giants - that was how I had initially read the module in any case. As far as my earlier mention of Magnimar, I realize now that it was poorly worded. All I meant to say is that Karzoug's disciples are to the stone giants what the Skinsaw Cult was to Magnimar - cultist groups turning away from the cultural norms of their society and into depravity.

Nidintu stretches gratefully as he emerges from the cramped tunnels. "Those tunnels are tiny, they are! It's good to be out in the open again - breathe real air, not that stuffy cave air!" He greets Amiri and Linzi with a nod and a friendly grin. "It's good to see you're doing well, Amiri. I would have liked to see those little fools attacking you - would have been like seeing ants throwing themselves at a mountain, it would! And you, Linzi, I'd like you to meet our new friend. This is Mikmek. Mostly, I figure he's a scholar or some such - certainly talks enough for two, he does." At Xavin's words, he nods. "Take whatever time you need."

He glances down at Mikmek as the little lizard tugs at his pant leg. "Look, I know you want to go that way, but you've been tortured, little friend! Rest now - I promise we'll take you where you want to go soon enough!" He shrugs, addressing the other members of the party. "Our new friend's home is probably that way. We should see him on his way - these are dangerous lands, for sure, and I don't like his chances alone."

The massive warrior sits down with his back against the tree, his lambent yellow eyes looking with concern at whatever filth Roots is rubbing into his puncture wounds. "L-look, Roots, I know it's bad that you can see tree bark through my wounds, but isn't dirt and all that going to make it worse? Sickness and all that?"

As the group rests, Nidintu begins to hum to himself, eventually breaking out into an old drinking song from his days as a bandit. "Hey! Ho! to the bottle I go, to heal my heart and drown my woe. Rain may fall and wind may blow, and many miles be still to go, but under a tall tree I will lie, and let the clouds go sailing by!"

Perform (Sing, Untrained): 1d2 ⇒ 2

To say that his singing is entirely off-key would be inaccurate - he does in fact hit a correct note twice, if entirely by accident, and his singing could be considered quite pleasant... if you happened to be tone-deaf. And underwater. With earplugs in. After about a minute of ear-splitting din, he stops his assault on the bass clef, leaving a tangled wreckage of notes in his wake. While Xavin rests and Eskra and Carageorn play their game, he sees to the maintenance of his equipment, patching the holes in his shirt as best he can, cleaning and sharpening his axe, and polishing the lenses of his goggles. Eventually, he looks up at where Carageorn and his companion play cards, smirking. "You know, that reminds me of a story from back in the day. The night watch was playing cards, see..."

Perform (Storytelling, Untrained): 1d20 ⇒ 20

"...and finally, it gets around to Two-Shot Elbers's turn. He lays out his cards on the ground, see, and says to us, all proud-like, 'Read 'em and weep - not even you can beat five of a kind!'" The massive warrior laughs at the memory. "'Course, then we all took him out back and beat twelve kinds of s*** out of him for cheating." At this, his mood seems to dampen, and he sighs. "That was the night before he died, it was, and everyone was pretty mad at him for the stunt he pulled. Looking back on it, I just wish I could have said something nice to him - something so we wouldn't have parted ways mad at each other, you know?"

He glances back up at the squabbling pair. "There's a lesson in that for you two. Tomorrow could be our last day of life, so we should try to make today worth living - 'set aside petty quarrels and live as siblings in steel,' is how Saint Clydwell put it; he was some important Arodenite holy man or something, I think, but he wrote a lot of the books in the hermitage where I grew up." After a moment's silence, he smirks, tapping the side of his head knowingly. "You thought I was going to tell you another story without a point, didn't you? I'm not as stupid as I look, I'm not!"

This is amazing, thank you! What's the instrument in the oat beer song called?

As far as I can tell, it's known as the ģīga or vienstīdzis.

While we're waiting, I noticed that Lithuanian was mapped to Varisian - I've found a number of Lithuanian folk songs, in case anyone's interested.

Už Ežero Ugnys Dega (Burning Fires Behind the Lake)

Saldus alutis avižų (What a Sweet Oat Beer)

Palšus ganiau jautelius (I Was Herding the Oxen)

Žalioj girioj stadalėlis (A Whippletree in the Green Wood)

Oi šermukšnio (Oh Rowan Tree)

Pray that my job search goes poorly, then I will have time to run an additional table from this recruitment. :D

I'm torn - on the one hand, you're a great GM, and I wish you all the best in your job search... but on the other hand, you're a great GM...

Finally got an RP sample written up for this character, put it at the bottom of the profile. Lots of great characters in the recruitment so far - best wishes to whoever gets in!

Angothane sure is an interesting surname for return!

If so, it's entirely unintentional - I just looked up established Bakrakhani names, then picked the only one where I didn't feel like I had to unhinge my jaw to pronounce the second half (except Alzanist, but even scrupulously avoiding all potential spoilers regarding Thassilon, I can still see why that would be A Bad Idea).

While I hope that I get picked and everything, I will admit, I am kind of okay if I do not.

Much the same way here. While I am of course hoping for the chance to play at the table of a GM like GM-Salsa, I originally wrote up Zeldrith in the hopes of submitting him to a Return of the Runelords campaign - even if I don't get picked, I still come out of this recruitment with a medium-length Tolstoy novel a normal, sane amount written for his backstory, hopefully increasing his chances of getting into other campaigns.

"Play my entrancemusic, Nidintu!"

Nidintu's brow furrows at his leshy friend's strange outburst. "Music? That's right, music! Thrice-tenth, how did that song go?" After a moment's thought, he continues carving a bloody path through the mites, cheerfully belting out part of an old marching song he heard from crusaders bound for the Worldwound. "So onward, and onward, with swords pointing skyward; tomorrow, Pharasma to face! Our banners will fly, and our foes, they will die at the end of the sword and the mace!"

Greataxe (Expert, Mite Amalgam, Power Attack, Squeezing): 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (13) + 10 = 23
Damage: 2d12 + 4 ⇒ (11, 9) + 4 = 24
Greataxe (Expert, Mite Amalgam, Squeezing): 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (1) + 0 = 1
Damage: 1d12 + 4 ⇒ (1) + 4 = 5

War Room:

Nidintu grins as Mikmek puts in their unintelligible two cents. "Our little friend there talks a lot, yes? Probably a scholar or a philosopher or something."

Common Room:

The massive pitborn hefts his axe as the gremlins ready for battle. Whatever Roots packed his wound with seems to be working, and the warrior appears hale and hearty despite his recent brush with death. He strides forward to meet the mitflits' charge, sending gremlins flying with massive sweeps of his axe. At the sight of the drumming gremlin, he smirks. "Ha! Looks like these little fools really can't carry a tune in a bucket!"

Greataxe Strike (Power Attack, Mite Amalgamation, Squeezing): 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (5) + 10 = 15
Pain Distribution: 2d12 + 4 ⇒ (11, 8) + 4 = 23

Vhekk scowls at the man's deflection, drawing his own conclusions from the suspicious man's evasiveness, but after a moment, his face splits in a grin that is somehow orders of magnitude more disturbing than his scowl ever was. "No worries, friend - you don't have to tell us about the other bandits if you do not wish it. Of course... the other bandits won't know that, yes? We could tell them that you - what is the phrase? 'Spilled the beans?' We could tell them that you 'spilled the beans' like a clumsy stevedore on an Arcadian trading vessel. And if they learned the truth - about your stash, and about your plans to leave - I doubt they would be as understanding as we are."

The young cambion plants his staff firmly in the snow and crosses his arms, his razor-sharp obsidian claws glinting in the weak sunlight. "The way I see it, friend, your best chance for survival is to tell us everything you know - and I do mean everything - about the bandit camp and the frost-fey, then head for Golsifar as fast as your legs will take you."

There are some interesting concepts already (one that mirrored my own, looking at you, Nidintu).

Sincerest apologies! I'm not trying to step on your toes! Actually, my previous experience with this particular magus build has it resulting in a character somewhat like a bard with added combat prowess - while Zeldrith doesn't get Inspire Courage, most of his spells will be support spells, especially at higher levels, so he's far from a frontline fighter.

Finished most of the Deep Background questions, will try to finish up the remaining questions at some point. I'll also try to create a roleplaying sample or two for this specific character.

I'm having lots of fun with both the character and the game, and I'm all for continuing whenever you're feeling better. This is by far the best game I'm currently playing in (if not for this game, I would actually likely have left the PbP style after a particularly bad incident with another game), and I've become rather invested in the character (8 pages of backstory/miscellaneous RP stuff and counting, including a few battle cries/stories/insults I'm afraid will never see the light of day), so I am excited to continue whenever.

I am sorry to hear about your family emergency, and I hope your family recovers, Børak!

You know, when I saw the part about the building being structurally unstable, all I could think of was this.

Nidintu helps to bury the dead bandits, and as night falls, he pulls out his cooking gear and begins to make supper at the camp's fire pit. At Roots's words, he glances at the little leshy. "I think we should find Svetlana's ring first, then gather Bokken's fangberries on the way back to the trading post. We've already got the moon radishes for Svetlana, but it would be best if we had something else to bring her besides."

As he cooks, the garrulous elf tries to make small talk with anyone who will listen, the raspy hiss of his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. "You know, I didn't know how to cook until I became a bandit. The first night I tried to make supper for the camp, Boss Tanith took me aside after he was done eating. 'Son,' he said to me, 'Gorum's got no greater blessing than a warrior who will eat hardtack without complaint, but he's got no greater curse than a cook who will do the same.'" He shrugs. "I don't know - I always liked it, myself. Never could understand what all the fuss was about. Anyway, he gave the job to Malicos the Butcher, a tiefling slave escaped from Cheliax. Twitchy little fellow, he was, but he was a nice guy - wouldn't hurt a fly. Everyone called him 'the Butcher' because he used to make sausages in Artume." He clears his throat before continuing. "Anyway, I watched what he did, and I took over again when he died trying to rob some pilgrims on the old Holtaksen Road." The massive warrior scowls. "Thought they'd surrender easy, on account of them not having any weapons. Didn't know they were Irorans."

Crafting (Trained): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8

Over a simple, slightly burnt stew of salt pork and parsnips with hardtack, Nidintu speaks with Kressle and the other bandits about a few of Xavin's questions. "Tell me, my friends, do any of the Stag Lord's other people feel as you do? Is it worth saving any of them, do you think, or are they all fanatics? If any of them are decent enough, we'd have to get to them quick, before the Stag Lord notices you haven't reported in." He tilts his head to one side, lost in thought for a moment, before a grin spreads across his face and he speaks again. "...This liquor's for the Stag Lord, right? That means you have to send tribute shipments to him or something. What if we take him his drink, tell him about all the mercenaries from Restov roughing up his bandits, and say we're reinforcements from Thorn Ford to shore up his defenses? We sneak in, separate out the fanatics from those too fearful or too smart to act against the Stag Lord themselves, and hit him where it hurts."

Diplomacy (Trained): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 4 = 19

Nidintu spends the rest of the night joking with the party's more boisterous members (likely Amiri and the three ex-bandits), regaling them with tales from his time as a brigand. "Here's something I'll bet you didn't know, Kressle. You know the old 'broken cart' trap for merchant caravans? Your grandmother practically invented that, she did! Why, one time..."

Banditry Lore (Trained): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (19) + 6 = 25

"...and so she says, 'Look, Jessop, I'll do my part, and I bet your disguise'll fool them, but if you put the pitborn in that dress, you'll stop the caravan master's heart, you will!' Of course, it didn't matter, because as soon as I saw it, I punched Jessop so hard I knocked out one of his teeth." As the Wildwood Band readies their night watches, Nidintu volunteers for the midnight shift, as is his norm. "I don't need the campfire to see, and I don't mind having some time to look at the stars in quiet, I don't. Always helped me sleep when I was a boy."

Backed by Carageorn, Nidintu quickly catches up with the fleeing bandit, laying him flat with a fist to the jaw. Without apparent difficulty, he hoists the recumbent bandit over his shoulder and unceremoniously carries him back to the camp like a sack of grain.

At the camp, as the group waits for the bandits to regain consciousness, he examines their ill-gotten gains. Curious, he uncorks a bottle of the liquor and sniffs it before wrinkling his nose in disgust. "This is hog swill, it is! If the Stag Lord drinks this on the regular, he must have guts of steel!"

As the prisoners begin to stir, the foul potables are forgotten as Nidintu moves over to the captured bandits. Seeing Kressle in the different light, he narrows his eyes behind his spectacles, tilting his head to the side as he thinks. "You there - Kressle, yes? You're Tianna's son Kavik's girl, aren't you? I knew your grandmother, I did, back when I lived in Mivon. You have her eyes - her jaw, too." He glances down and kicks at one of her hatchets. "Shame about that business on the King's Road, though. Back in the day, there were few I'd rather have by my side when the time comes to crack some skulls. You know, she would have given you an earful if she saw you using one of these little toys in a real combat - and you call yourself a bandit!"

The massive tiefling looks back up at the bandit leader. "So, Kressle, daughter of Kavik, son of Tianna, we have much to talk about. Your hand ripped Svetlana's wedding ring from her finger, and your hand will be the one to bear it back to her." He gives a grin like a small armory and hefts his axe menacingly. "You may refuse if you so wish - in that case, your hand will still return the ring, but it will not be attached to your arm. Furthermore, we need information - how many of the old camps flock to the Stag Lord's banner? How many captains can he muster against Restov and its forces?"

He begins to pace back and forth in front of the three prisoners, speaking to them as a group. "As for the topic of redemption, all three of you will be set free if you swear an oath on the Six River Freedoms that you will give up this life of banditry. Those too stupid to take this chance will die swiftly and painlessly. These are your two options - there will be no debate."

Intimidate (Trained, Group Coercion - Bandits): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (17) + 4 = 21
Intimidate (Trained, Kressle): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (16) + 4 = 20

Spreadsheet updated with new loot! Also, I seem to be rolling unusually well on Intimidate checks - it would seem Nidintu is particularly nightmarish this week.

"How many children do you have, Nidintu?"

Nidintu glances at Halrod. "Two - my oldest daughter Aliya, and her younger sister Elarsa. Aliya looks... well, she looks something like me, with the horns and the tail and all that, but Elarsa looks like any other aiuvarin,* so long as you don't look at her eyes too closely - she wears thick glasses so nobody sees them, and I think she's a bit ashamed of having demon blood, especially after what happened in Thornkeep when she was younger. A young man she fancied wanted to see what color her eyes were, so he took off her glasses when she wasn't paying attention - nearly swallowed his tongue, he did, then took off screaming, and poor Elarsa spent hours crying afterwards."

Nidintu's eyes seem to drift away, focusing on an indistinct spot in the middle distance as they always do whenever he reminisces. "My wife Vaniya was one of those humans from Qadira I mentioned who came here seeking a better life - ended up becoming a cartographer, she did, and we were married for fifty-three years all told. I showed both the girls how to use a sword - pretty good at it, too, they were! - and she showed them how to talk to people so you don't have to use a sword." He digs in his pack for a moment before pulling out an old letter and reading through it. "Aliya always says she feels very welcome in Lepidstadt. They deal with strange things all the time, the Ustalav academia do - things 'with forms more eyes than teeth and names more apostrophes than consonants,' she said. Compared to that, nobody cares that their classmate has hooves."

The massive warrior sighs, a look of concern on his face. "Aliya writes often enough, but Elarsa rarely does, and I worry sometimes - she is an Iomedaean, but she is also in Kenabres, and I remember the tales of the Third Crusade. They used to burn you there, if they thought you had demon blood, and plenty of those who did the burning are still in charge, they say. I'm sure she's fine, but I still worry sometimes."

* - New term for half-elves from the Remaster

Nidintu nods approvingly as Roots makes the trade with the kobolds, but as the group sets off, he looks down at his little leshy friend struggling with the two full baskets. "Let me get those for you, Roots." Bending down, the massive warrior scoops up the two baskets, hanging them by their handles from the end of his axe helve, which he shifts over his shoulder. The head of the axe counterbalances the weight of the radishes well, and Nidintu has little difficulty carrying the moon radishes for Svetlana.

As the group makes their way through the forest, Nidintu seems in better spirits than he did the previous day. "It's not so silent as it was yesterday, is it, my friends? The forest just needed time to get used to us, it did. It's a fearsome thing when provoked, sure enough-" He grins before continuing. "-but the same could be said of all of us, couldn't it?"

After a few more hours of walking, Nidintu glances down at Linzi, who is trying to carefully draw a sketch of a dragonfly perched on the end of her pencil without disturbing it, and laughs. "You know, Linzi, you remind me very much of my oldest daughter Aliya. Always curious, she was, even as a child - every day for a year, she would come running up to me, proudly announcing she had found some ancient relic while playing in the hills. It was all garbage, of course - strangely shaped rocks, handles of broken tools - but I always told her stories about the 'relics' and the people who made them what they are. I remember when she found an old arrowhead from a local hunter, and I told her it was the iron scale of a terrible dragon, torn from its body when it was struck down by a great hero." He adjusts the axe over his shoulder, shifting his focus back to the path as he crosses a fallen log over a small stream. "Her mother Vaniya told stories better, but I still like to think she enjoyed hearing the 'fabled history' of what she found. She's getting an Education in Ustalav, these days - learning how to work magic and read the ancient runes and all that. I think you'd like her, though."

Camp:

Nidintu helps Amiri gather wood for the fire, then cooks a simple dinner for the fae pack. He notices the warrior's nervous glances into the forest and nods to her. "This is a hostile place. You see it too, my friend? Not evil, I think - but a bear can have no malice in its heart and still rip your head off your shoulders, yes?" He glances at Roots and Xavin, who both seem a good deal more comfortable with the forest than either Nidintu or Amiri. "The others don't see it. Their perception is clouded - they see the beauty, not the danger." He raises his voice, addressing both Amiri and the others by the campsite. "There's beauty in a good wildfire, true enough, bright and terrible like the setting sun, but it can still wither your flesh and char your bones. My father told of creatures like that - visitors of pure light, coiling through the skies in a dance so beautiful the trees themselves stretched forth their leaves and joined in, but so unnatural that to see it was death to the unprepared. This forest is the same way, and it's unwise to let our guard down just because we see the beauty rather than the danger."

The massive warrior notices Roots's antics with the fireflies and moves closer to where the little leshy plays, speaking to his young friend. His yellow eyes look almost like fireflies themselves, glowing in the reflected light of the dying embers. "You like fireflies, then, child?" He shudders. "I could never stand them myself - like hundreds of tiny eyes in the dark, they are. They remind me of some of the figures on my father's altar, and I can never shake the feeling that there's something hiding amongst them, watching us." He volunteers for watch duty again, but he spends most of his shift anxiously gazing into the forest itself, searching for any sign that whatever lurks within will act.

The next morning, the tiefling rises early and finds breakfast for the rest of the group. He sets aside half his own food, his eyes nervously scanning the trees, and as the group prepares to leave, he takes stones from the fire and stacks them in a small cairn, setting his uneaten food beside it as an offering to whatever watches from the trees.

Radish Patch:

Nidintu approaches the radish patch, looking down at the dazed kobolds and prodding at one of the baskets with his foot, nodding at the weight he feels within. "Fine day, isn't it, friends? We're just passing through, but one of our friends has the sickness, and we need a basket of these radishes for her medicine." He pulls out a coin pouch before continuing. "How much do you want for one of these baskets, friends? We can pay you in coin or in kind - there's more than enough radishes here for all of us."

Diplomacy (Trained, Aid Roots): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (9) + 4 = 13

American English is my first language, but I'm also more or less fluent in Korean (no formal classes, however), and I have taken enough Spanish courses to struggle through a conversation. Assyriology is my hobby, so I can translate to and from Akkadian and some Sumerian, but it almost never comes up, as neither has had a native speaker for close to two and a half millennia. The language list in the WotR campaign linked is quite extensive, but it would seem that we're likely to be using actual Russian in this campaign, so if we do something similar, we'd have to find an alternative Abyssal script. I myself like to use Akkadian for Abyssal, as it has a primordial sound (after all, it's one of the oldest languages, and it influenced the development of dozens of later European, North African, and West Asian languages), and it's an obscure dead language with no close relatives, avoiding a lot of the ethical issues of choosing a real-world language as the language of ultimate evil.

The Association Assyrophile de France has a rather good Romanized Akkadian to English dictionary online, if anyone's interested.

"It’s an Aq'lakh; the finest weapon there is, in the hands of a skilled warrior. And yes, good eye. Hickory, carved for me by my aunt Jakha. Check out the balance. I don’t think I’ve seen something like what you’ve got there, but I look forward to seeing it in action, if we have the opportunity."

The taloned hunter stands, slings his ghironda over his shoulder, and takes the staff when Maq'la hands it to him, turning it over and over in his claws. "An Aq'lakh, you say? It's certainly heavier than what I'm used to, though the balance is good. Quite a bit more heft than my own staff - if I used this, I don't know that I could do much except knock chips out of my horns. Still, it's a fine weapon - your aunt Jakha was a skilled woodwright, and you yourself must be a great warrior to wield such objects." He hands the orc warrior back her staff and picks up his own weapon, a shorter length of ash capped with iron ferrules at both ends. "This one is much smaller and lighter, but it's a potent weapon nonetheless. Staves crafted in this manner are key to one of the fighting styles of my people, the Tzorehiyi - that's the human half, not the fiend half. I was not supposed to know how to use weapons in Sedeq, so I practiced in secret with a broom handle I found, then when I got to Taldor, I saved up for a year until I could buy a fine staff with the same weighting. It's different than yours, but - what was the phrase you used? 'Different strokes for different folks?'"

"We can do our own wet work in this. I mean, I assume as much. We can find this Ulfen, and see what they have to say on the matter. Also, we can check with the local great hall for the location of Wishbone Creek. Either of those work for me, and both are probably more productive than sitting and waiting for... someone or something. You want something done, you do it."

Vhekk furrows his brow and frowns at Yorah's words. "'Wet-work?' I am unfamiliar with the phrase, but if you are referring to the creek, I do not believe that we will actually be wading in it. Still, I agree - now that we have information, we can act with purpose. I apologize if my words were hasty, but had we not stopped at this tavern, we would not have known these things. I myself think that we had best visit the town hall while we are here - just as it would be folly to act without foreknowledge, so too would it be unwise to squander the opportunity before us." He glances at Yorah. "I ask that you not mistake my caution, with cause or without, for callousness. I care deeply for this town and its people, and I do not wish that any should come to harm. While I do not know this 'Lady Argentea,' I still think we should come to her aid - whether you call it honor, duty, or basic decency, we cannot stand by."

The young man grips his staff and nods towards the door. "Should we set out, then? It would seem there is work that must be done." As the group walks to their next destination, he clears his throat before speaking. "Excuse me, Lily? If you do not mind me asking, do you happen to have the blood of the spirits? I ask because you mentioned that you had left Heldren thirty years ago, but you do not appear much older than Ai and me, and thirty years ago would have been well before we drew breath." He shrugs. "If you don't wish to answer, you don't have to - it doesn't truly matter. We are all people, all worthy of respect. Some people can bend water to their will, some are made of cloth and stand a foot tall, and some have claws and three hearts - it makes no difference."

"What, so they say a few words and get to walk free? What justice is that? And will you stay here to defend us from those who don't say the words? Or say them and don't mean them?"

Nidintu laughs uproariously, only stopping once he realizes that Oleg and Svetlana are not laughing with him. "You're serious? Thrice-tenth, you're serious! Haven't you ever heard of the River Freedoms?"

He shakes his head. "You'll have to learn it at some point if you're to make your lives here - this is a part of the River Kingdoms, after all! The River Freedoms are a code of laws, passed down through the ages, that guarantee the rights of those who live here - things like the elimination of slavery, the freedom to say what you will, and the like. They're more than just a code of laws for many in these lands, they're a way of life. The Second Freedom states that oathbreakers must die - usually in gruesome ways. The Shrike Uplanders used to take those who broke their word and dismember them with horses." He glances at the unconscious bandits, who are beginning to stir. "I do not entrust your safety to their honor - honor's for dithering fools who have forgotten what duty means. Instead, I entrust your safety to their word. In these lands, there is a difference. An oath is not just 'a few words' - to go free, they must forever forsake what may be the only life they have ever known, with the knowledge that their closest friends would find them and kill them should they go back on their oath."

Nidintu shrugs. "Some aspects of it may seem harsh, but it has held together these lands since time immemorial. People from all over Avistan seek freedom in this land, you know - when I was a bandit, I once met a group of escaped slaves from Qadira, seeking a better life in the land between the rivers. I also met a slave-taker who wanted to bring them back to their homeland..." He grins and draws a finger across his throat. "...though our period of acquaintance was rather brief before I cut off his head."

"He just has his air about him, like he has one foot in somewhere else, a-another world. He's fiendishly strong, and when he tells you to do something you do it. Everyone I talked to is scared of him. He has about a dozen with him in the fort, including his three lieutenants. If you free my hands I can draw you a map of where it is. Kressle has half a dozen at her camp, just rank-and-file."

Nidintu listens as the young bandit continues his tale, shrugging once Morn is done. "Most of banditry's just appearances, kid. Bandits who look fearsome aren't questioned as often and have to fight less. Back when I was a lieutenant in the Tanith Outriders, Boss Tanith had me use this tooth polish we got off a Zelshabbaran alchemist - said it made my smile look like a mouthful of knives." His face splits in a wide smile - partly to demonstrate, partly due to the humorous memories he recalls. "I remember one merchant from Port Ice - three chins, a carriage covered in gems, the like. When he saw that smile, he... let's just say I hope he sold pants. I didn't blunt my sword once that night." He stares off into the distance for a moment, lost in an earlier time, before recovering and refocusing on Morn and his allies. "Anyway, it's probably the same thing for this Stag Lord. If he has lieutenants and warriors at his fort, he can't be all-powerful and all-knowing, can he? The fact is, leaders need minions and lieutenants and the like, just as much as they need him. Folks like the Stag Lord keep power by making them forget he needs them."

The massive fighter addresses the three now-conscious bandits, crossing his arms as he smirks at them. "On your feet, you three. I need to talk with you. We've been hashing it out with Morn here-" He indicates the now-former bandit with a jerk of his head. "-and we have a proposition for you. We could take you to prison in Restov - we'll tell them you're pickpockets so they don't hang you. However, if you swear an oath that you will abandon your life of banditry, you can find a new life as a hunter or trapper or whatever you wish. There are many places for one skilled with blade and bow-" His grin widens as his yellow eyes focus on the bandit leader. "-who knows? Perhaps Deadeye here may someday be able to hit a tree from half a dozen paces!" He turns to Oleg. "And Oleg, as I said, I'd like an oath from you as well, ensuring you won't trouble these folks so long as they uphold their end. Thrice-tenth, if these bandits accept, they'll be forsaking their old brigandry and forever changing their lives - the least you can do is let bygones be bygones!"

Bear in mind that Nikolay doesn't know that Sly is intelligent - once he reveals his intellect, Nikolay should change his approach to the shock lizard (after a heart attack or two, of course).

Also, for the record, not even I know what Nikolay is saying to Sly - I just copied and pasted the results of a five-minute Wikipedia search on torpedo rays.

Nidintu scowls at the bandit leader's words. "Half-demon, and I assure you that I will show you the meaning of pain if you do not drop your weapons. Now." As the archer's arrows sink into the cart beside him, he grins, revealing a mouth like a small armory. "Fine shooting, deadeye. In my day, bandits had to hit the broad side of a barn before they were given bows - they let any imbecile fight, these days!" As the other bandit's dagger sinks into the gaps in his armor, he turns on the offender, furious. "I warn you for the last time, drop your weapon or I will give you some of what I gave your friend there." The tiefling strides towards the bandit leader, slashing at his foe with his massive axe. "And you, braggart, let us see how well you fire that little bow when I break your arm!"

Greataxe Power Attack (Leader, Nonlethal): 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (8) + 8 = 16
Damage: 2d12 + 4 ⇒ (11, 9) + 4 = 24

Stride
Power Attack Bandit Leader

If anyone's interested, I happen to know a number of videos regarding 18th century frontier life in America, which I think might provide an interesting insight into how our characters would live in the Stolen Lands.

For example, I recently watched a video on what would have been considered a feast for someone living on the frontier. There are lots of videos on cooking, as well as a few on blacksmithing and the lives of people in equivalent situations.

A motley band of seven warriors (counting Carageorn), united to defend a frontier settlement from bandits? Sounds familiar...

"There are only six circles! What about me?"
"The triangle is you, my dear Roots."

Since Børak has been to town before would he be able to roll knowledge local to identify a store that might have the items. He has no nature knowledge so he can't get a 15 and sense motive and diplomacy are thin...

Part of why I had Nikolay volunteer to help find the herbs was his claustrophobia, but he is also quite well-suited to the task, as he comes fairly close to auto-succeeding on the rolls to identify the herbs - if he uses Knowledge (nature), he succeeds at everything above a 3 on the die. If he uses Heal, he succeeds at everything above a 2! Of course, he only has Diplomacy at default level.

As Nidintu approaches the trading post, he dismounts his horse and leads it up to the gate. He looks over the walls as he approaches, nodding as he notices their sturdy construction. He addresses the other members of the fae pack. "This is an old building - some parts are at least thirty or forty years old, at least. In those days, they made things to last, I tell you!" As the two figures approach, he glances between them, unsure of what to make of the two.

"From Restov? A-are you sure?"

Nidintu furrows his brow. "We'd know which direction we came from, I'd think. I never visited there before, so I suppose I can't be sure. It's a big city with a lot of stone buildings, yes?"

He notices the woman's apprehensive glances at him and Roots, but misinterprets her concern. Smiling broadly (under the mistaken impression that seeing his mouthful of fangs will make her less frightened), he pats Roots on the back. "You need not fear - Roots here is a competent warrior. He killed a frost giant a couple of days ago, you know! I think it's some form of the battle-frenzy - when he gets upset and starts babbling about mints and imaginary bears, he is three feet of fury incarnate."

"If you're with the Stag Lord, you're early."

Nidintu laughs uproariously. "I was once a bandit, it's true, but I left that life behind a decade ago." The tiefling extends a massive hand to Oleg. "I am Nidintu-Bel, warden of Erastil, and my friends and I were sent to deal with the bandits that plague these lands. I'll pound some sense through their skulls, sure enough. If that fails, I'll pound this axe through their skulls, instead!" He laughs again. "You say their leader is known as the Stag Lord? Can you tell us any more?" He points back in the direction the fae pack has come from. "Bokken said that you were due for another visit by those thieves soon, yes? Perhaps we can help you prepare."

As he speaks, he thinks over the name "Stag Lord," trying to remember of any of the old bandit lords were known by that name.

Banditry Lore (Trained): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (6) + 5 = 11

Hermitage

Nidintu looks around the cramped hermitage. "This place reminds me of where I grew up." He raises his eyebrows. "Not that I'm saying we should sleep in here! You have no idea how many times I hit my head when I was young."

He spreads his bedroll out on the hilltop, but he does join in the conversation between Bokken and Roots. "Did Erastil craft your body himself, then, Roots, or was it another? Perhaps this Marianne you told me about?"

The massive warrior gazes into the fire, lost in contemplation. After a moment, he speaks. "I certainly wasn't crafted from vines or some such - I had a mother and a father, just as Bokken or Orlund did. My mother's name was Kaiondieh, but I remember little of her - she left shortly after the birth of me and my twin brother. My father always said that she was an fool without true faith, but his condemnation is high praise, and I set little stock by his words. For all I know, she could have been a perfectly kind and decent person - I certainly hope so, but I may never know for sure."

Nidintu scowls and spits. "My father Andus, on the other hand, I knew all too well. He was a vile person - a worshiper of some dark horror from between the stars. He sacrificed people on his altar, you know - took the corpses and made Vanrith and me..." He breaks off, shuddering. "...such memories are painful, and best forgotten. In any case, I doubt you would have much appetite left if I told you. Suffice to say that Vanrith does not eat meat anymore. I think he wanted us to become the avatars of his loathsome god, much as your body was before it was you, Roots - empty husks waiting for a powerful spirit to make them its puppet."

After a moment, however, his mood brightens. "Fortunately, he died when I was very young, and the world is likely a safer place for it. I have few memories of him, as I spent most of my life in the care of a hermit who followed Erastil, much like yourself, Bokken." He looks around at the other members of the fae pack. "What of yourselves, my friends? Do you have any tales you remember? Heroes you met? Great deeds you witnessed?"

Oleg's Trading Post

As Nidintu spots the trading post and the figure on its roof, he waves to get the man's attention and calls out to him. "Hello there! Are you Oleg? We're from Restov to help with your problem!" He urges his horse onward, trying to reach the safety of the old fortress's walls before night falls.

For Mokmurian, be aware that we already have both an Investigator and a Bard in the party, so it may be important to differentiate what Tirath is bringing to the table.

Sincerest apologies - I should have been more clear on my intent. Looking through the current two characters, each of them seems to be focused around direct utility - for instance, Park Song has significant skill ranks in Diplomacy and the other parts of the traditional "face" loadout, while Petyr has special combat abilities. Both current characters are best at directly acting themselves, but in keeping with the requested role of healing/support who can help deal with incorporeal undead, most of Tirath's abilities are intended not to directly act, but to help the other party members act more efficiently. For instance, his Naturalist ability from the Archivist archetype lets him increase the AC and saving throws of the other players if he can pass a routine Knowledge check. In addition, most of his spell slots are devoted to healing and/or other utility spells, and he can effectively "channel energy" with his Healing Bombs discovery. While Dr. Zhivago doesn't have any cleric levels as such, I hope to fulfill the cleric's support role in the party.

Earlier, at the foot of the hill:

Nidintu looks down at Roots with a degree of admonishment. "You cannot rely on an imaginary bear to solve your problems for you, Roots. Only you can prevent forest fires!" As the excitable leshy babbles on about volcanoes, Nidintu furrows his brow. "Volcanoes? We have no volcanoes in these parts, my friend." He laughs. "You are one month old now, yes? I asked the same question to my caretaker when I was... about four hundred and eighty times your age, young one. The Tors have been quiet for all of recorded history. Other places have tales of such events - 'when Mhar Massif calls forth his challenge to the gods, and the skies grow dark with his rage,' say the people of the Kodars - but never here."

At the hermitage:

Nidintu raises his hands in conciliation at the hermit's confrontational attitude. "Be calm, friend! We're no bandits - not anymore, at least. We just saw the smoke from your fire and wanted to see if you were well. You might have needed tools or medicine, and I thought that it would be a kindness to see if we could bring you something from Restov. Besides, not all hermits in these lands live such a life by choice, and for those that do not, it can be difficult indeed." The massive warrior peers at the wrinkled man, trying to see if he recognizes him - or if the hermit recognizes the tiefling. He steps back, in case the man does indeed wish to continue his isolation.

Looking back at the campaign logs, we have so far had three full gameplay pages of nothing but free-form roleplaying - no encounter mode, no influence subsystem.

This campaign is awesome.

The next day, Nidintu seems to respond well to the improved weather - unlike the previous day, which was mostly spent in silence, the warrior chatters almost constantly as his horse rides through the grasslands, commenting on the weather, telling stories, and making small talk with his newfound friends. As the tiefling spots the smoke rising from the hilltop, he reins in his horse. "There must be a campfire of some sort on the hill. Perhaps trappers, perhaps bandits. Either way, I think we should investigate."

Nidintu listens attentively to Xavin's introduction, nodding once his fellow elf finishes. "For young Orlund here, I have tales of heroes of days past, but you, friend Xavin, should speak with my brother Vanrith. He studies dark things in the hopes of maintaining this same vigilance you seek to uphold." The massive warrior searches in his pack, quickly finding an old letter with a simple clay seal. "The last I heard from him, he was somewhere in old Ninshabur, seeking the libraries of the lost city of Zarrataab." He raises an eyebrow. "He was in Kyonin briefly, but I doubt you would have met him, friend Xavin - he spent most of his time awaiting execution in Siavenian. Demon-haunted lands are rarely welcoming to those who bear the blood of their enemies - it's why I never joined the Crusades."

At Maegar Varn's words, Nidintu smirks. "The edge of civilization, Lord Varn? I suppose it depends which way you are walking. I grew up in the River Kingdoms, and I would readily set their freedoms against the slave markets of Qadira or the heretics' pyres of Mendev - the 'holy lands' of so-called civilization, is it not said? We may have no temples and palaces, but we also have no slave-drivers and inquisitors." He pats Maegar on the back. "Regardless, I wish you well, Lord Varn, and I hope to hear from you soon." He nods to the motley crew of the Varnling Host, then enters the inn for the mid-day meal.

Later that day, as the walls of Fort Serenko come into view, Nidintu reins in his horse and turns to his companions. "The way splits here, friends. The main road goes north, but we could save time if we cut directly across the plains to the west. There's a lone hill about a day's ride from here - it would make an excellent campsite for tomorrow's rest, if we wish to cut across the plains." He gives a nervous glance to the walls of the fort - while it may have a warm fire and a place to sleep, it may also have a bounty poster for his head - something which might lead to rather awkward explanations to his newfound allies. "Regardless, let's camp here for the night. We shouldn't bother the soldiers - I'm sure they're very busy."

As the hooded figure passes his hiding place, Nikolay emerges from his camouflaged position amongst the memorials, an explosive concoction held in his hand and aimed at the cloaked stranger's back. "State your name, co-conspirators, and relation to the vile necromancers of the Whispering Way or prepare to be immolated!"

At Orlund's words, Nidintu turns his head to look at the young priest, but does not break his stride. "You admire the heroes of the old days then, yes? Their lives, their deeds, their tragedies?" He smirks. "Sometime, I should speak with you. The priest who raised me collected tales the way nobles collect titles, and I have seen many things in my one hundred and thirty-three years of life. Tell me, have you ever heard the tragedy of Cimerra of Lagash and his love Ishipal of At? It is an old tale, with a long and twisted history. Or perhaps the parable of the farmer and the boastful priests? Another old tale, and one much beloved among the faithful of Erastil." His smirk widens into a grin. "I suspect we will have much to talk about."

At the mention of a "family name," however, Nidintu scowls. "Names are not heirlooms, to be passed down from father to son. All who have had dealings with the fae should know of the importance of names, and they should not be wasted on trivial things like who your forebears were. Your name should reflect who you are, what you have done. Those nobles who define themselves by their house names are dandies, hiding behind the works of their ancestors because they are no-one and they have done nothing of significance." He slaps Orlund on the back. "If your father will not let you take his name, make your own. Let your deeds define you, young man. Form with your own crafts the future you seek."

"And would you care to share your name and intentions as well, master elf?"

Nidintu halts, turning fully to face the new members of the fae pack. "Of course - how could I forget? I am Nidintu-Bel, warden of Erastil. As for my intentions..." The tiefling shrugs. "I see no real reason to 'tame' the Stolen Lands - I was born there, and I have spent all my life in its wilds. Its people can care for themselves. Still, I have been given a duty, and duty is above all."

At Halrod's words in Elvish, Nidintu looks at the other elf. He responds in the same tongue, though his speech is halting and uncertain, making it clear that Elvish is neither his first nor most frequently used language. «Were the carving of a horse or drake, then I would agree with you, friend Halrod, but such beings as I have carved need no more foothold in mortal minds than they have already. Perhaps it is best that scholars are wary of the knowledge they seek, that others might not fall under the sway of the occult. Tell me, have you ever looked at the night sky? Truly looked? We see the stars and offer to Desna prayers, but they are so far away, and so small. What of the shadowed places between? What do you imagine lurks there, in the Dark Tapestry, my friend?»

The warrior glances in the direction he threw his carving, his yellow eyes seeming to blaze in the light of the fire. «My father was once a scholar of Desna's faith, a good man not unlike you or I. He peered too far into this unknowable abyss and was lost, you understand? His heart was filled with darkness, and he gave his worship to strange beasts from between the stars - it was an image of one of these creatures that I carved, from my father's altar. This is why I fear for my brother Vanrith. He studies the creatures from these dark places so he can fight against them, but I fear that their influence may overcome him in the end.» He looks towards the slumbering Roots underneath the tree. «I do not wish that any should face the same peril - the child least of all. He has so many years ahead of him, and it would be a tragedy were they cut short.»

As Halrod ascends into the elm, Nidintu moves to his bedroll beneath another nearby tree and goes to sleep.

Nidintu already owns most of the equipment he needs to survive in the wild, so he busies himself with purchasing the horses. As he haggles with the stable-master over the price of mounts, one of the horses, the runt of a litter of draft horses (that is, just under six feet), kicks at a particularly annoying fly, misses, and hits the warrior, knocking him backwards into a wall with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. In a moment, the stable-master is helping him up, a look of worry on his face. "I'm so sorry, sir - we can find you another-" He is cut off by Nidintu, however, who grins as he gets to his feet. Despite his injury, his tone betrays good cheer, even a hint of mirth, and it's clear that he bears no ill will towards either the stable-master or the horse. "Another horse? What, are you trying to cheat me? I'll buy this one!"

After finishing his purchases, Nidintu returns to the group riding on his massive bay horse, leading eight other various equines outfitted with tack. Spotting the other members of the fae pack, he waves to them. "My friends! I have purchased mounts!" He looks down at his own steed and pats the horse's neck. "I think I'll call you Rādāni-Tānu - like the steed of Arishaka, yes?" The horse says nothing but continues its plodding gait. Nidintu, however, is not fooled by the horse's seemingly slow turn of speed - having worked with several plow horses in his relatively brief time as a farmhand, he recognizes that the animal can maintain its steady pace for hours, even days on end.

As the group stops to camp beside the road to Nivatka's Crossing, Nidintu checks to make sure his new mount is properly garbed in its horse blanket, then unrolls his bedroll under a tree or shrub or the like - he's clearly not picky about where he sleeps, but remembering the storm of last night, he is taking limited precautions not to be excessively rained on. He volunteers for the midnight watch shift again, as his eyes are keener than most in the dead of night. When his shift rolls around, he spends it in front of the fire assuming the party does build a fire - on his bedroll otherwise, whittling the end of a stout stick with the knife Amiri gifted him. He notes with some interest that it never seems to grow dull, and he glances at Amiri. The table-knife of some great giant, perhaps? The tool of some mighty hero or other? The craftsmanship is certainly masterful - this is no ordinary knife.

Crafting (Trained): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21
Occultism (Trained): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (6) + 5 = 11

The end result is masterfully carved, but quite unusual in its subject matter - a strange conglomeration of spheres, arranged to form intricate, twisting shapes. There is something ineffably disturbing about the eerie congress of spheres, and as his shift ends, Nidintu stares at it for a moment when the next watcher comes to relieve him, his thoughts lost in the alien geometry of the piece. After a moment, he shakes his head as if to clear it, stands up, and throws it into the brush as far as he can. Such things are likely better lost...