Mot Casns's page

As the healing energy washes over him Mot lets out a sigh of contentment. With the flames finally dying out on their own the Highlander climbs to his feet drawing his often neglected shield and flail from where they've long been strapped to his kit, leaving his pipes where they lay on the floor.

"Mah thank's Beeoray, but ye shoold save yoor minestraysheons fer tha lad strahped tae tha bed!" He nods to the room holding the tortured prisoner. "Like lee hea needs et moore than Ah!" A pained smile fights for right of place on his face. Though for moment he looks confused before answering the Druid. "Mah sword? Et's rahgt there on mae back!" The Highlander casts a glance over his shoulder to make sure that the blade of his fathers was indeed still secured in it's hoop and brace.

Weapons in hand, the warrior of Casns slams flail against shield and takes in a massive breath of air, preparing to roar out in song yet again.

Okay, so I think with two move actions he can stand up and draw both shield and flail. Preparing to start up Bardic Performance again next turn. Also, Mot's AC is now 19

With a grunt and an intake of hot air Mot sets to patting at his body trying to extinguish the flames. Seeing that it's not having much effect the Highlander tumbles forward and attempts to roll to damp down the fire, as he was taught when just a young child.

Reflex 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (3) + 5 = 8

Seeing his companions down the short flight of stairs, Mot comes to a halt and once more attempts to break the bonds that hold him.

STR 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6

Mot stumbles as the hall is plunged into darkness. His night vision non-existent as the magical illumination turns out...

...like a light.

Mot will follow Olp as best able.

Mot's wild look rips itself from foe to Olp and with a snarl he strains once more against his bonds.

STR (To break webbing) 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4

But the webbing proves too strong for him in his weakened state. Teeth bared in helpless fury he turns and follows his diminutive companion back down the hall as best he can.

If there's one thing the dice have told me this encounter, it's that they want, on no uncertain terms, for the Highlander to die.

Will 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (7) + 4 = 11

Mot feels the full brunt of the lash as the enchanted weapon strikes true. Pain blossoms in violent, angry lines across his back and he hisses through clenched teeth. Deep red emotion bubbles up behind his eyes, but his muscles refuse to give way to the call of his animal mind. For the first time the Highlander feels the full weight of his exhaustion, the day's exploits catching up to the warrior. He struggles against the ties of webbing that cover his hulking, armored form, but they too refuse to release their hold on him.

He stands there a moment, breath coming like a ragged bellows. Sweat drips from his matted locks of unkempt hair and a tongue thick with the need for drink flicks out over chapped lips. For a moment, the barbaric Casns thinks anger has left him, however new wellsprings of fiery fury form at the jeering of the servant of Zon-Kuthon. His body might be failing him, but the second son of The Casns of Urlghain still has a spirit of un-cut granite!

Even as weakened arms strain against the hold of the spiders webbing, Mot roars in defiance at the chain wielding foe: "THA JOEY OOF CADEEN CALEEN ES SOOOOOOOOOONG!" Spittle flies towards his enemy as the sound reverberates through the hall, the full force of Mot's anger behind the declaration.

So I guess I'll need to some GM determining here. Mot is trying to pull a dirty trick to deafen/sicken his opponent. Normally this would provoke an AoO, but I hope since Mot is 5 feet away, maybe he can avoid it? But then the dude is using a chain, and I don't know if that has reach or not. Whatever, the point is I don't rightly know what to roll for the CMB with a "sonic attack" so if Nether wants to square that away as he sees fit that'd be cool. But that's what Mot is trying to do.

Will 1d20 + 4 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 4 + 1 = 8

Mot whips his head around in an open snarl but feels his feet moving of their own accord, at least as much as the sticky webbing allows. Shock and then anger play over his open features as the Highlander wades into the hall, but with a defiant, and fairly rude, gesture he continues playing the melody as best he can even as he moves like an automaton, but as he begins, his fingers do not obey him and he is forced to silence.

Mot grips his pipes all the tighter, laughing to himself at Beorae's concern. Had they not encountered no opposition inside the tower? He doesn't say anything, but a smile plays across his face as he himself plays a bright, quick tune.

So sure he is of their safety it takes him a moment to recognize the attacker in the doorway before him. Even as the bolt from their crossbow comes closer than the big Urlghain generally likes such things, he doesn't seem to understand. It's only when the blade swishes towards him that his animal instincts kick in, the biting sting of the wound fully pulls him into the fight. The bright tune squeals into a horrid shriek that itself breaks into a roar of pain as the warrior reacts to the blow.

Knowledge (Plains) 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2
FORT 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (2) + 7 = 9
Well, there you go.

Skin glowing from the druids spell, Mot winces as he feels the strength drain out of him. Nevertheless he raises his set of pipes high above his head and with a roar brings them down, attempting to clobber the new foe before him.

Bagpipes 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (17) + 5 = 22
DMG 1d6 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6

Mot continues sitting still as stone. Only occasionally turning to reveal the next page in his illustrated epic.

Mot cocks an ear towards the staircase at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, but not hearing any anger or other sounds of trouble turns back to his book and continues "reading."

Perception 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (14) + 3 = 17

Listening for any sounds of danger or badness going on upstairs.

Mot sinks to the floor, a contented look on his face as he turns the pages of his newly discovered treasure.

Mot idly hums a tuneless dirge as he wanders the room. Bored eyes search for anything interesting to occupy his time.
Perception1d20 + 3 ⇒ (20) + 3 = 23

Mot wanders into the expansive chamber idly digging at his ear. He flicks a wad of bloody wax off of his smallest digit before squinting down at the etched podium. Mildly curious he asks over his shoulder, "Doos ah book haev tae haev pages?"

A gnarly finger traces out some of the incomprehensible text, a bloody streak leaving his finger with the gesture.

Reflex 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8

Mot flinches as the blast of sound peels out. Blood runs freely from his ears, ringing as if his head were the striker of a bell.

With the flat of his hand he bangs against the side of his matted skull, like a swimmer trying to clear their ear canal. Flecks of blood spatters the floor with the effort.

Looking around the group he asks: "Wea ahl right?"

"Coold." Mot mutters as he redoubles his efforts.

STR 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16
STR 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16
STR 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (8) + 3 = 11

Mot watches the others worry at the door. He tugs at the still-wet leather of his new sea-beast skin vest before harumphing at Olps suggestion. With a few great strides he approaches the doors and heaves with both hands.

Open doors (STR) 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (9) + 3 = 12

Mot's ears perk up at the accusations and his eyes narrow as the looks at Themp directly, seeing no eyes other than his in the vicinity...

"Aye, Ah'm fine." Mot assures his city-bred friend. He smiles reassuringly and continues his efforts with the slaughter.

Mot appears a little nonplussed as he glances up from his task. "Wea ahl kelled et." He says, gesturing with a gore-soaked hand at the now-pulverized carcass. "Ah was able tae get fooor servens oof steak froom et. Ah fegure ef wea all trem doown ae lettle, wea coold stretch et tae fahve." He finishes looking at their diminutive, fifth member.

There's no guile in his face, and it appears the big warrior truly considered it a team effort to bring down the Quons'Maki.

Yay teamwork! :D

Mot shrugs at the kobolds inquiry. "Ah suppoose et es poosible? Ah dinnae knoo much aboot drahgons, but ae bed oof goold an jewals soonds nice!" He flashes a smile as he tugs on the skin of the great beast.

Running a hand over the length of hide Mot ensures that there is no appreciable amount of hair on the water-dwellers skin. He carries his prize back to the lakes edge before dunking it and allowing it to soak, carefully removing any bits of fat and flesh that still cling to it's underside.

Once satisfied that the grisly token had soaked through, the Highlander removes it and starts rubbing it down with a solution of water and the creatures own brain, thoroughly mixed while he waited.

Eventually Mot wants to form the skin into a shirt to wear over his armor. Not sure how long you want that to take, Nether?

"Ha!" Mot laughs from where he is carefully trying to butcher a tentacle. "Tha' Ah might!" He glances back up at the tower where Themp examines it. His big blue eyes squint as the Highlander assess the construction. Unable to spot a joint or seem in the edifice, an uncertain gleam forms on his normally resolved features. His tone almost sounds unsure when he says again "Ah might..."

Banishing thoughts of demolition from his mind, Mot again tends to the task at hand. As carefully as he can, the big warrior attempts to flay the skin off of the beasts form.

Survival 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (6) + 4 = 10

He's about to try and harvest the teeth, when he notices the full on mess that has been made of the beasts mouth orifice. Shrugging, the berserker begins wrapping the meat for storage.

To clarify, Mot is trying to harvest the skin, and not use the teeth.

Perception 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (5) + 3 = 8

Mot hops out of the small vessel with a heavy splash in the shallows. Wading waist deep back into the lake the Highlander unties the massive unholy beast and begins dragging it to shore, muscles heaving with the effort.

Once the majority of the creature is on dry ground only then does he look upon their destination, finally attained through trial and tribulation. "Et es beggar than Ah thooght." He notes, somewhat absently. Reaching for the dagger on his belt the Casns is momentarily confused at the absence of the small blade.

Big blue eyes widen with realization and a meaty hand slaps itself on his hairy forehead. The tool had probably sunk far into the fresh water depths by now. A quite sound halfway between a chuckle and a grown escapes the warriors throat as he draws his great sword and attempts to butcher the beast there on the beach.

STR 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (14) + 3 = 17
STR 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4

Survival 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (11) + 4 = 15
Survival 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7

Not sure what you want for dragging the thing onto the beach. Also, looking for any food-meat and especially trophies of so foul a creature.

As Mot bursts through to the above world his massive lungs inflate like bellows, bringing in a roar of fresh clean air. A few moments later the effects of the spell wear off, and the abnormally huge highlander reverts to his typical form. The red is gone from his eyes and he clings to the side of the boat like a drowned puppy. Wild hair, typically in a self-sustained halo around his head lies soaking and matted to his skull as the Casns fighter strains with visible effort to roll himself into the little vessel.

Nearly a minute transpires before Mot recovers enough to find his voice. The barbarian begins to tie the monstrous lake creature to the boat, allowing it to be towed behind. "Ah followed tha creetoor doon to tha briny deeps! Et woos there Ah smot 'es rooin!" Task completed he turns back to Themp, Big tired grin on his face he continues with a flourish of his hands. "As foor mea size, Ah toold yoo, Ah'm magec noow!" A brief flash of amber energy forms in his outstretched hand and a little figure of, well, Mot appears. Crudely formed and not much to look at, it is still obvious that the figurine of the Casns warrior has the lake monster lifted above it's head, as if rending it in two.

Fun fact! Mot once heard the phrase "Briny Depths" in a poem by a traveler from the south. He knows it has to do with water, but he doesn't realize that the Ocean is salt, and lakes tend to be fresh. *The more you knooooow!*

Swim 1d20 + 7 - 2 ⇒ (10) + 7 - 2 = 15
Swim 1d20 + 7 - 2 ⇒ (2) + 7 - 2 = 7

F!$%ing kidding me, dice?

Straining against the pull of the deep, Mot slowly paddles in the waves.

1 Rage. 11 con. 3 large.

Rippling muscles strain against the pull of the water as the Casns warrior swims, trophy still in tow.

Swim 1d20 + 7 - 2 ⇒ (2) + 7 - 2 = 7
Swim 1d20 + 7 - 2 ⇒ (6) + 7 - 2 = 11

2 rounds of Rage. 12 until con checks. 4 rounds of large.

Mot watches the life fade from the creatures eyes, but the Highland berserker feels no release from his clans curse. Bubbles of air form as the Casns fighter growls and reaches for the beast. Grabbing hold of the tentacled thing he kicks for the surface, massive limbs propelling him through the water.

Swim 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24
Swim 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (4) + 7 = 11

Not sure what else to roll here, as he's underwater...

3 Rounds of Rage, 13 rounds to Con, 5 rounds of Large.

As the water clears Mot again spots the hated foe drifting in the deep. Using his legs to propel himself into an attack, the blood-thirsty Urlghain swings for the beast once again!

Raging Enbiggened Family Greatsword ATK 1d20 + 10 - 2 ⇒ (5) + 10 - 2 = 13
DMG 3d6 + 11 - 2 ⇒ (6, 3, 5) + 11 - 2 = 23
Stupid dice, making this needlessly annoying!

Question though, assuming it is still alive, it's probably unconscious? Would that remove whatever DEX bonus it would have to AC?

Mot has 4 rounds of Rage remaining. AC is 14, HP is 44. 13 Rounds until CON checks, 5 rounds of Large.

Raging Embiggened Family Greatsword ATK 1d20 + 10 - 2 ⇒ (10) + 10 - 2 = 18
DMG 3d6 + 11 - 2 ⇒ (1, 3, 4) + 11 - 2 = 17

Mot swings his blade blindly into the murky water, headless of whether or not he can even hit the beast.

High for good?
1d100 ⇒ 31

Mot has 5 rounds of Rage remaining. AC is 14, HP is 44. 14 Rounds until CON checks, 6 rounds of Large.

A mammoth hand flings the dagger cum short sword at the retreating figure, but the weapon merely tumbles into the darkness below. Gripping his greatsword with both free hands, the mighty Urlghain swings as the behemoth darts away!

Raging Embiggened Family Greatsword Power AoO 1d20 + 9 - 2 ⇒ (7) + 9 - 2 = 14
DMG 3d6 + 12 ⇒ (4, 3, 4) + 12 = 23

Don't know if the AoO should get any flanking bonuses?

With fury in his eyes the beast of a man stretches his arms out and tries to swim after the creature!

Swim 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22

His massive shape speeds through the water until he can see the beast is no more than ten feet further, once more the Casns fighter grips his ancestral blade and swings with all his might!

Raging Enbiggened Family Greatsword Power ATK 1d20 + 9 - 2 ⇒ (8) + 9 - 2 = 15
DMG 3d6 + 12 ⇒ (4, 6, 4) + 12 = 26

:/ I have no idea what the things AC is, but damn those low rolls.

Mot has 6 rounds of Rage remaining. AC is 14, HP is 44. 15 Rounds until he has to hold his breath. 7 Rounds of Large size remain.

Mot writhes in fury under the press of the ever deepening waters. His off hand tries to bring sword to bear, but the grip of the abomination holding him under is irrefutable. Once again the Highlander is left to scramble about on his belt, this time though, his had finds hilt of dagger. With a furious tearing he pulls the blade free, now the size of a short sword as the monster of a man glares at the monster of a fish dragging them down.

Enbiggened Raging Dagger Power ATK 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (15) + 8 = 23
DMG 1d6 + 8 ⇒ (2) + 8 = 10

Ooooof course, now that Mot is attacking, the dice work for him. :/

The water roils around him as the massive warrior struggles to break free of the creatures grasp!

Raging Large Aided CMB to break grapple! 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (8) + 12 = 20

Emperors bones! >:(

Mots eyes roll wildly in his head as his one free hand scrabbles about on his belt searching for a smaller weapon. The meaty glove wraps around a smooth cylindrical object and he pulls it free only to find that instead of a dagger, he is holding one of his potions from the Gnomes. Without thinking, the savage Highlander shoves the potion, bottle and all, into his mouth and with a sickening crunch, begins chewing!

Drank Potion of Enlarge Person
Assuming everything is kosher, Mot is now Large sized.
AC is 14. HP is 44. 9 rounds of Rage remain. 38 rounds until he has to hold his breath, wait, equal to your CON score? I thought it was CONx2?

Not sure if being Large would make it tough for the squid to keep grappling or not. It boosts Mot's CMB to 10 I think. 10 while Large and Raging.

As the tentacle tightens it's hold, Mots eyes start to cloud as the plague of fury begins to take hold of his blood. His muscles strain and pull against the creatures form, striving to break free of it's hold.

Mot is Raging. 10 rounds remain after this one.
HP is now 44. AC is now 16. CON is 20, so for 10 rounds, mot can hold his breath for 40 rounds, :P

Raging Free CMB grapple-break! (Hopefully) 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (3) + 12 = 15
I think the dice actually do want us to die.
Raging CMB grapple-break 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (11) + 8 = 19
F*++ me.

"Dinnae woory!" Mot calls out as his head pokes above water, "Ah'll nae let hem get awaaay!" The word is drawn from his mouth to a comical length as he is wrapped by a massive tentacle and pulled through the water.

Moments later the big Highlander bursts back up through the waves, visibly struggling to break free!

Break Grapple CMB 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (1) + 6 = 7

Thanks. Thanks dice. I hate you too.

Knowledge (Nature) 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (2) + 6 = 8 Balls.

Mot's eyes widen as he sees the myriad tentacles launch out of the water, but the Highland warrior doesn't hesitate in fear. Instead he attempts to bolt to his feet, drawing his family's shining greatsword in the process!

Acrobatics 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (10) + 8 = 18

Balancing easily on the shuddering Catamaran the bardic berserker starts to try to walk over Shark and Beorae to the end of the boat, but after a moments irritation at the futility of it, leaps overboard into the thrashing waters!

Two move actions I think.

Mot reaches into the salt container, seeing if there's anything buried in this one.

Initiative 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4

Mot tucks into the manual labor with gusto.

Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (1) + 4 = 5
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (19) + 4 = 23
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (7) + 4 = 11
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7

As he's rowing, the Urlghain notices the curious box. Without thinking he kicks at it, trying to open the container to discover it's contents.

STR 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6

Irritated, he kicks again...

STR 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 = 21

What's in the box! WATS IN THE BAAAAAWWWWWX?!

Mot enthusiastically hops into the small boat and grabs an oar before settling himself into one of the front seats and making as ready as he can.

Profession (Sailor)1d20 ⇒ 7
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (19) + 4 = 23
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (4) + 4 = 8
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (13) + 4 = 17
Swim 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (8) + 4 = 12
Not sure how many we need?

...nice.

Aid to Craft (Carpentry) 1d20 ⇒ 16

Mot grabs some of the wood and attempts to mimic Themps actions enhancing the boat.

Morning finds Mot sitting on the floor whispering over the breastplate taken from the fallen warrior the day before. The big Urlghain has a look of utter concentration on his face as he waves his hands about over the piece of armor. Every few moments the warm amber light fills the room and focuses on the breastplate but, save for the first time he cast his "cleaning" spell, nothing seems to change with it.

Finally satisfied he leans back and hefts the metal up and into the diffuse sunlight leaking through the imperfections in the shacks construction. He stands and is about to buckle it on when he notices Beorae speaking with Themp. Wandering over the Casns warrior sees Themp seem to perk up again under the Druids healing magic. He places a meaty hand on the street-rats shoulder and pats reassuringly. "Hang en there boyoo, yool pull threw." As he does so, more of the amber light plays out of his hand and into the rogue!

Mot casts Prestidigitation like, a dozen times on the armor, and then casts Resistance on Themp. +1 to your next saving throw. I'll let Nether decide if it counts towards your current FORT save or for another one.

Mot smiles at the energy, but then looks confused as he sees that Themp doesn't look any cleaner. He absently scratches at his head, but forgets all about it when he sees Beorae and Shark heading outside. "Aye, tha soonds liek ae good plahn." Mot nods in approval before hefting the mithral breastplate up to show. "Ah cleened et as good as ah coould, but ah feer et maght have soome oof Craigs evel en et stell?" He says by way of question.

Mot's jaw drops at the proclamation from his Druid friend. He's about to begin peppering the woman with questions but decides instead to remain silent. Closing his mouth with a 'snap' he grins ruefully and spears one of the fish before gutting it and preparing it for the evening's meal.

Watching Beorae take pen to paper, Mot takes on a contemplative air. Many expressions flit over his face, most of them related to anger or confusion somehow. By the time she's finished though, his eyes are clear and he approaches his companion with a simple request. "Beoragh, dew yoo thenk yoo could doo mea ae boon?" He starts, "Ah want foor peopool ta knoow about wha' happened here. Meybey yoo could pen ae sign? Or soomesuch, tellin' hoow tha Tare'Owluf clan died here tooday? An tha ae Casns helped?" The hulking man seems oddly demure, but definitely earnest in his request.

Mot twirls in a final flourish finishing his dance of magical-jubilation. Breathing heavy he examines his arms, clean of all dirt and road grime, wounds closed and well on the way to being fully healed. All his life it had only been the gifted and learned of his clan who had been granted the ability to bend the worlds unseen to their whim. Never in his nearly 30 years had the hulking berserker thought that he would be able to summon and manipulate the otherworldly.

Just then, he hears the seemingly incessant call of an eagle cutting through the patter of the rainfall outside, drawing him out of his reverie. Grabbing his spear, the warrior grins and begins to ask Themp if he's ever eaten eagle, before deciding he'll just surprise his friends with the fresh meat for tonights meal.

Stepping outside he nearly trips over the large sturgeon laying just outside the entrance. With a startled yelp he stumbles out into the rain before glancing at the fish, then up to the water-laden clouds in confusion.

"Yoo dinnae ha' too tell mea twice!" Mot laughs as more of his injuries heal from the combined ministrations of the Paladin and Druid.

The big highlander falls silent, watching the two cast their healing magics. As they go about their business he can be seen in a corner of the small shack trying to mimic the hand positioning and postures of the healers.

"Ooh Caden Caleean,
Soo brash an soo boold!
Heal oop mah woonds,
An maek mea whoole!"

He whispers, contorting his fingers like some sort of circus performer. Predictably, nothing happens. He throws his great hairy mits above his head with exasperation, "Twenny and twenny hells! Ah joost wanna nae be hurt!" The curious lilt and timber of his voice seem to match the curve and spin of his irritated gesticulation, and it doesn't take long before that warm amber light, now rapidly becoming familiar to the hulking Urlghain, to spread from his waving hands and cover his wounds, healing the warrior from his injuries!

CLW 1d8 + 4 ⇒ (2) + 4 = 6
CLW 1d8 + 4 ⇒ (4) + 4 = 8

Mot beams at his elven companion, "Tha greet good Cayden Cayleean bestooed mea weth poower when ah drank thoose pootions!" Mot declares proudly. But at the mention of the fallen Urlghain his face darkens somewhat.

"Nae, ae dinnae knoo hem. Boot ah knoo hes family." He relates the story of the Casns and the Tare'Owluf clans and their great enmity, all those years ago.

Heh, read the spoiler Nether gave me a while back. :P

Mot bursts into the small shack with a smile beaming on his face. Though still wet from the pouring rain, the Highlander is nearly spotless in appearance. His armor, clothes, weapons, and body all sheen as if freshly scrubbed in a
warm bath. Even his wounds, though still significant, are at least clean and free of dirt.

"Hoho, frens!" he says by way of greeting as the door slams into the wall with the force of his entrance, "Look wha' tha Occidental Good has bestoowed apoon mea!"

The big warrior waves his hands about in a series of fancy gestures. You can only assume he's trying to mimic the performing magicians you've all see travelling the country side. Just when it appears that nothing will be happening, he says "Ef oonley there waas ae whey ta clen oop ae bet!"

The words, as usual, are nearly a mash of incomprehensible gibberish. But it's easy to recognize the now-familiar lilt and bounce of his musical cadence. However, unlike normal, this time there is a glow of amber light that forms in his gnarled hands, flowing out into the room to cover every surface!

Cast Prestidigitation to clean up the small room.

Hey does anybody mind if Mot gets the breastplate? It'll help his rather absymal AC.

"Mah thenks, Palhaden." Mot says quietly as the healing energy alleviates some of his pain. He looks down at his blood and mud-soaked kit and almost grimaces. "Ef oonley there waas ae whey ta clen oop ae bet." He gestures to the towering mess that he's become over their journey and as he does so a warm amber light plays in his hands and quickly covers him from head to toe! In an instant the Highlander is clean as a whistle, practically sparkling in the dim light of the structure.

Cast Prestidigitation

"HoHO!" the big warrior beams "Tha Accedental Good werks en mastereeoos wahs!" He turns a self-appreciating spin trying to examine himself from every direction. This is obviously the cleanest the Highlander has been in months. Maybe years.

Mot busies himself examining his ancestral blade. He sighs heavily as the warrior leans against the wall of the small hut. Blood runs from his still open gash across his chest.

As the beast breathes its last, Mot sighs with the last of the combats tension flowing out of his tired muscles. Using his family's ancestral weapon as a crutch the man of Casns rises to his feet.

The rage gone from his eyes, Mot just looks tired as he watches the body of the dead Urlghain in the pouring rain. He winces with the pain from the still open gash in his chest, but nevertheless raises the weapon high over his head.

He brings it down with all the force his Urlghain arms can muster.

STR 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (9) + 3 = 12
Attempting to remove Craig's head.

Reaching down, he grabs the oversized head by its gnarly mop of hair and hefts it up to eye level. Pivoting on one foot, he hurls the offensive object as far as he can out into the troubled waters.

Cleaning the blade of the magical greatsword on the dirty fabric of his kilt, Mot walks back to the ramshackle shack and makes to the entrance as of to explore inside.

Mot stumbles as the massive arm drags him down. Landing face to face with the undead brute, Mot comes to a stunning revelation.

He cannot beat this foe.

The Urlghain warrior of clan Casns decides then and there that if he can't beat Tare'Owluf then he can at least make sure his friends are safe from him, at least a few moments longer.

With all his strength he grips his family's ancient weapon as tightly as he can. Closing his eyes, the equally brutish poet smiles a bloody grin at his enemy and roars:

"DEW YOO HEAR MEA SENG!"
"SENGEN THA SOONG OOF AN ANGREE MAN!"
"ETS THA MUSECK OOF AE PERSOON WHOO"
"WON' LET YOO HURT MEA FRANDS!"

Bardic performance: Inspire courage. +1 to attack and +1 to damage rolls. Don't forget, as long as he's grappling Mot, he still takes the grapple penalties!