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If any room remains by the time the creature Ngogh'gnish acts, it is soon filled. The being stutter-steps through the space in a cackling dash, cacophonous voices shrieking and gibbering without meaning as it lunges forward. As it collides with a guard it simply smashes into the man, its arms pummeling his upper torso with unreal strength given their spindly appearance--but then, they seem to thicken and knot with muscle in the moment as the land the blow.
"The slaughter is upon," the thing whispers from the edge of its cell. The eyes blink and roll wildly, not in unison, but with some semblance of a pattern. The slithering body quivers against the bars, wrapping and unwrapping in what's most probably anticipation. "Too much unknown, always forever, to know is to not, as is was will. Now is to be, while being is. Like fish in a church they are, but not forever, no, seize while the seizing is good." Ngogh'gnish makes no motion toward the door, but its body appears to be straining toward it--as though it should be walking, but isn't. When the giant calls out, the creature writhes and whispers again, and as its head snaps violently at an angle that seems impossible without breaking from the body, more of the hissing acid sprays forth, less hurtling through the air than simply splashing against the door hinges.
The shape in the cell maintains a silence, somehow cryptic, throughout the ensuing debate. As the topic shifts to escape plans and suggestions, it doesn't-rustle once, the squelching sound trickling out from the form, and it's suddenly squatted once more, the limbs all wrong and the body all squirming. When the human woman appears, it seems incredibly disinterested, almost oblivious and unresponsive to anything outside itself, apart from a snaking tendril that slithers to touch the cell and then retreats. And then the collar clicks and the cell releases. By the time the smoke is cleared, the thing that names itself Ngogh'gnish is in the hall, pacing and casting about. If the body looked wrong while motionless, the ambulations are even worse: at once unnaturally fluid and awkwardly shambling, as though the creature is less moving along the ground than forcing its form through space itself. The speech of the others seems again lost on it for a time, although at Muscini's request for the collars, it shudder-steps back to its cell. A part of its indistinct form drags the metal across the floor and slides it toward the kyton. When the orc, Augier, calls for the lights to be doused, the being twists impossibly and utters some incomprehensible string of non-syllables. From a gaping jaw something that might be a tongue lashes, and a glob of iridescent putrescence flings toward the nearest torch, spraying against it and hissing with acrid smoke as it douses the flame. The thing repeats this until the torches are doused or they prove impossible to put out, and then it retreats to the door of its cell, wrapping a dozen or more appendages around the bars. Without the collar, it seems more distinctly aware; in the shadows, it seems more concretely here, perhaps because it is less visible. When the voices speak, one stands out more prominently, the others a backing chorus of maddening whispers and echoes. "There will have been death, yes. Blood to come, to satisfy. This is known, now. The body is willing, the mind is more. The taste will satisfy the hunger and thirst." The eyes roll and shift, opening and closing across the head to gaze at each of the others as they prepare. "Fear and darkness in alliance. Payment rendering, yes, and soon. Crack and rip and tear and snap and send them all beyond." With that it falls still, silent, waiting.
The aberration continues to squirm and writhe without moving, repeating its name in Aklo until something intrudes once more. The comment on coherent thoughts sees the creature stop, suddenly, and remain unnaturally still. Even the dead are more mobile than its rigidity, it seems, and that stiffness lasts through several of the ensuing responses. In the silence before Fjori's outburst, though, there's a burst of motion and both not-quite-hands are constricted around the cell bars. Along with them are innumerable other limbs, for lack of another word. They pulse at irregular beats, like a mass of unnerving vermin. "What is coherence, can it, has ever will been, thoughts together in sensibility? What is it to claim such? The mad king called mad and yet the sense of that mind wore more plainly than any. Tick-a-tack, stretch the rack, won't you bring my darling back?" The voices almost come together into one, a single timbre dripping with malice and revulsion and ecstatic assurance that it speaks the truth. "Words, words, words. What's in the word as in the thought as in the meaning?" There's a sense of the thing looking around at all the others, although it doesn't really move. "Sanity is not what it is, it moves on, it fades as all will have always been to be." It falls to silence again, but speaks up once Dahlia asks about a plan. "Plans are not. Sand sifts and blows in the wind, so many dreams, hopes, fears, thoughts, lifetimes, past present future and more. The only prison is what is believed, existence and the so-said real." One protrusion lazily gropes about the bars, wrapping from one end to the other, up and down, impossibly long and fluid, but then it is several and they almost fall into a sensible pattern. "There will have been death. Whose and which is not yet."
When the doppelganger speaks in Aklo, and states the name of the aberrant being, it shudders grotesquely once more. Again the voices begin to speak in repetition, and though they force that same bizarre group of syllables from a throat not meant for such speech, it sounds somehow different. Though it is a name, such as it is, it's clear that it is being intoned in the Aklo tongue, the language of beings from far beyond this place. "Ngogh'gnish, Ngogh'gnish, Ngogh'gnish..."
"Names spoken, yes, if speaking can have been," the thing mutters. It had seemed to rouse during its prior speeches, but now it's settled once more, squatting awkwardly on the floor of its cell. "Who was died, who is will have, so it has always to have gone..." The voices drift away again into incoherent murmurs, whispers that would unsettle a less motley and monstrous cohort. When Mei speaks in Undercommon, the creature rustles with a strange, wet squelching sound, and flashes through a string of languages: Abyssal, Aklo, Giant, Orcish. "Tongues, tongues, tongues," it drones, its arms not-quivering ever so slightly, rattling the chains in a tempoless rhythm. After Augier's whisper, it does the same, although once it lapses into Orcish it stays there, murmuring senselessly in voices that sound almost like the orc's own. "Starving cat, starving cat, starving cat..."
Also, my apologies if Ngogh'gnish's speech patterns are particularly annoying to anyone. I can tone them down if need be, and likely will once it's spent more time here, but I figured it would be fun to play up the alien and esoteric nature of an otherworldly aberration, at least to start things out.
"Intelligence, hypocrisy, all is one and same and not, yes, no, could be but to comprehend is without," the gibbering thing comments. The many voices are without emotion, droning as if speaking some bizarre but irrefutable truth. "There are always works, will always to have been, and were, and will have been no more, come eternity. Imagining to understand without meaning..." The voices trail off when the doppelganger addresses the figure, and its head might shift to focus on the shapeless humanoid. "What is cannot be spoken, all is, none is, to know will never have been truth. Better to speak of what is not, what cannot, and yet all can. There are other worlds than these. Beyond and ago, ahead, here." The body writhes as if in exultant agony, then settles, as the voices rise to a crescendo and suddenly cease. A lengthy pause, and then: "Eons have passed before. Worlds are, but others were and will. This form may be but Ngogh'gnish is. More cannot be spoken. Understanding cannot. But blasphemous rites, dark gods, yes, always. Old ones, dead ones, sleeping ones." At the mention of madness from the strange gnome, a hideous gurgling that might be some alien approximation of laughter comes from the creature. Its eyes roll and meet the gnome's gaze for a moment, and the mind that gaze looks on, if there is any, seems beyond comprehension.
Ok i get it now. But I'm sure this is going to be confusing again at some point. You use Bert's HP as sacrifice to avoid being sent back I guess. Dismissal and Banishment would be killers if you failed the save in this case. Also what monster feat are you taking as your bonus feat? It's all good, Synthesists have a rap for being broken but a lot of it just comes from making sure you understand how they work and follow the rules--I've played them before so I'll stay on the level. Bert's HP will indeed be a pool to make sure I stick around--that's why I took Diehard, so Ngogh'gnish will latch on and sap every last bit of Bert's vitality before he gets shunted back. Dismissal/Banishment would be bad, yes, thus trying to get my saves high from the get-go so they'll stay high throughout. And I completely forgot the Monster Feat. There aren't a lot I qualify for, so I think I'll play it simple and just grab Improved Natural Armor so my AC isn't quite so awful.
So because of the way Synthesist Summoner works, I use the physical stats (Strength, Dexterity, Constitution) of the eidolon, and the mental stats (Intelligence, Wisdom, Charisma) of the summoner. Thematically for this game, the idea is that Ngogh'gnish is feeding off of Bert's mind and body in order to function, essentially riding him as a prisoner on the material plane, which explains why it's using the summoner's mental stats even though Ngogh'gnish is 100% in control. In terms of how it's working on the sheet, the numbers in parentheses for Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution are Bert's, while the numbers out of them are Ngogh'gnish's. Being that Ngogh'gnish is pretty much permanently around, Bert's scores are really only in effect for Constitution adding to his "base" hit point pool and preventing death. The mental scores don't have any parentheses, because Ngogh'gnish's scores for those are already lower than Bert's and will never go up.
In another cell, a sickening being squats. Its proportions seem at once all wrong, the bowed legs both longer and shorter than they should be, the arms limply drifting yet supporting its weight on thick spindles bent at unnatural angles. Its face is half-hidden in shadow but that doesn't fully explain why the features aren't distinct, apart from a gaping jaw and... some number of eyes. Its color might be the hue of fresh vomit, or perhaps diseased blood, mixed with soured milk or rotting bones? And the whole body seems to pulse at an irregular tempo, more writhing or squirming like so many worms than a single creature. Whatever the case may be, it gives off the impression of smiling. It's been silent so far, but as conversation picks up, one arm snakes up--or is it something else?--and wraps around a bar of the cell. "Sentences passed, yes, judgment and iron clapped on and an execution to be held. Safe and victory is believed, yes, but understanding, no, not now." The voice is like many voices, not quite synchronized into one. "There is a name given, yes. Ngogh'gnish." The sound is decidedly unnatural, and sounds forced, as if physical throats were not made to produce such syllables.
Glad to be here! EDIT: Aww, Zalgo doesn't work on Paizo anymore? No fun.
Ngogh'gnish now has a backstory, one that can be filled out further if need be. Hoping to write up a scene to showcase his character, probably tomorrow. For now, however, let me know what you think! Background: Berthold Steel wasn't born to do what he did with his life. He was born well within the borders of Talingarde, in a small but growing town of respectable, if traditional and somewhat insular, rural folk. His father was a second-generation half-orc, born and raised in Holmesford, and worked as their smith. Bert's mother was a first-generation half-orc, serving as the midwife and healer-woman of the town; she combined prayers to Mitra with old remedies, using herbs and practices she'd learned before escaping her brutal early life beyond the northern wall. Both his parents liked Talingarde, liked their town--certainly, there were old prejudices and suspicions, but Garrett Steel had proved a respectable smith, like his father before him. Rarely did bigotry, when it reared its head, go beyond tasteless jokes, off-handed insults, and half-meant comments from drunkards in the tavern. The couple raised their son to be a citizen of Talingarde and a worshiper of Mitra, first and foremost. He only learned scraps of Orcish in the forms of the odd curse from his father working the forge, and the occasional prayer, phrase, or plant name from his mother.
Bert, however, hated every moment. He wanted to be more than what they planned, or at least different; what he wanted to be was an orc. He saw his father's silent acceptance of ill-mannered jokes as weak groveling; every comment on his ancestry seemed to him a biting accusation, bitter cruelty and oppression by a hostile nation he never asked to join. When he heard the rare tale of orcs beyond the border, he pictured strong, dangerous, proud peoples, who would never grovel before fools--everything the skinny youth dreamed of being, everything he wasn't. When he asked his mother what life was like out there, her remembered horrors spoke to him of great and terrible power; her lingering hatred of the shamans she had been meant to join only further spurred Bert to think that this was his destiny. In his dreams he imagined a way to greatness, a life far from his quaint town. And in his dreams, a plan not quite his own was hatched. So by the time he neared adolescence, Bert absconded in the night, taking meager supplies and making for the border wall. Just how he reached the other side isn't clear, but there is more prejudice in that place, and a cursing and hostile youth of orcish blood may well have been abandoned to the hostile frontier. However he managed it, joining an orc tribe was more difficult; they are not keen to take another mouth to feed, especially an unproven outsider. But he found favor with a tribe, and so began his true trials: apprenticing to a shaman. It was Rot-Bones of the Dead Hands tribe who took him, seeing in this whelp of a half-breed cunning and tenacity beyond that of true-blooded candidates. Rot-Bones pushed his apprentice hard and far, liberal with his beatings and quick with the rituals of proving that would either maim or kill. Bert took it all, growing hardened and tough, and he happily sported the ritual scars and tribal tattooing blessed by the old gods of the Orcs, as well as the Dark Lord Asmodeus who Rot-Bones paid some service to. But he never grew strong, keeping his small and weak frame, and after a handful of years, Rot-Bones declared that his apprentice--now called Scar-Taker--would never be a war-shaman. He would remain a shaman of the camp, respected and influential, but not the revered and fearsome leader of raiding parties who would exemplify the orcs' strength. Scar-Taker was filled with rage and self-hatred, and in his heart he refused to accept this fate. His sleep became restless, filled with nightmares where he cried into the dark void. His primal anger screamed for the power to fight back against the senseless injustice of his existence. And once more, something not entirely of himself answered, but more powerfully. He called to the void, and something called back. Once more, Bert stole away in the night, this time to an ancient and haunted place, shunned even by the most savage of orc shamans for its cursed aspect and the cyclopean altar which stood there from time immemorial. In his mind he felt the touch once more of whatever had spoken to him in his dark dreams, felt sure it was what had called him north of Talingarde to begin with. It spoke of strength and terror, of changing his weak form to one capable of breaking and crushing all who would stand against him. It offered to take form in this world, using Bert as the connection, if only he would perform the profane ritual it whispered into his mind. Scar-Taker might have shown surprising force of will to his master, but Bert wanted recognition and power, damn the costs. He completed that archaic, horrific ritual, and at its zenith, he had a single moment to realize his mistake. Then his mind was torn asunder, his vitality stolen away, his very being consumed by the new entity which used him as a host for its arrival in this plane. Ngogh'gnish the Unknowable rent the half-orc's feeble form and subsumed it with its presence. It stalked away, gleeful in its alien way, making for Talingarde. At the wall it slew a few guards before being captured and sent to Branderscar. Its seeming acceptance, even appreciation, of this turn of events is unsettling to say the least, but the guards get their fitful rest believing that the bizarre creature will be thrown to the pits and be slain.
Helix back with a character sheet, backstory to come. Short version is that a half-orc born in Talingarde tried to go back to his roots, went north of the wall, and made a singularly terrible decision trying to bargain for power. On the Build: I've made some choices for the build that make him pretty powerful for a 1st level character, like with most synthesists, admittedly. However, I hope this is balanced by a couple of things. Firstly, I'm not actually using any templates or monster race, nor do I expect to gain them later on. My growth into a monster will come through evolution points and the growth of the eidolon. Secondly, while fairly strong early on, and even later on, I'll suffer a lot of lag as the game goes on compared to other characters, particularly in BAB and some saving throws, to some extent. My goal was mostly to prematurely try to counteract some of that, while also building a fun and flavorful character. I'll explain some choices in the backstory, and I'm happy to explain further if you like. |
