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I have this mostly-alchemist at 4. He's melee focused, which we seem to have a lot of. For low-tier picks I have 3 level 2's, 2 ranged and one melee, all with some utility. Not much preference whether we're going high or low. Will step down if Arin wants in. Edit: Ninja'd by Arin's crew! Have a good game, everyone.
"Sure, but keep any talk of my 'brother' to a minimum, if you need to refer to it as that at all," Orrin says, buts smiles all the same and takes a long drink before starting. A quiet rendition of the story, because Among the Living spoilers: "Some Pathfinder had a dig site below a Taldan opera house, and he went silent for whatever reason. We got sent to the opera as a cover to get to the bottom of it. It was a pretty awful performance, and halfway through, someone set a bunch of zombies loose on the audience! We saved most of 'em, turned out there was some sort of Zyphus cult at the dig site. They went down easy. The highlight there was one of my fellow agents, a raven named Lord Korbin. He had some silly bodyguard named Silass, I think the bird was smarter than the nagaji. Not much else to the story, honestly."
"Fair enough, enhanced longevity with the side effects of peak physical and mental performance isn't for everybody," Orrin grins, fishing about in his massive backpack. He comes out with an oddly shaped decanter and several shot glasses. "Druman ale, made in 4655. I probably shouldn't have spirited it away from a Taldan nobleman, but by that vein they shouldn't have let zombies into their opera house."
"I'm not even sure why I try to do that anymore, 'Bella," A hulking half-elf laughs, sitting down opposite the gnome. "Some alchemical fragrance, and the stink is gone. There always seem to be more walking corpses, though, wherever I go, bringing it back." He kicks back and quaffs some unidentifiable substance from a beaker on his belt. "That was one hell of a mission, though. Just when I think they'll welcome me back into Taldor again. And that crazy gnome, what'd you think of him? I honestly thought he was going to kill me in my sleep from time to time, but he seemed to take a shine to you."
Orrin, who is waiting for his mutagen to wear off so he doesn't look like a young halfling's nightmare, overhears Spackle but says nothing. When it does subside, he walks over and mimes vomiting into his tankard. "I can't think of any verbal response to justify what I just heard, so that's my best at a try. I hear the cult of Cthulhu is having some openings, though, Spackle; maybe you can enlist to push off your fantasies on people keener on 'em then us." He drains his drink and grins. "Still, that was a mission well done. Really starting to hate how undead seem to be following me wherever I go, though."
"Huh, you really think he might try to burn us out?" Orrin comments vaguely, drawing his weapons. "Uncharacteristically cynical of you, Spackle, I must say. I'd prefer to fight up close, but you might be right about the rafters, B. We'd be overwhelmed quickly given how many it sounds like they have out there."
Orrin grimaces at the noise, but holds his ground. 'It has yet to beat the bickering I've endured thus far, and as it has not caused actual wounds, to me, at least...' He strides through the marsh to the closest one and, bringing his tentacle to bear, attempts to bash and secure it in his mighty grip!
Orrin scowls and begins tearing leeches away from his person. While it seems indiscriminate, he is following a methodical process only he knows. "Well, this is all disgusting," he comments. "And this is to be our conveyance. I'd almost prefer walking or swimming straight through it, I can breathe long enough, but I doubt I'd be able to see and I might just prefer letting the swamp in rather than be in contact with it any longer."
Orrin shakes his head. "Is this how Taldor's government usually operates? If deeds are not produced, they are at liberty to take whatever they want by force? And those deeds appear to be guarded by the risen dead. That we may be able to take care of, if need be. Does Jessup know what happened to Becher and the others, where they were when he got back?"
Orrin quickly coils his tentacle back under his parka, leaving it stuffy and unseasonable once again. With the constant drizzle, however, it seems a reasonable choice of attire. He sheathes his longsword, leaving his hands to hold his net and shield. "Good idea, sometimes I forget. And stop calling him - damn, not him, it, stop calling it my brother!" "Still, what if someone is holding the town hostage, and punishes them for talking to us? I suppose we'll likely take down whoever has them in such a vise."
"So, what's the game plan?" Orrin asks the group at large. "My ideas are to sneak into the distillery, or maybe knock on a few doors or windows. The latter might help us know what's going on, whether the town's under siege, if there are still civilians here. Might also put us or them in danger, though."
Orrin shrugs as Natula passes, turning to Fade, Spackle, and anyone else about. "Well, this doesn't bode well," he comments in a whisper. "Mistakes were made, I s'pose, but that tends to happen in this imperfect world of ours. Best thing to do is roll with them and work out how to fix them. Makes me wish I could say something light like, 'But Spackle told me to, it's not all my fault.' But alas. And this thing is actually pretty secure, I've tried to cut it off a bunch of times. Shall we follow the leader?"
"Either he's - no, no, it's, stop making me think it's a person, much less a brother - always flipping something off, or it's only got one finger. And I don't know where it's from, it was spliced onto my body by an ex-friend of mine, may he remain forever buried. But it's probably something from beyond this plane, like a shoggoth." "And even if it was squid, I'd eat calamari, implicit social contract regarding cannibalism be damned. Gods' gift to us mortals, that dish is."
"Indeed, we should proceed to the town before we end up brutally beating up any more guards," Orrin remarks wryly, pointing out the many other campfires. "A visit to a distillery should brighten our spirits, less so if the occupants are out to kill us too, and we end up doing something we might regret. Who'd serve us, then?"
Holy...Did Fade just kill someone invisibly? No holding back now... Orrin slogs forward, net and sword at the ready. His shield pushes further out of his parka until it is fully separate. The "mystery," such as it is, of the moving shield and incredibly bulky clothing are revealed as the parka itself falls limp, and a grotesque tentacle protrudes from the half-elf's side, holding his shield! "Well, friend Spackle, I'm not one to say 'I told you so,' but if you insist I do, I will rise to the occasion!
Orrin backs up hastily, his shield beginning to further poke out of his parka of its own accord, as if scared Spackle might fly at him. He holds up his hands in apology. "Look, perhaps you're right. I just don't want us to get caught with our guard down. I believe I can yell that even if I don't see the trouble, but sense it, as it's practically following us around at all time. It doesn't take long as a Pathfinder to know that. Zombies at the opera! Assassins disguised as housekeepers, in a Pathfinder's mansion! A teenaged Blakros girl held captive, who we were there to save, making to kill us with otherworldly powers! A nice little snake, albeit with a goblin's head, acting friendly, then trying to blow my face apart with alchemical fire!" The half-elf, very confused by this point with his team, begins to theorize this emotional gnome may be receptive to humor. "Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't even know there was a good buzz going around. Moods seemed pretty dreary to me, I'd reckon, I think you were the only one with a good buzz, and keeping it to yourself in your head at that. Mayhap you should hold a sign showing that you're having a good buzz, and we shan't disturb you. I wouldn't dream of killing a good buzz if I could avoid it." Now thoroughly nonplussed, and tired of using the alleged word buzz so many times, he begins to trudge forward once more. "How many orcs were you planning on finding in Taldor, anyway, on a supposedly easy mission. Keep it in a safe pocket, or something, until you get sent on assignment to Belkzen. No shortage of orcs there, I assure you." I hope that did something. I tried humor, I asserted myself, with a bit of luck he should be more open-minded now.
"Your guess is as good as mine, B, but I don't think it's always like this," Orrin replies in answer. "I just happen to believe the universe hates us right now." 'This is an interesting group, if nothing else,' the half-elf mentally notes. 'We don't seem to get along very well, perhaps I should keep my mouth shut more often than not? Hopefully we work together better at the inevitable point at which we need to fight something. Thinking of which...' "Weapons out, everyone," he says, finishing his thought aloud. "This is the perfect place for an ambush, and as we aren't hunting anyone, I wouldn't be surprised if we are being hunted." With that, he draws a sword with his left hand, seemingly the weaker, and a net in the other. Somehow, a large wooden shield begins to poke out from under his winter gear on its own, but it does not fully emerge, as if hesitant to come out. "No, I don't want to talk about the shield. You'll see soon enough, on the all-too-likely chance we get into a scrap."
Orrin nods throughout the briefing, listening intently. While he doubts it will be as easy as described, he has but one question, and it is a mere curiosity. "Is there something or someone Iodan's son needs protecting from?" Trudging along in the front of the pack, Orrin's mood does not seem to have worsened. "There're places I'd rather be, sure, but the adventure of being a Pathfinder certainly gets me. Not to mention the coin! A single mission as a entry-level unconfirmed initiate will sustain a modest living for years! Of course, there is the risk of death, but I've heard that to be thankfully uncommon. Never experienced it or teamed with someone who has, yet."
"Apologies, but I'm sure we've all faced worse odors in our service to the Society, or at least we will," Orrin shrugs sheepishly. "Here, perhaps this will help." With that, the half-elf pops the cork on a vial pulled from his sash, at which point some form of mist spews out, replacing the sulfurous stink with something herbal, and altogether more pleasant. "I was working on a new form of physical enhancement tonic, with dramatically different effects than the last. Perhaps we will see how well it works on the off chance we get into a scrap in Taldor - Oh, who am I kidding, of course we will. Last time I was there, I thought there would be no violence, only to face an opera house full to the brim with zombies!"
In walks another half-elf, this one sickly pale and wearing a breastplate emblazoned with Shelyn's songbird, dragging with him into the room a heavy-looking backpack and a sulfurous odor. Underneath his armor he wears unseasonably bulky clothing and a sash and belt, both of which are lined with alchemical vials. "This the Taldor group?" He asks breezily. "Orrin here, Orrin Ryota, and I'd be glad to join you in a drink. Maybe I can't keep down as many as you, but I'd bet I can hold my breath longer! Ever been underwater for 14 hours at a time? It's not too bad, very peaceful down there." "So, I hope I didn't miss anything in my lateness, but what can you all do? While I prefer to avoid a fight whenever possible, there is also where I excel, fighting on the front lines, aided by alchemy and special training."
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