@Coyote, sorry. I will need to drop out of this and several games. Here’s what I posted on Discord a few minutes ago:
Hey, all. I just made a decision to drop pretty much all of my PF games. You may have noticed I have consistently played with heart and enthusiasm, but lately I think I come off more like a zombie nudging a d20.
It’s in part because I really have to get my butt in gear regarding the job hunt, and in my current state of mind, dice math, loot and leveling just feel like additions to my list of chores.
So sorry to do this, and also that I spent x months following the predictable patterns of Guy About To Bow Out Of Game(s) instead of just pulling the band-aid off.
Just know it’s not anything you did as a GM or PC teammate. It’s the toxic workplace.
After getting four shots like that in as many gunfights, P.S. thinks the Captain’s Seal is worth it. But… ”Lanatir, this was your idea and I enjoyed being a part of it. Your call.”
Before the challenge, P.S. grumbles, ”I don’t know how you talked me into this, Lanatir, but they say there’s magical protection, so… here goes nothing.”
If so, this can happen when Lanatir meets a potential opponent…
”I’m here for moral support. It’s my friend who’d like to duel.”
Pumpkin tries to catch the opponent’s body languages and other tells, including verbal should she get him talking. She might even mention the O.S.F. on her holster stands for One-Shot Finch—her father—if that will keep a conversation going.
I have Bluff, but imagine Dimplomacy is needed to recruit.
But if Bluff/Pass Secret Message can be used this way, it would be +14 (my 10 with the additional +4 from the GM post). I’ll roll if I can. Otherwise, I’ll roll sense mo while another player handles the Diplo check.
Pumpkin moseys into the mutant bar. “This town is new to me,” she says as she takes in the fanged smile of the four-armed bar tender. “Alright, Elsa… I’m game.”
“I definitely don’t want to rush things and unwittingly side with the wrong people, or even be swayed to a side at all when we might just find out there’s a third entity who’s manipulating the masses but don’t think the people are worth a damn.”
She slows her drawl a bit. “Sorry… all my friends o’er the past year or so were Milani nuns, so… topic of interest. Make no mistake though. Milani is against corruption, which ain’t the same as automatically siding with a rebellion.
“Ain’t about to preach, so I can leave it at that.”
She takes in what her companions are saying… then takes out her pistol, removing one bullet from the cylinder.
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She explains, “Cowboy load. The chamber lined with the firing pin’s empty so it don’t go off by accident. A noise like that might be the starter-shot for a riot.
“Best play it safe.” She’s ready to move forward if everyone else is.
P.S. sips her wine. She is still remorseful, but she cracks a smile at the ‘surprised at you pistol.’
“My dad was One-Shot Finch, except his big collar still had his head on. It’s an old gun. Maybe the mercy feature ain’t what it used to be.”
Or P.S. is a better shot? Or Mad Dog Tannon could survive a crit? Or he was a Lv.1 peon dropped by relatively low damage? A mystery best left unsolved!
Changing the subject, “Your magic is amazing to me. Lightning from your fingertips, chilling wine with a touch… if the bathwater cools, you got a way to heat it up?”
“A hot bath and chilled wine… love the combination.”
P.S. accepts, and she also marvels at the tattoos.
“You did mention the gang, but I see you cover your ink up like I mostly-cover mine, though for different reason.
“It’s the Milani nuns who saved my life and took me into their rose garden. It was an experience… a magical place. But I just ain’t cut out for the life, or so I thought.” She sips her wine. Slowly. Just a taste… “I guess giant beetles and ambushing bandits awakened a part o’ me I had doubts about.
“I still feel kinda sorry for ‘em.” The next sip is more than a taste. “How are you holding up, Elsa? Maybe you’ve already dealt with this sort of ugliness before. Me? Before’s just the one time I got run through. Training sessions aside, any scuffle beyond the age o’ six where I fought back, you were there for all o’ them.”
Once at the inn, P.S. makes arrangements for herself and Elsa. She’ll leave it to the men to make their own arrangements, but will gladly settle on a time to meet for dinner.
Elsa:
After stowing her belongings and giving her clothes to the attendant for the laundry service, P.S. enters the bathing area wearing only a robe (property of the bathhouse) and a ring. Her harmonica is in the robe’s pocket.
The tubs are full. The water’s hot. The soap’s bubbly.
P.S. has her back to Elsa as she undoes the sash to her robe. As the robe slides down to her waist, her back is exposed. Swirling tattoos with thorns and leaves all seem to sprout from a single source: a salmon-toned scar under her left shoulder blade, sloped slightly downward almost to her spine.
Pumpkin turns as the robe falls to her feet. Herthe entirety of her arms and legs are wrapped in thorns, with rosebuds on her feet and wrists. (Her clothing had only exposed the knee, and everyone had surely noticed the tattoos on her cheeks and what little her shirt revealed. The avatar depicts this.)
Pumpkin’s entire torso is covered in fully blossomed roses, no flesh deemed too personal for the artis to ink, apparently. The rose on Pumpkin’s left breast uses the salmon-toned scar just under her heart as a rosepetal.
If Elsa happens to be looking, P.S. isn’t shy. She doesn’t hold her pose for long. She hangs her robe, pours a glass of wine for Elsa first, then herself, before stepping into the tub.
There is a soft ambient sound of chimes. (Emanating from Pumpkin’s ring, the sound is meant for meditation.)
@Elsa, up to you whether you noticed P.S.’s scars and could tell they are from a single attack from a blade, thrust at a slightly upward angle narrowly missing both spine and heart.
“I think a reputable bathhouse would let us check our guns and whatnot at the door. Swimming in a lake… you might want a friend watching your things.
“I got nothing against a swimming hole, but unless you feel differently, Elsa, we could find ourselves a half decent bathhouse, as you said, and have a bottle between our tubs, and a glass each.” She grins. “This way, we ain’t gotta wait for our clothes to be washed to enjoy the drink.”
P.S. shakes her head. “No… the last two heads I blew off were with the mercy feature active. It can’t do nothin’ about a bullet in the brain.
“My father taught me to shoot. I just hoped I could be like him, take the bad guys alive… aww, but I don’t want to go all Debbie Downer on our win. I’ll be okay. Let’s get whatever’s worth taking and get lost.”
When she gets to the corpse, Pumpkin removes her hat. She says a silent prayer, then takes the woman’s rifle. She unloads it and keeps it, only to remove it from the bandits’ stockpile. By the corpse.
She just stands there, still in shock, with mixed feelings of remorse and the understanding that a long, drawn out battle would have meant, at best, wounded friends and multiple deaths.
“Organized crime’s as much a power and threat as a corrupt government,” she replies casually. “I didn’t ask about motive. I was grateful for the rescue, too soft for the nuns’ life.
“Anyway, I ain’t trying to preach or justify nothing. Just figured an explanation was owed.” Her fist closes over her harmonica. She rises and stares in the distance.
I lack both skills, so no peeking under the spoiler for me!
Over breakfast, Pumpkin says to the others, “I was ambushed.”
It’s apparent her complete one-eighty on ‘mercy’ isn’t sitting well with her. Her eyes have dark circles under them, and make contact only with the ground.
“Before I got all this ink—“ She points out the tattoos of swirling thorns, which cover what little skin her outfit exposes. “—I was nearly killed by an assassin. He was looking for a Milani warrior-nun who vaguely fits my description. He was in the right neighborhood, but got the wrong redhead.
“I never saw the attack coming. There was a gloved hand on my mouth just come outta nowhere. It smelled like whiskey, but unusually potent. His body was pressed against my backside. I tried to scream, but a sharp pain in the back of my neck stifled me. All that came outta my mouth was blood.
“I woke up in some rose garden and learned the redhead saved me. Some other nuns were burying my assailant’s body.” Her harmonica is in hand, but Pumpkin has no desire to play. She just stares at it for a moment.
Finally, her eyes dart to Lanatir. “What you said about cost brought me back to that moment. Nothing you can do about an ambush when you don’t know a fight’s coming.”
Seeing how Elsa posted that I fired the killing blow, let’s say the gun went off.
Pumpkin’s trigger finger trembles a little. And BLAM. She pulled the trigger on purpose? It went off? Did she really want to?
How many more innocent travelers die if we spare these monsters?
Wincing herself after seeing the damage her non-merciful bullet did, Pumpkin says, “Let’s… leave the heads. And… leave.”
Pumpkin cocks her gun and aims at the back of the unconscious one’s neck.
“You guys know I’m all for mercy… but not if mercy leads to innocent death. I already decapitated one. How about you boys take the others’ heads and we roll ‘em in a sack and… well, I don’t want to keep them. We can chuck ‘em off a cliff.”
Yes, she knows how that sounds.
“If a weak consequence encourages them, then an extreme one might have the opposite effect. Let the sole survivor wonder why we took the heads. Maybe he’ll think we came deliberately to hunt them.”
P.S. gives the others time to object before she pulls the trigger.
Coup de Grace, unless there’s an objection.
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“Now don’t you be talking to my friend like he’s a hunk o’ beefcake for y’all to eat up. Talk like that makes me wanna play for keeps.”
Rapid Shots:1d20 + 9 - 2 ⇒ (6) + 9 - 2 = 131d20 + 9 - 2 ⇒ (20) + 9 - 2 = 27 Conf 2nd Shot:1d20 + 7 ⇒ (13) + 7 = 20
Like with the bug, PS’s first shot is way off, and her second… likely too powerful for the mercy effect to save the target.
Perhaps she really does intend to ‘play for keeps.’
Damage, if a 13 hits anything:1d8 + 9 + 1d6 ⇒ (4) + 9 + (6) = 19
Damage, if a 20 confirms a crit!:4d8 + 36 + 1d6 ⇒ (2, 6, 4, 5) + 36 + (5) = 58
“Golly,” she gasps as the merciful bullet does not live up to its name.
