⠀⠀Something like allowing a bonus action attack with it.
That would enable Scramsax to make two sneak attacks per
round (Readying an attack as action, then sneak attacking
with bonus). This is what the Scimitar of Speed does.
⠀⠀Something like Antimagic in a 5 ft cube where it sticks
when thrown. Its so real and mundane.
⠀⠀Something like Modifify Memory on a crit.
⠀⠀Something like Bracer of Flying Daggers.
⠀⠀Something like allows Sneak Attack damage on objects.
⠀⠀
Later, I really stood up and took notice when Tareth mentioned:
DM-Tareth while talking about a dwarf's magical hammer wrote:
Since the adamantine in your hammer would turn any melee hit into a crit
⠀⠀
Now that Raseri has stamped her maker's mark, what exactly shall be this mysterious power of Zove's shadowsworn? ;)
Scram was happily shoveling the remnants of her hydra-stew into a tiny clay carrying decanter. But when Ingryd suggested leaving the booze behind everything came to a dead stand still.
Ingryd. Wanted. To. Leave. Booze. Behind.
"Infiltrated! I knew it. Ok, wax-Griz, nice try. You nearly had me with that very nice advertisement at the end. Indeed everyone likes to think they know what happens when you mix juniper and mint. The resulting tang is actually pretty surprising. But leaving booze behind? You got sloppy. Tch. What did you do with the real mama-bear?!"
Scram nabbed a glass bottle and shatter-halved it on a rumplestool, wielding the shard dagger like an insane criminal. "Where is she?!"
Sure, I can dig deeper later, but heres a quick response before I step out the door.
AI wrote:
who made the nullbox?
The provided sources do not explicitly name a specific artisan or creator who manufactured the Nullbox. However, they provide the following details regarding its origin and the entity associated with it:
Provider: The wizard Radovan provided the Nullbox to the party from his collection in his tower after they asked for a way to hide or destroy an unholy artifact.
Appearance: It is described as an "old, battered, tarnished brass case" with no markings on the surface and no visible lock or seam until opened.
The Inhabitant (Pifflesneed): The box appears to be sentient or inhabited by a spirit or being named Pifflesneed.
Opening Procedure: To open the Nullbox, one must knock on the top three times in quick succession; the entity inside then raps back twice, and the user must respond with four rapid strikes and the verbal command, "Open up Pifflesneed".
Function: Upon opening, the interior appears as a "vast nothingness," creating a "null" where magic and the material world do not exist to contain the influence of the items placed within.
While Radovan is the one who fetched the case from a room on an upper floor of his tower, he noted that he was "horribly unorganized" and that he had copied some of his designs from locals for other star-shaped keys, suggesting the Nullbox may have been an item he acquired or constructed based on existing designs rather than an entirely original creation.
Can we assume the business generated enough profit that I could replace Scram's lost mule? :) Otherwise Scram is totally broke (the master thief has a whopping 6 silver, 1 copper).
Give us this day, our daily beard (50% high):1d100 ⇒ 81 Deception:1d20 - 1 ⇒ (16) - 1 = 15
⠀⠀
⠀⠀
⠀⠀
"Heh, gotcha! You've been Grizzled!" dwarf-Scram lied
for no reason, except habit and/or product placement of
course. It sounded like congratulations. She was about to
hand over a coupon for free pretzels when Ingryd spoke up
and spilled the beans.
⠀⠀"Ach, nay joke, lassie. You wanna snatch me innards you'll
have to take a number from these pilferin' amateurs."
⠀⠀Not the Ironcrag's style, Scramsax thought,
twisting the braids of her beard in quiet analysis. There
would have been a notice posted. Some summary of regulations
skirted, traditions violated. Dwarven poetry yammering about
the virtues of yeast. This was just a desperate search.
⠀⠀The sword.
⠀⠀It had to be. Most of the Narg Nasty 6's other material
wealth was locked up in high-yield treasury bonds, else the
semi-legal IOU's of various suckers 'enriched' by the
adventuring party's brush with their lives.
⠀⠀Harvesting the latest crop of Scramsax Selects special
hybrid-leaf was still a few weeks away, and would have been a
juicier target if humiliation was the goal.
⠀⠀No, behind this slop was a directed purpose.
⠀⠀"Tell you what, Britta. We'll get to the bottom of this.
Just think: the owners of Grizzled Brew Industries, LLC out
on adventure again. If its really ghouls from the
shadowlands, you should be blessing our ponies with actual
Gleamguard." Scram smirked.
For sures:
Whip up memories with Illarya and Vee. Start the whiskey business with Ingryd. Visit the druidic cirle that called her. Pull off the greatest burglary of all time, showing Ingryd the ways of the thief.
Enjoy Raseri's adamantine dagger.
Sell/Trade the spell-storing ring.
Maybes:
Hit the best library in Midgard, presumably Zobeck, to research puppetry. (or to pick the best altar of light to destroy the sword at...)
Barsella adventure (triggered by the mysterious destruction of the high geomancer's castle, satisfying the conditions of Scramsax' exile.)
I think I'm all set with downtime. Will respond to current Narg scene now.
⠀⠀Wanted posters were plastered everywhere.
⠀⠀Halfling, female.
⠀⠀They were right about that, sort of. But the face was all
wrong. Stereotypical southern features were highly
exaggerated. No one has a nose that wide. A normal person
takes care of grotesque moles like that with hair growing
out of it. Even out on the dusty trail, people find ways to
brush twice a day.
⠀⠀And of course, they had the wrong name: Slayer Brütswitch.
⠀⠀So a blimp lost its way. No sign of it for weeks.
⠀⠀So what. The sky is big, isn't it?
⠀⠀Still, Narg was getting a little hot. Not to mention
Ingryd and that dang puzzle box. Scram didn't have the heart
(nor the physical courage) to tell her that smashing it open
was a sure fire way to get a pressurized spray of acid
directly in the retinas.
⠀⠀Well, anyways it was no substitute for a real internship.
⠀⠀Time to hit the road.
⠀⠀Just a jewel thief, bear, and bees. And a kid named Vee,
too.
⠀⠀The apple of Scram's golden eye was already quite cunning,
but recently she had been going through a weird teenage
angst phase. Something had happened while she was captured.
They had never really talked about it.
⠀⠀Diagnosis? A little western sea-salt in the air was all
she really needed.
⠀⠀Barsella! It was time to go west. The city at the edge of
the world. Where else would they have any chance to learn
the real-talk secrets of the streets?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀☙ ❦ ❧
⠀⠀The invalids huddled near a fish market which somehow
blended into the most exciting crevices of Whore's Lot. The
air tasted of brine, expensive imported saffron, loose
coppers, and loose women.
⠀⠀No one would talk about runes and lightning on a sunny
beach. There were no ravens running around with secret
divine messages. People valued a nice marlinspike over a
steel broadsword.
⠀⠀Best of all, ice hyenas hadn't been spotted chuckling
around these parts for centuries. The last recorded sighting
turned out to be a shape-shifting Mnemosynian lamia engaged
in some sort of jape.
⠀⠀All was as it should be.
⠀⠀"Not quite, Vee," Scram sighed adjusting his-her beard.
"That slouch has boredom written all over it. Its supposed
to be more like a weakness that comes with starvation.
Behold!" Scramsax slumped on the dirty alley-way cobbles
like a discarded jacket.
⠀⠀One of Ingryd's bees coughed up a penny from somewhere as
a reflexive reaction. Scram winked saying-not-saying That's
how its done.
⠀⠀Vee rolled her eyes. It was a full, dramatic rotation
which utilized the advanced mathematical path integrals
Radovan had inscribed in her prefrontal cortex. "This is
dumb. I can pick a deadbolt in three seconds. Why are we
begging for pocket lint?"
⠀⠀They were draped in carefully curated costumes. A
discarded camel blanket with a snot-stained hole in it. A
poorly fitting suit jacket obtained via an impromptu
wastelands grave robbery. Some moth-eaten rug-samples from a
voyaging carpet salesman patched together to cover up one's
curviest details.
⠀⠀"Listen, a good street-rat doesn't sit around plottin' and
schemin'. They look for opportunities. You gotta keep a
finger on the pulse of the underworld. Remember the cant?
Its always hummin' in the background. Watch my hands."
⠀⠀Scram flashed a few local Syndicate and Winged Lion signs,
blending them into the natural fidgeting of a starving
orphan. Two sharp taps to the collarbone? City watch
approaching, disperse. A lazy scratch behind the ear? The
mark on the left is flush with coin, initiate the bump.
Wiping the nose with a back of the hand? Bail instantly, the
mark is a wizard.
⠀⠀Vee perked up when she read similar signals a few streets
away, from another ratty group of unseens. Swipe of the jaw
with a quick nod? Silk merchant coming your way.
⠀⠀"Yep. Yer up," Scram whispered.
⠀⠀Vee's posture diminished as she darted into the boulevard.
Fake tears streamed her sandy face as she collided directly
with the merchant's knee. Her left hand caught his when he
stumbled, while her right hand (light as a halfling's glove)
slipped under his coat-tails.
⠀⠀A mechanical ring-blade severed the drawstrings of his
coin pouch.
⠀⠀Vee stumbled back and took a convincing fall. Her apology
was squeaky and submissive, like a stubborn screw getting
turned at last. She soon melted back into the alley beside
Scram, Ingryd, and the bees.
⠀⠀That spark of maternal-paternal something bloomed in
Scram's chest. Her daughter held up the heavy, clinking
prize. "What did I tells ya? Anatomy and distraction."
⠀⠀"Make 'em think its their own clumsy fault," Vee said with
a smirk. It was the fabled daughter-smile, caught in the
wilds by an actual parent for the first time.
⠀⠀This trip was already really paying off. But Scram was a
greedy bastard. It was time for a real score.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀☙ ❦ ❧
⠀⠀Scramsax had a point to prove.
⠀⠀Or at least, that was the lie she was currently espousing.
⠀⠀Before Scram's exile, Mnemosyne's imprisonment and
weakened magic had made the unthinkable happen: a ship
actually found its way back to Barsella carrying treasures
from beyond the edge.
⠀⠀One particular item was a certain geomancer's bejeweled
telescope. Scramsax had executed the most perfect, daring
heist of their entire career. It was her masterpiece. A take
so legendary the guttersnipes told a dozen different
versions.
⠀⠀Nearsighted eagles. The Mirror Suit. Decoy Zucchinis.
⠀⠀Questionable. But Scram left them guessing.
⠀⠀In every telling it was flawless right up until the
escape. 4th Avenue on Highgate: Scramsax was given up by an
honest ten-year-old child. Scram was exiled from Barsella
'until Algos turns to sand'.
⠀⠀The heist crew now stood on those very stones of 4th
Avenue, in direct violation of her exile. Wonderful new
imports were again making their way across Barsella.
⠀⠀"Carriage will turn that corner in thirty seconds," Scram
whispered. She handed the teenager a wax-paper-wrapped
sausage and peppers sandwich.
⠀⠀She slung belt after tiny belt onto Ingryd's bees'
bottoms, extending the reach and altering the damage-type of
their stingers with clever prosthetics. Ingryd had drunk a
Potion of Reduction and had a whole stash of torsion
wrenches and picks hidden in Scram's old apartment on her
shoulders.
⠀⠀Everything was set.
⠀⠀Vee actually looked impressed. The thrill of the high-end
heist had obliterated her teenage apathy. She slipped past a
fruit stand and vanished.
⠀⠀Scram likewise felt the familiar electricity of adrenaline
in her fingertips. The carriage wheels clattered against the
sandstone. Armored guards clopped beside it two-by-two.
⠀⠀Everything was perfect.
⠀⠀Scram was about to erase the past.
⠀⠀Then, the sun vanished.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀☙ ❦ ❧
⠀⠀The entirety of Highgate plunged into a deep, artificial
twilight.
⠀⠀Drifting silently over the edge of the world, emerging
from the coastal cloud bank like a bruised whale, was the
Ironcrag Brewers zeppelin. The very one Scramsax had
sabotaged in Zobeck weeks ago.
⠀⠀It hadn't quite crashed in the Margreve. Instead, its
steam-engines had locked into a slow, agonizing westward
drift. It carried thousands of gallons of pressurized
dwarven stout.
⠀⠀"You're kidding," Scram whispered to the gods.
⠀⠀The zeppelin descended. Fast. Directly towards the towering
spires of Algos, the geomancers ancient fortress which
guarded the city harbor.
⠀⠀A flash of light. The sound of the localized explosion was
delayed a few seconds.
⠀⠀It was an unbelievable cataclysm. The reinforced hull
slammed into the base of the tallest spire, rupturing the
primary vat. Decades of built-up dwarven steam combined with
volatile, enchanted yeast and detonated in a geyser of amber
foam.
⠀⠀Scram watched in paralyzed awe. The stout washed over the
sandstone castle. Alcohol reacted with mortar adhesive in
some wild alchemy. The stones groaned like a Wastewalker
titan grinding its teeth.
⠀⠀One of the towers collapsed inward, eroding into a wave of
debris that cascaded off the cliff-side and deposited into
the Western Ocean. Enough of the foundation had liquified
that the entire castle began to rotate towards the sea.
⠀⠀The carriage had stopped dead. Guards, merchants, Vee, and
bees were all staring off towards the harbor. Jaws unhinged
in astonishment.
⠀⠀Algos had literally 'turned' towards the sandy beaches of
Barsella.
⠀⠀"Heh," Scramsax slapped micro-Ingryd on the shoulder, a
vindicated grin spreading uncontrollably across her face.
"I'm back, baby!"
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ Here's another part of Ingryd's 'training', some Vee time, and twisting loose an old element of Scram's backstory.
I have about half of my last downtime post finished (thief adventure in Barsella with Ingryd), but willing to bet I wont finish it tonight. Don't wait for me. :)
⠀⠀Scram stood on Ingryd's shoulders, fishing out a dead
raven floating in the primary fermentation vat. Shoulders
tensed at the pair of emeralds glistening around its foot,
but it was just worthless green glass on second look.
⠀⠀Britta.
⠀⠀Again. It had been nothing but shenanigans since
Grizzled Brew Industries, LLC first opened its doors.
Gleamguard never cared about material wealth, but apparently
the politics of having a rival watering hole right across
the trail was enough to trigger the green-eyed girl.
⠀⠀The bird flumped into the back-alley refuse pile, belching
on impact. The explosive force had reignited its
consciousness. It wasn't dead, after all.
⠀⠀"Crrrk. Not enough nutmeg. Hackjob! Hackjob!" The squawky
beak took its show on the road, hopping about town and
delivering the truth behind Triple-Bolt Black.
⠀⠀"Tch. That stupid bird don't know what its talkin' bout,
Griz. But this Britta thing is getting to be a problem.
How's we supposed to sell overpriced whiskey with all these
pranks and nosing around?"
⠀⠀The answer came before she could finish speaking. Illarya.
The dryad had extended her grove's protection to Britta's
establishment. There was room for more, wasn't there?
⠀⠀There'd be two advantages, as the businesswoman saw it: 1)
she charged less than the Syndicate's protection, and 2) it
would make it easier to claim the religious tax exemption.
⠀⠀It was Scramsax' turn to get a sacred piece.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀☙ ❦ ❧
⠀⠀She found Illarya kneeling by a pool of silvery water,
weaving a garland of nightshade. The motions roused muscle
memories in her fingers. Scram would never forget that
pattern, nor any of the peaceful duties which clocked the
spirit's care of this sanctuary.
⠀⠀Nor would she ever forget the beauty of the dryad's soft
hands. Illarya's entire body still felt like a phantom limb.
The split was never perfect. Things were left behind. They
were together, yet scattered.
⠀⠀"You're thinking too loudly again, Amber Heart," Illarya
murmured, not turning around. Her voice was the soft kiss of
summer moonlight; it held the same terrifying, unconditional
love.
⠀⠀It was really real, this thing they had. The Narg Nasty
Nymph wouldn't talk like that to just anybody.
⠀⠀"I have a uh, zoning issue," said Scramsax.
⠀⠀Illarya turned sharply, her eyes impossibly wide like a
rupturing rosebud. She scoffed in Scramsax' own chubby laugh
"Heh. The forest reclaims. It struggles with partitions.
Does the town chafe you, my sweet intrusive thought?"
⠀⠀"Oh, I'm chafed alright. Britta chafes me. So hard. Dang
that Britta Gleamguard!" Her tiny fist popped in an open
palm. "Those illusory 'Closed' signs during peak
hours are really confusing a sucker. I also know for a fact
she bribed that bard to have diarrea during Mid-week Date
Night. How many nights have I eaten Griz's honey-roasted
bat-on-a-stick? Never any problems."
⠀⠀Scramsax rambled another hundred offenses. The Awakened
rye grains with their endless chatter and dangerous anti-
dragon political viewpoints. That incident with the stray
dogs, crystal chandelier and skunk pheromones. That
innaccurate pretend-Scramsax they hired one afternoon to do
fake advertisements.
⠀⠀"And she blatently stole my rumplestool design right from
under our high-top! I went to a lot of trouble to get the
perfect rumplestool. I need the grove's immunity, baby!"
⠀⠀"Who would steal a rumplestool? That doesn't even make
sense."
⠀⠀"—make sense." Finishing Illarya's sentence left them both
gazing at each other with that odd mix of wonder, fright and
amusement. If this relationship of spirit and thief was the
hag's lasting legacy, it wasn't so bad.
⠀⠀Britta earned a safehouse from the Ghoul Imperium by
championing for community needs at just the right time. How
could the dryad resist offering her own Amber Heart the same
shield?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀☙ ❦ ❧
⠀⠀On the way back, Scram had already started revising a few
figures on her lizard abacus. A heavy pinecone bounced off
her skull.
⠀⠀"Grove don't do corporate sponsorships, halfling," said a
voice from above.
⠀⠀Finnegan dropped from the canopy lining the trail,
breaking his fall with a not-very-acrobatic roll and a crash
of a few bottles.
⠀⠀"You got sloppy, Scram. Too damn greedy. Britta's tavern
honors the earth. She uses a top-fermentin', wild-caught
yeast strain that carries the tenacity of the Margreve.
Meanwhile you n'the bear got that classic taste of a
blacksmith's right boot dipped in burnt molasses. But the
modern customer demands more. Face it, Scrammy, you're no
brew-meister. Yer just peddlin' some lucky score."
⠀⠀"You sayin' we ain't got what it takes, Finn?"
⠀⠀"Sayin' it, done now already done said it."
⠀⠀Scram narrowed her golden orbs.
⠀⠀Fists flew. Nuts cracked. There was some biting along with
a healthy dose of slapping. Scram lost a shoe.
⠀⠀"Grunt— It was you sneakin' around me vats, weren't
it? You get yer taste? What's she paying you?!" Scram had
the rogue in a muddy headlock, but Finn was still fighting
back with sharp elbow jabs to the stomach.
⠀⠀"Cough...wheeze..." Finnegan was turning plum.
"What's she paying us you mean?"
⠀⠀Scram's grip loosened. Oxygen flowed back to where it was
supposed to.
⠀⠀"Scrammy please, you know I always had a taste fer rye. We
can play this...a double cross."
⠀⠀"I'm listenin'. Talk numbers, alley-blade."
⠀⠀"We stage it," Finnegan said, a wicked, entrepreneurial
smile revealing spoiled teeth. "I keeps sabotaging Grizzled
Brew. Only I don't. We fake the damage. I tell her I
released a rabid dire-badger in your tasting room, she pays
me fifty gold. I buy a taxidermied badger, we tip it over.
Splash some fake blood around. Maybe hire a journalist. That
kind of thing. Insurance will never know the difference!
Split the gold. 50/50."
⠀⠀Finn was on to something. The old Vandal-not-Vandal grift.
⠀⠀"Word'll spread for miles. Bout all this crazy stuff
happening at this bear whiskey bar. People will line up just
to find out what's the latest quirky curse! Bam, there's
your novelty!"
⠀⠀"'What's been grizzling that bear?'"
⠀⠀Finnegan blinked. "What?"
⠀⠀"No, I mean that's what they'll ask. Like a tagline."
⠀⠀Finn was lost. "...they're going to ask 'what's grizzling
a bear'? This is something you actually believe? You know
you lost something out in the wilds, Scram. Somethin' I
don't think is ever comin' back."
⠀⠀"40/60."
⠀⠀It was a start.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀☙ ❦ ❧
⠀⠀When the Ironcrags finally came to collect, Scram was sure
it was just one of Finn's fresh hires.
⠀⠀She stood behind the mahogany bar of the Grizzled
Brew, absently braiding a turquoise bead into her lush
beard. Some days the hair came, some days it didn't. But
here in the tavern, it was always welcome.
⠀⠀Gravitas. That's what it gave her. It was that rugged,
artisanal look only a true brew-meister could pull off.
⠀⠀The belt's beard was the only thing holding off their
assault, when the tavern door flew off its hinges.
⠀⠀Oh, bravo Finn, she thought, her heart swelling
with professional pride. You really tapped Britta's slush
fund for this one.
⠀⠀The trio of dwarves that marched into the taproom weren't
jolly at all. They were walking tactical siege engines of
heavy, brass-riveted steel. The leader had a face that was
ninety percent scar tissue and ten percent thirst.
⠀⠀Perfect costumes! Even the smell. Finn had even got the
ratio of stale ass and hot soot just right.
⠀⠀"By the unyielding stone of the Ironcrag Health and
Sanitation Council!" the dwarf roared, his voice rattling a
stack of shot-glasses off the shelf. "Lock down the vats!
Sweep the premises. Nobody leaves until this license is
validated."
⠀⠀Scram let out a slow, delighted whistle. She leaned over
the bar, completely at ease.
⠀⠀"Bravo. Just spectacular, really. The projection, the
timbre, authentic in every way! You guys are guild-trained
actors, am I right? Betcha the...Muses and Misfits
Company?"
⠀⠀The lead dwarf blinked, his inspection hammer wavering.
"What in the eleven hells of deeper dank are you babbling
about, kin-woman?"
⠀⠀"Talking production value, mate. Tell Finnegan he really
outdid himself this time."
⠀⠀"Actors? Finnegan?" The dwarf's knuckles went white around
the haft of his weapon. "We're Ironcrag Auditors! Someone's
been using our yeast in this rat-trap!"
⠀⠀"Right, right. I'm diggin' this 'stolen yeast' angle."
Scramsax nodded approvingly, picking up a rag and casually
wiping down the bar. "But if we're really going to put on a
show, we'll have to lean into the props. Here, play along."
⠀⠀Scramsax hopped onto the rumplestool, planting her hands
on her hips and thrusting the Ironcrag buckle forward.
⠀⠀"Oi, ye wanna be yappin' authenticity, do ye?? Ach, wasn't
it yer own bloody clan tryin' ta pass off that shifty swill
as real Ironcrag ale?" The magic of the belt gave Scramsax a
foolproof dwarven accent.
⠀⠀The taproom plunged into silence.
⠀⠀The dwarves stood aghast at the insignia on Scramsax'
waist.
⠀⠀"By the stones," the dwarf finally whispered. "She has the
Keg-Warden's belt! She must have...have shaved the
Keg-Warden!" Of course, it was the only way a belt could
legally pass from dwarf to dwarf.
⠀⠀"Wait, shaved?" That certainly wasn't in the script. The
reality of the situation hit like a hot, wet towel.
⠀⠀Suddenly the back door swung open. Finnegan strode in,
wiping his hands on an apron, a clipboard pinched underarm.
⠀⠀"Right, Scrammy, finally got those mittens on that feral
goose. How we want to play this? Listen, wasn't easy. What's
been grizzling that bear? Trimming nasty effing goose
talons, for one."
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ooc: Critz or anyone feel free to jump in anywhere, or just ignore. :)
I still have 2 more walls of impenetrable text to post, but likely not today:
A Britta Rivalry:
Scram gets on Britta's badside for starting another tavern in town. Finnegan awkwardly plays both sides. Illarya offers guidance. The Ironcrags come to town.
The Castle Turns to Sand:
Scram, Griz, Vee and the Bees go to Barsella (its the only place to truly learn thievery, claims the halfling). A heist ensues. The conditions which can nullify Scram's exile come about.
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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Nimble Tender of Leaf and Bean
To a thief, beliefs were just another vulnerability. That
rusty hinge on a vault door. The blind spot in a patrol's
rotation.
⠀⠀It was smart to change them.
⠀⠀Scramsax fingered the twinkleberry sprig decorating her
vest. Recalled the single tear streaming down the druid's
cheek. The invitation. Open and waiting to rob these
people of everything they had.
⠀⠀The laughter of the beast before it learns its
name.
⠀⠀Scramsax chewed on the phrase over and over. Pretentious
and hollow. A washed up translator's poor attempt at Sylvan,
perhaps.
⠀⠀The original letters were probably some sticks bent and
twisted into wooden runes by some 900 year old woman's arts
and crafts project some afternoon.
⠀⠀Gunnar had said it likely referred to some primordial
time. Innocence of nature before consciousness evolved to
observe it. Mmhm.
⠀⠀"Is that bologna?" Scramsax had already stuffed a travel
sack full, but there was always room for cured meats.
⠀⠀"You know it, don't you." Britta smiled, adding a tally to
the scoundrel's tab.
⠀⠀Not that the trip would require much time or effort. The
gifted sprig would be the perfect teleportation anchor.
⠀⠀But it would take more than a gemmed wrist to infiltrate
the Domain of the Grey.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀☙ ❦ ❧
The brittle carpet of autumn leaves and elk-shorn birch
bark was a direct challenge to Scramsax's soft steps.
⠀⠀She let her foot roll from the outside edge to the instep,
letting the shock absorb in her knees. Breaths came in
between steps, else her tight leather straps would creakily
expand.
⠀⠀Ultimately Scram made no sound. Slipped through the
underbrush like smoke through a keyhole.
⠀⠀A raspberry bush exploded into a thousand white rose
petals. A snuffling badger waddled forth, nosing Scramsax
excitedly and the bologna zealously.
⠀⠀Scram suddenly realized she was standing atop an
overgrowth of poisonous thorns, like one of those bed of
nails cons from the Southlands. It was an old burglar's
trick for rotten floorboards, but the badger just smiled
knowingly at the woodland stride.
⠀⠀Heh, it thinks I know a secret. The trackless step of a
hierophant maybe.
⠀⠀"Nimble Tender," said the badger, whose face slowly
morphed into a woman's. "At last you have come. Welcome,
Beastfriend. This way."
⠀⠀Scramsax swallowed her snickering, instead turning a soft
shade of red. They emerged in a wide, sun-dappled clearing.
The Circle was waiting.
⠀⠀A dozen figures in moss-draped robes stood around a
massive petrified stump of some ancient and forgotten shrub
relative. The pine scent of it all was rather pleasant and
invigorating, but substituting clay for hair gel was a
shocking choice for the Barsellan's refined taste.
⠀⠀An elder approached. He thrust out a bowl. A bowl full of
slimy cocoons.
⠀⠀"Bless our harvest, walker of the fault-line."
⠀⠀She didn't hesitate. Hesitation was the death of lies.
⠀⠀Still, Scramsax didn't know the first thing about being a
druid. What was this bowl stuff all about? Was she supposed
to drink it? Mix some herb into it? Mumble some crusty
invocation?
⠀⠀If you don't know the answer to something, make the mark
feel stupid for asking a question.
⠀⠀"You ask me to bless the harvest," Scramsax said, her
voice dropping to a theatrical tone. "But I must ask...has
the harvest blessed you?"
⠀⠀The elder blinked, completely derailed. "I...I do not
understand, Nimble Tender."
⠀⠀"Look at them," she commanded, gesturing to the squirmy
cocoons. "So burdened by the expectations of ritual. To
force a blessing upon such as these is the act of a tyrant.
But I am Tender."
⠀⠀She gently pushed the bowl back towards his chest. "Go sit
in the mud until you understand why the worm doesn't ask the
bird for forgiveness. Only then can the harvest truly
begin."
⠀⠀It was absolute, unadulterated nonsense. But it could pose
well for tradition.
⠀⠀Philosophy continued all night in that forest. Ancient
truths were freshly flavored with leaf and bean.
⠀⠀Scramsax could only smirk looking over her new flock. They
were going to be so, so easy to rob.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ooc: Just continuing the backstory ramblings started
earlier, how druids have mistaken Scramsax' worst antics
for the wisdom and ability of a powerful druid.
Well I was going to go Amulet of Health to skyrocket Con, thinking I (player) would have fun jumping into melee more. Scram was never really built for it.
But then I came across the Dwarvenkind belt and thought of the Ironcrags. Seemed like a funny development. Get a much lesser Con boost, but also darkvision along with some very fun sounding stuff. xD
The Zobeck Health Council smelled of scented sealing wax and
institutional hostility.
⠀⠀For the bureaucrats of the Clockwork City, Ironcrag
regulations were a holy text. The paperwork required to
register Grizzled Brew Industries, LLC was thick enough to
stop a crossbow bolt at twenty paces.
⠀⠀Scramsax stood at the brass-grated counter, a swollen eye
and bruises lining all the way across her jaw. Without an
anchor, the botched teleportation had bamfed her a hundred
fifty or sixty strides straight up. The goblin-wings had at
least made the fall non-lethal.
⠀⠀She had been casing the fences all day. Scram had fully
intended to trade the shimmering band on her finger for
something exotic. Something with that inexplicable wow-
factor the Invictusol disapproved of.
⠀⠀Instead it became a ransom. Exchanged for a clerk's fees
arming municipal codes. The final dull, wet thud of approval
was more like a big F-U.
⠀⠀Stumbling out into the coal-choked air with its gear-
grinding guards, Scram had only a piece of paper and an
empty ring finger. It was a miserable, hollow kind of
victory.
⠀⠀Then she looked up.
⠀⠀Moored to the high steel pylons of the merchant district
was a zepplin. Zepplin rulez, Scramsax remembered. Those
were the a-holes who had shut down the beanstalk spa. And of
course, the gasbag was painted with crossed hammer and stein
insignia.
⠀⠀Ironcrag Brewers.
⠀⠀Mind-numbing bureaucracy was replaced with the exciting
promises of an old grudge.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀☙ ❦ ❧
That night, Scramsax ascended. The mooring gantry was a
lattice of steam vents and polished clips, designed for one
of the mechanical men to climb. But even a machine couldn't
match Scram's second-story work.
⠀⠀She slipped past the loading cranes and onto the zepplin's
lower maintenance catwalk.
⠀⠀Scram remembered the bloated blood ticks of the north and
how sickly they burst. Too much attention. What was really
needed was a hemorrhage.
⠀⠀Drawing her smallest triangle file, she quietly scored the
release valve. A few beads ran the lines on her lizard
abacus. In approximately three hours, the pressure
differential would violently ground the stupid dwarves
somewhere over the Margreve.
⠀⠀"Oi. You der!"
⠀⠀The voice choked on dry gravel. It was a Guild guard
stepping out from the aft gondala. Stocky, bearded, and
carrying a leaded pipe wrench.
⠀⠀Scram thought fast, meaning she thought not at all.
⠀⠀"Oh hi. It's me, Slayer Brutswitch, assistant Air Attaché
of the southern squadron. I've been tracking a gremlin for
the past three days. Lookee here, its spoor is all over this
manifold linkage."
⠀⠀"That's not called a manifold linkage, its called an
articulating kinematic chain. I'd think a true Air Attaché
would know that!"
⠀⠀"Sorry, my southern accent—"
⠀⠀Whoosh.
⠀⠀It was no use explaining. Scramsax pivoted, dropping her
center of gravity and letting the swinging wrench rush past. Stepping
inside his guard, she popped up quick in almost a perfect
vertical jump.
⠀⠀The pommel of the dagger hidden on her spine connected
with the blimp master's jaw in a gross crack. Stunned and
stumbling the guard took a backwards step off the catwalk.
⠀⠀Scramsax reached out as a reflexive instinct, brushing the
garb of his tummy before snagging the man by his belt. The
Ironcrag insignia on the buckle flashed as some juju magic
was weakened.
⠀⠀"D-dunnae let me go!"
⠀⠀The anatomy suddenly felt completely off. There was no
beer-belly for one, and who in the name of hell was that
scratchy beard supposed to fool at this distance.
⠀⠀Scram greedily tugged the belt harder.
⠀⠀Snap.
⠀⠀The guard transformed as he fell to his death. Beard
whiskers alighted in the breeze. Mathematically square
shoulder pads goosed their way free of the falling tunic. A
strange liver made of solid iron hit the ground first.
⠀⠀He even cried 'no' instead of 'nay' on the way down.
⠀⠀This was no dwarf, after all. Somehow the belt had made
him that way.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
⠀⠀ooc: In this way Scram will 'trade' the ring for a Belt
of Dwarvenkind. ;)
Scram would like to trade her spell storing ring for another rare magic item. Perhaps going to Zobeck or some other advanced metropolis for selection. Is that alright?
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When a question of quaffery targets came forth, Scramsax the
Entrepeneur had the only answer that made any sense. "Let me
ask you something. Are you suffering from Narg-nasty
drudgery? Are the constant threats of agonizing Reaver
attacks leaving you feeling listless? Well, turn that
grimace into a grim-ace with Triple-bolt Black."
⠀⠀She repeated immediately in a mysterious sounding whisper
"Triple-bolt Black."
⠀⠀The saleswoman stood on the table, raising a finger to
punctuate her proclamation. "That's right! Sourced from the
crystalized memory of the legendary Fuzzy Fingers
McGlintlok, this ain't your grandpappies still-swill. Aged
for hundreds of years in the magical confines of the
Margreve, treat yourself to a smoky oak finish that'll leave
you twice as catatonic. Triple-bolt Black."
⠀⠀"Triple-bolt Black."
⠀⠀"One sip, and your ex-wife will admit they were wrong
after all. Yes, thats the Triple-bolt difference. A spirit
so potent, it sings to the souls of Celstia. Get yours
today!"
⠀⠀Scram leaned over to a passed out kenku slumped in a
booth, ruffling feathers with a quick disclaimer "Limited
supplies available. Triple-bolt Black and Triple-bolt
difference are protected trademarks of Grizzled Brew
Industries, LLC. Do not operate heavy siege weaponry,
spelljamming helms, or life-sized muppets while under the
influence."
⠀⠀"Scram, you said you wanted me to make something for you."
⠀⠀The question choked off the sales pitch like a wire
garrote.
⠀⠀She nodded, her mind going back to the small meteorite she
had slipped into Raseri's forge bag. Adamantine. As stubborn
and unforgiving a metal as the Thorsdottir herself.
⠀⠀A dark blade from beyond the storm. A scramsax bearing the
maker's mark known to all of Zove's Shadowsworn.
⠀⠀But hers would be earned, not stolen.
⠀⠀Dipping a finger in Luthael's ale, Scram wet-sketched the
shape of the blade on the dry table. She knew it was going
to make Raseri either scoff or laugh.
⠀⠀The concave front-bolster was a complete joke, except for
a child-sized hand.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
⠀⠀ooc: I think Scram had asked for thieves tools made from it,
but it became a dagger (a scramsax called Scramsax). Not
sure what abilities Raseri might be willing or able to imbue
with it, but some thoughts:
⠀⠀Something like allowing a bonus action attack with it.
That would enable Scramsax to make two sneak attacks per
round (Readying an attack as action, then sneak attacking
with bonus). This is what the Scimitar of Speed does.
⠀⠀Something like Antimagic in a 5 ft cube where it sticks
when thrown. Its so real and mundane.
⠀⠀Something like Modifify Memory on a crit.
⠀⠀Something like Bracer of Flying Daggers.
⠀⠀Something like allows Sneak Attack damage on objects.
"Ding dong" Scram's hand puppet chimed. "This is Winky, your Teleportation assistant this afternoon. Thank you for choosing Scramsax. Our menu choices are salami or muff-tarts. In the event of a mishap, your wineskin can be used as a floatation device..."
I guess I'll stick with Scramsax a bit more. I had been wanting to explore some new directions, and maybe this will be a good chance. Spitballing:
For sures:
Whip up memories with Illarya and Vee.
Start the whiskey business with Ingryd.
Visit the druidic cirle that called her.
Pull off the greatest burglary of all time, showing Ingryd the ways of the thief.
Enjoy Raseri's adamantine dagger.
Sell/Trade the spell-storing ring.
Maybes:
Hit the best library in Midgard, presumably Zobeck, to research puppetry. (or to pick the best altar of light to destroy the sword at...)
Barsella adventure (triggered by the mysterious destruction of the high geomancer's castle, satisfying the conditions of Scramsax' exile.)
Scram rolled her golden eyes "Wow, so you aint infallible.
What a freaking Thor-shock." If making mistakes was a card-
carrying club, Scram had an interesting lamination to show
the Thorsdottir. "A true blast from the North."
⠀⠀"How about instead of this pity party you stand the f!%#
up. Something brought you back. Gunnar's beacon or no." As
the thief recalled, Gunnar was quick to abandon them both.
It was only the Barsellan's passionate urgency that had
snapped the dwarf back to reality.
⠀⠀"We both know what that was." the halfling grinned.
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Luthael's words hung on the air, polite and warm like dawn's
rays on a chilly morn.
⠀⠀Scramsax stared at the man. He waited for the inevitable
lecture on Khor's Kode of Konduct violations, reprimands for
being reckless and smelly, proper bean farming techniques.
⠀⠀Not a peep. Just that sincere, open-mouth smile.
⠀⠀Fake.
⠀⠀Scramsax took a sudden step back, her arm snake-charming a
cold dagger loose from its hidden, spine perch. This
thing wasn't Luthael. The real Prophet would never let that
flip of the bird to Mrs. Invictusol slide.
⠀⠀Scramsax squinted, scanning the cleric's jawline. It was
too smooth. Too shiny. Waterproof, somehow.
⠀⠀Wax.
⠀⠀"Ho! Another wicky double! Nice try, but the real Prophet
would never talk like that!"
⠀⠀Scram kept her eyes peeled, convinced there was a string
dangling inside this imitation candle somewhere.
⠀⠀ooc: No one really seems worried about Narg, or
particularly eager to go there, so I'll drop it. ;P
Ingryd and Scram could setup their business plans with the stolen whiskey.
Scram also wants to respond to the druids who summoned her.
Or honestly, could retire the Scramsax character to run the place. Wouldn't mind picking Zove back up as a high level utility wizard to complement our blasters, or something else entirely.
Assuming the ones we rescued aren't doppelganger assassins, we have no other plots at the moment?
RITUAL OF MEMORIES LOST
4th-level enchantment (ritual)
Casting Time: 1 minute
Range: Touch
Components: V, S, M (a small pastry)
Duration: Special
During the night of a new moon, you bleed upon the
pastry component during the ritual. At the end of the
casting time, you must make an Intelligence (Arcana)
check against a DC equal to 10 + the target’s Charisma
modifier. On a success, a humanoid target who willingly
touches the pastry loses a memory from its life. The
target chooses the memory it gives up. You infuse the
memory into the pastry. The memory remains potent
as long as the pastry remains fresh, usually for two days
unless measures are taken to keep it from going bad.
A creature that uses its action to consume the pastry
permanently gains the memory as if it had experienced
it originally.
The target of the spell sacrifices the memory, losing
it forever. Only a wish spell or similarly powerful magic
can restore the lost memory, which also removes it
from the creature that gained the memory. The target
is disoriented, giving it disadvantage on ability checks,
until it finishes a long rest.
Scram would definitely stash salt pork under his tower. They are basically identical.
I'd love to RP the actual Kobold Press ritual to open a shadow road sometime. That was one of my favorite things from that publication (CotSF). There was a heavy psychological aspect to it.
It was like a 4 page adventure.
Then a trimmed down version got put in the World Book as a 7th level spell. For some reason it was never updated to 5e though (or maybe it was in one of the later magic splats, I havent kept up with KP), they only printed a Pathfinder version. Actually I guess it was in CotSF also as a 4th level ritual.
Quote:
The starting point in the mortal realm is a site of a murder, suicide, or other significant tragedy...one of the casters provides a confession of lost love, betrayal, or failure.
Maybe Raseri could learn it and 'tame' the skill roll she uses, or get a bonus to it somehow. I know its her Background Feature but in other words maybe there's a fun way to augment it or develop it somehow.
⠀⠀"Everyone is safe back in Narg, Prophet," Scramsax said.
"Unless they were wax doubles like Red and Crackles. Heh,
well if that's case the Narg Nasty 6 just did Narg real
nasty."
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The pretty hate machine was no more.
⠀⠀But somewhere in that pile of junk there was a tasty
pastry, trapped and calling for help.
⠀⠀An embroidered velociraptor on her toolkit flashed a
stitchy wink before the soft leather unfurled. Old standards
lie next to the latest in jerkfaced-little-bastard
technology, organized with the precision of a royal
assassin.
⠀⠀Forensic tweezers. Tweezing. De-greasing Solvent No. 7.
Edible. Crowbar. Strapped. Parabolic arc spanner.
⠀⠀Parabolic arc spanner? Ah yes, that particular tool had
sublimated in one of the ice hyena's nastier acidic globule
accelerators. Scram had also lost an important emergency
backup pair of underpants during the same encounter.
⠀⠀It had been a drafty flight.
⠀⠀Right. Hyperbolic arc spanner. Hyperbolizing.
⠀⠀Warped metals burped toxic fluids as confused legs still
twitched in some lost flight pattern.
⠀⠀A dim crystal was humming a cynical song about the doomed
future of technology. About how nature would win, after all.
⠀⠀Scram peeled back a heavy panel like the cephalothorax from
one of Old Man Jenkins discount steamed crabs. Something just
as juicy and desperate for lemon winked back from the
tangled mess underneath.
⠀⠀It was still moving. Spinning like a ballerina who never
tasted the hard realities of the art. It was beautiful. It
was Scramsax's.
⠀⠀But a miracle was yet to behold within the crumpled
wreckage of the retro-vents. The cream filling had not even
popped.
⠀⠀5-second rule.
Investigation:1d20 + 6 ⇒ (11) + 6 = 17
Getting that stashed Britta's Tastee Roll back, but also just salvaging an expensive looking souvenir from the wreckage like always. Maybe something like a gyroscopic nav-core.
what were we doing before we had to save that dragon's eggs?
AI to the rescue!
We were escorting refugees from Blandezig, the village that was overrun with ghouls and gnomes. Someone set us up the bomb there (AdamW's bard).
Gunnar chose Levoca because it was the closest safe settlement not under rule by the Blood Kingdoms. One of the refugees also had a wedding to attend there.
Levoca isn't on the Midgard map, but based on some alternatives, I think its relatively close to Zobeck.
We originally went to the dragon's lair to protect Levoca. I guess if the dragon just flew north we could check on its lair (treasure hoard). Just kidding, dragon went back to its lair outside Levoca.
Before all that though, and before Blandezig, we were travelling south on the Rothenian plain. We needed 'Black sand of Dragon Bone' from the Ruby Sea.
However, we succeeded earlier in obtaining some, and thats why we didnt mind going on so many side quests. We were killing time until the solstice.
Gunnar found it from the small griffon manor with the Lovecraft thing in the basement and the beer geyser just before Blandezig.
It is unclear if this sand needs to be 'long buried under the Ruby Sea' or if it already was and is good to go.
But yeah, seems we have all the materials for the null-sword ritual. We just need the other, more situational, things:
⠀⠀⠀⠀The shortest night summer solstice. Or it could be a trick with the midnight sun near the pole. A night of duration zero seconds.
⠀⠀⠀⠀An altar dedicated to light like the one the dragon just destroyed. ;)
Big question for DM to ponder hinting an answer to: did the hag make it?
I think maybe that's what Gunnar was trying to get at.
Scram's bean clogged up that entire hallway, unknown to anyone. Did it hinder her, or protect her in some way?
Did she eat the egg and gain a permanent ability score increase? ;)
We should verify the people we rescued are actually real and not wax people like Ibrox/Aterro/etc.
Also, this has been eating at me for a bit, but why did Gunnar choose the chipmunk instead of the hag? What was the IC reason? It didn't seem that ambiguous which was which but maybe I missed something.
⠀⠀
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⠀⠀
⠀⠀
⠀⠀
Scramsax felt something exciting but unwelcome from behind,
like a wet towel snap in a Barsellan bathhouse.
⠀⠀The rapid nadion effect tore through four of the Dynastes'
six pneumatic tri-valve encoders. That explained the
palpitations in the scrolling pilot display pagination.
⠀⠀She needed to lock the elytra into a gliding rotation.
Fast.
⠀⠀"Mmmff. You're just making stuff up, aren't you?!" said
Winky, at last unmuffled when a large component shaped like
a miniature rumplestool came off in its mouth.
⠀⠀Before she could answer, a bolt popped out of somewhere,
carrying the smell of burnt cinnamon pastries and unrendered
tallow. Perhaps the retro-venting spiracles weren't the best
place to hide her last Britta's Tastee Roll from Ingryd.
⠀⠀Scramsax' imaginary flight goggles fogged up.
⠀⠀Expulsar! Utkasta! Auswerfen! Another panel cried
uselessly in whatever languages it comprehended.
⠀⠀Some green liquid was spraying wildly like a slit artery.
The horizon tilted sixty-two degrees before the gyroscope
gyro-noped. A blur of icy and jagged rocks rushed up to give
the beetle a hearty high-five.
⠀⠀"Heh. I can fix it." Scram remembered worse jams with Vee
when she was growing up. That busted knee she got skidding
off Narg's 3-story clam chowder refinery. They had never
seen screws that tiny from Radovan's patch kit.
⠀⠀She leaned over and unlatched the glove compartment. Deft
fingers snatched the manual and unfolded it 8 times. It
promptly caught fire. Scram could just barely make out the
manufacturer's disclaimer before the whole thing was
consumed.
⠀⠀The warranty was still valid as long as the little sticker
hadn't been scratched off.
⠀⠀"Hah, did you see that, Winky? We'll be able to milk that
machinist for-"
⠀⠀WHAM.
⠀⠀Pieces of Scramsax and the beetle clattered across the
basalt like a dumpster of cymbals dropped from orbit.
Gunnar, I wasn't trying to force you to use your last spell slot and lose Banishment. I (and Scram) just don't think it would be smart to land. Scram and Raseri both have Feather Fall, if that helps.
