Life comes first, man. Thanks for letting us know and best of luck with your work and school.
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Sigra's heart was beating so hard against her ribs it felt as if it was trying to escape her chest. But while she was used to action and adrenaline, and a certain something inside her indeed thrived on it, this time was different. This time fear was the driving emotion. Because Sigra Darastrix had landed herself in unusually hot water from which she had about as much chance of escape as her ticker had of bursting through her breast. Sigga, calm down. For once the mercenary made no motion to dismiss the Voice. Not now. For as long as she had cursed the presence, now it was actually a comfort to know she was not totally alone up in this tree against a dozen men, even if it was damnably sad to draw comfort from a crazy voice in one's head. Come now, Sigga. I've never abandoned you before and I shan't now. We'll get through this. We will prevail the same way we always have: with ruthless aggression and superior dominance. Do not let that mewling quim speak to you like that. Let these fools understand who and what they're dealing with. Make them understand. Make them fear. Sigra gulped between heavy breaths and nodded. She didn't know what else to do. “Come on down my friend you’re surrounded. Don’t die by me feeding you to my dogs alive!” From atop the tower came a reply, although it was probably not what the bandit leader was expecting: a halting laugh, breaking in places into a shrill cackle. "Feed me to your dogs? Ha hah! How merciful. I wouldn't do that. No, see, when I get down there I'm going to feed your dogs to you. And then, once I'm done carving them all up, I'm going to feed all your men to you. Every one of them. Only then am I going to start cutting you. Piece by piece. And feed you strips of yourself. You're going to die chocking on your own cowardly hide."
Sigra reached the tower platform completely oblivious that over in the opposite watchtower a startled sentry had taken notice of the tree-climbing figure wearing little but grime and a 6 foot sword. She was too focused on her own would-be victim; as far as she could tell this tower's lookout still hadn't noticed her. And he never would if things went according to plan. But then things so rarely did.
Sigra saw her target. She raised her sword. The Voice hissed in anticipation. But apparently the hasty climb had been tougher on her than anticipated because some shoddy footwork sent her swing whistling over the bandit's head.
Sigra had packed away her armor and was scooping up handfuls of mud from the ground. Her pale arms and face were quickly obscured as she applied the dirt to wherever she could reach. It wasn't exactly flattering, but the mercenary would take whatever help she could get to blend into the environment. "Is everyone ready?" "Mhmm," Sigra nodded, passive face belying her thundering heart. The adrenaline was starting to kick in, as it always did at the prospect of death and danger. "Watch yourselves," she added to the whole group as they waited for what was to be their starting signal, Lordar's distraction.
And as soon as she heard it Sigra began sneaking her way through the tall grass as quickly as she dared. She was only too aware that this was the most vulnerable stage of the stratagem, and the blood whooshing in her ears spoke to that. I think I'm enjoying this. The freedom of not wearing any armor, the grime on our skin, the open sky over our head and the grass beneath our feet... And of course the prospect of a kill ahead. It feels so ANIMALISTIC. So natural. You're enjoying it too, aren't you, Sigga? The mercenary did her utmost to ignore the Voice. She couldn't afford any loss of focus here, crazy mind be damned. But soon enough the tree loomed ahead and confident that its sentry would not be able to see her directly below, Sigra leapt up for the nearest branch and let her strong arms guide her upwards.
I'd like to take the plan mentioned in the gameplay thread here to discuss out of context, because any misunderstandings are usually due to faulty assumptions out of context - i.e. our characters who should be perfectly aware of factors such as distance between watchtowers, height of the trees, enemies' line of sight and more, are being let down by their dumb keyboard handlers who only have their mind's eye for reference. So, to address my own assumptions, I suggested taking out both lookouts simultaneously because I'm assuming that they can view each other and would notice their counterpart being riddled with arrows. I don't know if this is actually the case or if their line of sight to each other is actually obscured by foliage or whatnot. If so, then the entire plan is nonsense and we should just be shooting them down one by one, easy peasy. My second assumption is that a distraction from Lordar would provide the rest of us with, at best, a few seconds where the enemy isn't watching, or, at worst, a penalty to their Perception. Again, kinda crucial considering our less than stellar Stealth as a group. Third assumption is Sigga being able to climb the tree without the dude in it seeing her. Relic used the term "lookout tower" so I've been imagining some sort of wooden platform, watchtower, tree house thing; something that would prevent the bandit from seeing directly below him. So with that said, how I'm hoping this could go is... Stage 1: Lordar creates a distraction to help the rest of the party sneak. Stage 2: Belchfast, Bertrand and Halden Stealth however close to tower A they deem necessary (I'm guessing this means within 1st range increment of your weapons) while Sigga does the same for tower B (except in her case this means not just getting up to the tree, nor even climbing it, but getting so near the platform itself that she can reach the lookout with a single move action). Stage 3: Belchfast and Bertrand do whatever spells they think necessary to hit the target (I'm thinking Bit of Luck and maybe True Strike). Stage 4: Attack. Bertrand and Halden take out tower A while Sigga takes out tower B. Of course, if Halden finds he has an arrow to spare then he could direct his second attack to help out Sigga. Finally, do consider that if our attack constitutes a surprise round, then there's always the chance that we win initiative and definitely-for-realsies kill 'em in the first round of proper combat. After that... heck, I don't know what we do after that. Cross that bridge when we get to it. So which of my assumptions are complete baloney and what have I misunderstood?
Hope you get better soon, dude. In the meantime, eat chili and drink paint thinner. Your stomach only got this way because you got too soft. You allowed it to rebel. You have to take back control. Kick its ass. Show it who's boss and get healthy.
"We can't attack the camp... You WILL attack the camp! It's the entire reason you're here, you lily-livered sophist. "We're out numbered badly and we don't know what we haven't seen yet. What if they have casters, trained dogs, or another half dozen men that haven't been seen yet?" What if they have a pet ogre? What if the stars fall out of the sky? What if you weren't a COWARD? Typical philosopher pundit... Always more occupied by theories and conjecture than facts. Plan around what you know and discard everything else. "I think we should back away and set up an ambush. We wait for them to send a group out, hunters or perhaps to look for the group that isn't coming back from the trading post... The weakling back at the trading post spoke of fifteen surviving brigands. There are eleven here now. The herd is already thinned. They're not going to send more away; they're more likely to be reinforced by the remaining four. The time to strike is now! "Once they get in range we fire bows at them, take them down before they can get close enough to even hurt us." Only two of you fools even carry bows! "Shh! You're not helping." Sigra was trying to listen patiently to the party's thoughts on the situation, but the Voice was making this difficult. The running commentary it provided did not surprise her; she knew it despised anything even resembling apprehension and passivity. But what was worse was that she didn't disagree with any of its interjections. The bandits needed to be dealt with. The bandits were unlikely to get any more compromised than they already were. And the party could only plan around what they knew right now. That said, Bertrand's suggestion of targeting those outlaws most vulnerable was a good one. And the group already had two prime targets all on their own, she thought as she looked to the watchtowers, its occupants still unaware. "How about this?" she started, turning to the party. "We start by taking out the towers, both of them at the same time, so that no alarm is raised. Lordar, you'd have to make a distraction. We'll need it; not all of us are as quiet as Halden. It shouldn't be anything too obvious, but something the towers can't fail to notice. You're strong - strike a tree or something. Make birds fly and leaves fall. The rest of us use this to get into position: however close to them we need to. Belchfast, Bertrand and Halden, you take one tower. You two..." she said looking to the wizard and ranger. "You shoot the lookout. If this bandit is anything like the ones we fought at the trading post, he won't survive arrows from both of you. Belchfast, you give them whatever blessing you can. Make sure they do not miss. Me... I will climb the other tower. It's just a tree. I can kill the other lookout." The mercenary watched the group. She looked as if she had just delivered a plan for a birthday decoration rather than cold-blooded murder. "Thoughts?"
Sigra stopped her horse at Halden's call. Good thing the party had people with keener senses than her, although that might not be saying much; there was rarely a moment the mercenary wasn't distracted by her condition. Heck, she regularly questioned what was real and what was just in her head even when she felt clear. "How do you think we should handle this? If all of the bandits are in camp right now, attacking would be suicide. I could try and sneak closer so we get a better sense of their numbers." "... We need more information," said Sigra, looking awfully thoughtful, and then nodded to the ranger's suggestion. That said, she was not at all comfortable with the man being discovered behind enemy lines on his own and moved to take off her armor; she intended to join him.
This land hasn't any civilizated laws now, but, if there aren't any rules in this wild lands, we are not truly changing anything... I mean... are we part of the rules now? and, to Henrik Are you? Or we all are making our own rules? to all What do you think? Sigra could not recall the rules of law having mattered in New Stetven, where it applied differently to high- and lowborn. The rules of morality had also not been worth much in her stint as beggar, when people ignored her on the street. Several of her scars could attest that the rules of fairness meant nothing in combat. And the rules of justice had apparently been A-OK with bringing her into the world an orphan. So no, much like Halden, the mercenary did not have much faith in any intrinsic power of rules. "... There are no rules. There is only power and how the powerful apply it." Within her head the Voice hissed in approval. But if Sigra came off as bitter or cold this belied her true sentiments. Because while she did indeed not believe in concepts such as justice and goodwill as inherent values, she did believe in them as personal values. She wanted to be good. She wanted to use use her power, what little she had, to do good. Or at least to mitigate the evil within her. "I'll take first watch. I can do it alone, or one of you can join me. Your call." When Henrik announced that he was going to sleep, Sigra quietly wished him a good night and then stayed up with Halden. She wanted to make sure their gracious host wasn't planning on stabbing them in their sleep. Once assured that Henrik really was asleep, the mercenary retreated to her bedroll without a word. From there, she tossed and turned within her sleeping bag all night.
“That seems like a good cause, but what laws does this land have? You have people who would have said that Cheliax was wrong and evil and to bring them down... Then again you have those who would have said Mendev was a blight on Golarion...” Huh? Sigra raised an eyebrow at what frankly sounded like nonsense. The guy might have refused Belchfast's offer of whiskey, but what Henrik said might as well have come from a drunkard. Some might consider the nation of literal devil worshipers evil? Those 'some' would probably be correct. The mercenary couldn't help but consider this a less than insightful observation. And Mendev? Who the heck disliked Mendev? Sigra wasn't exactly up on her geography, but she'd heard the stories - Brevoy and Mendev were practically neighbours through the Lake of Mists and Veils, after all. Wasn't Mendev, like, the one nation standing between a horde of demons and the rest of the world? They had all those crusades to hold back the fiends. Sounded like pretty decent folk to her ears. Should sound like decent folk to anyone. What was Henrik babbling about?
“I have given up ale decades ago. I have learned, for me at least, it can turn us into a monster that we should not be... What an utterly foreign perspective... Eh, Sigga? Clucking laughter filled the halls of Sigra's mind as the Voice taunted her. It was true; this Henrik's outlook on alcohol was precisely the same as hers. Ah, I do miss those days when you tried to drown me out with drink. I got so many more opportunities to come out to play... A thud could be heard as the mercenary smacked her own head against the tree trunk behind her. It hurt, but it also distracted her from the presence and the memories it invoked. There had indeed been a brief time where Sigra, more so out of despair than thought, had tried to escape the omnipresent Voice through the rim of a glass. It was not a period she looked back on with pride. For although the pleasant haze of ale did indeed offer some brief respite, it was did so only by suppressing her conscious self: the Voice was still very much present and sober. And without a clear-headed Sigra to keep it in check, it ran practically completely free. Sometimes with violent results. Sigra grimaced at the recollection. Now, considering her abstinent ways one might be lead to believe that she looked upon the group's gracious host Henrik as a kindred soul, given his own sobriety. But no, it was the exact opposite: the mercenary's suspicion of the man only intensified. After all, Sigra had no trouble recognizing that her problem with alcohol lay not in the substance itself, but with her. The drink merely loosened the shackles on an evil already present in her. She wondered if Henrik realized what he was doing, casually admitting to a similar evil? One thing was for sure: Sigra didn't trust him any more than she trusted a dog with a shank of lamb. Poor Belchfast, she briefly thought. This made two people who refused drink since he entered the Stolen Lands, and from a priest of the Drunken God at that. What were the odds?
It's cool, man. Real life comes first and all that jazz.
Sigra listened as Halden explained the nature of the nocturnal encounter. It all sounded a bit odd, but she did not protest going to see the stranger's camp. After all, the party needed somewhere to sleep for the night. Once there, the mercenary gave a nod by way of greeting to their host and made herself uncomfortable; she didn't want to fall asleep just yet. The gnarled tree she chose to lean up against poked at her just enough to ensure this. Best to be wary for now. "... Evening," she said. And that was about all she had to say. Sigra might be an orphan, but if she had a mother she was sure she would have taught her not to talk to strangers with wolf companions.
"... What's that over there?" Sigra asked Halden just as they were ready to move on.
"... I'm sorry." The sordid tale of Lordar's early history saddened Sigra. She had never known her own family, but to hear the paladin speak of being rejected by his own, she couldn't help wondering if she was perhaps the more fortunate of the two. At least he found solace in the church. This was good. Don't be happy for him. Pity the fool, the Voice suddenly interjected, sounding particularly venomous. The loss of his family is the greatest thing that ever happened to him and he can't even recognize it. Worse still, he went looking for another. Sigga, everything your kind calls kin is an obstruction. It weakens you. You use friends as a crutch even as your legs atrophy and rot. You lean on family when you should stand on your own. Foolish creatures! You could learn from base animals; do as the bird who throws its chick to its death to teach it how to fly... I say that when the paladin lost everything, he could have become anything. But at that time, when he should have looked inwards, he looked outwards. He looked to faith. He found new shackles in religion. His church defines him now and he will never become more than their pet dog. He will never realize his potential. He is weak. Do not associate with him. Sigra twitched in her saddle. She had heard this spiel before; the Voice had been telling her to avoid all social relations and that her lack of family was a gift her entire life. She still wasn't convinced, although she had undeniably grown an appreciation for independence and self-reliance. It seemed too... bleak a worldview, even for her. And it never resolved the more fundamental issue: the mercenary did long for human contact. But enough sadness... We are here for a reason, and whatever it could be, It doesn't care if we fulfill our duty. I wonder we all have something to prove to anyone, or to ourselves... "If you feel the need to prove yourself to someone, all your proving is your dependence on them. Do it for yourself." Was she referring to his family or church in saying 'someone'? Sigra didn't even know. She didn't even know where the words had come from; they just flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. Was it something the Voice had told her before? Probably.
Sigga, are you ready to leave? I only need take my backpack "Mh," Sigra nodded again. The mercenary very literally carried everything she owned on her back, in her rucksack to be exact; she was ready to go at any time. Well, perhaps not quite ready. She looked at herself; slaughtering bandits had left her caked in blood and burying said bandits had left her further coated in dirt. Maybe she wasn't entirely travel ready. She certainly wasn't dinner ready, Sigra thought, as Svetlana offered the group a lunch before their departure. "... I'm gonna go clean my armor." Sigra slinked off to the stables, intending to give her armor and herself a quick rinse. With the help of her waterskin and a rag, the hardened hide suit soon looked halfway decent again. Sigra wasn't too bothered. It wasn't like the battered thing had ever been flattering exactly. Somehow the grime on her own person proved more stubborn, however. She scrubbed at her arms, but while the top layer of soil came off fine, the bottom layer of blood remained. Sigra scrunched up her face in confusion and scrubbed harder. Finally, bit by bit, the blood came off in crusted flakes and yet... She didn't understand. Why were her arms still red? Calm down, Sigga. But she couldn't calm down. There was something wrong here. Sigra scrubbed harder still. Why couldn't she clean her arms? They were a deep red, as if the blood had seeped into and stained her skin and... Sigra's breath caught in her throat as she realized there was no skin. Scales. Her arms were covered in blood-red scales. The waterskin fell to the floor as the mercenary flew up in a panic, holding her arms up and away from her like the thoroughly alien objects they were. I told you to calm down, the Voice reprimanded her, but she was far too scared to care. She only barely registered the crash as she backed into the stable wall. There was only her, the horrid reptilian things attached to her, and her hyperventilating heart. What was going on? What was happening to her? What... And just like that it was over. Sigra's saucer-like eyes suddenly weren't staring at appendages that looked more at home on some sort of lizard person, but at a normal pair of arms. A bit too thin, yes, and lot too sinewy, but unmistakably hers. She didn't understand. By every god above and below, what just happened? Was she hallucinating? If so this was distressing to say the least. Sigra had heard voices her entire life, but she'd never seen things that plainly weren't there. Not to her knowledge, anyway. This was an entirely different league of derangement and the thought that her condition might be worsening frankly terrified her. That she turned to the presence in her head for answers, a being most likely nothing more than a manifestation of her insanity, should really be equally troubling. "What the fu*k was that?" she asked, voice still shaky. No answer. "No. No, don't you dare! Don't you dare clam up when I finally need you! What was that?! What did I see?!" There will be... changes, Sigga. The Voice sounded unusually soft. Playful, even. Was that anticipation she heard? Look forward to it. Some minutes later a rattled Sigra joined the others for lunch. She didn't eat much. ---------- “When the bandits came the first time they took my wedding ring, please find it. I would love to pass it onto our child when they are married.” Sigra was surprised to hear Svetlana's request. Not so much for the petition itself, but because the woman had directed it to her specifically, avoiding everyone else. Was it because she was... female? Was this a woman thing? The mercenary wasn't sure she understood. She wasn't exactly the most feminine of girls and feared that she might be missing something that would be obvious to another woman; to anyone that wasn't her. Nevertheless, Sigra was eager to repay the group's hosts for their kindness and gave Mrs Leveton a very serious nod. ---------- Once on the road, out among the vegetation and trees (which were also vegetation, she supposed), Sigra found that she was rather enjoying the journey, despite the grim job that lay at the end of it. She had never been an out and out nature lover, but she definitely had an appreciation for it. Perhaps it came along with growing up in a city. It even helped her calm down after the traumatic event at the stable. Feeling inspired enough to make conversation, she turned her head towards Lordar and asked, very matter-of-factly: "You said your family doesn't miss you. Why?" It was a detail that had struck her in the paladin's earlier conversation with Halden. It seemed so horrid, perhaps especially because she had never known a family of her own. I'm up for both exploring or heading straight for the bandits. Maybe we could go for the bandits first and then explore properly on the way back to Oleg's, in the interest of not encountering something nasty that could leave us crippled for the bandit fight. Thinkin' poisons and whatnot.
The two copper pieces are appreciated, I'm sure. Do note that all the equipment values I wrote are half their full purchase prices, as per the rules on selling loot. I don't know if our illustrious GM wants to use something other than the 50% rule, of course. And yeah, I went ahead and deleted the Alchemist's Fire from the list. Likewise did so for the one CLW potion. Feel free to just erase stuff yourself as we go along. It speeds things up. People will speak up if they disagree how certain things are used best. Also, I'm not at all opposed to just giving the stuff to Oleg for free. Might kickstart his business a bit. But now everyone knows what they're missing out on doing so.
So on the subject on loot, people agreed that a treasure list open for any one of us to edit would be a good option. I may have misunderstood, but when I suggested it I was thinking something along the lines of this. It's simple spreadsheet that tallies up the total value and weight of everything we collect, letting us know exactly what we're lugging around. Would it be an idea to attach it (or something like it) to the game along with the maps and whatnot? Anyone can edit it as we find new things, we can also vote on keeping/selling stuff on there, and whenever someone wants something off it they can just remove it from the list and add it to their own character sheet. Takes out a lot of confusion, back and forth questions, and going back to check a post that may be a page back. Feel free to disagree if you think it's a bit much and apologies, Relic, if I've overstepped my bounds as a player. And as for the post above, yeah, I'm all for heading out into the wilderness as soon as possible. I'd like to go straight for the bandit camp, but thoroughly explore every hex we come across on the way. The bandits aren't going to expect anything wrong for another week after all; we have the time and doing both fulfills our roles as both explorers and bandit-slayers at the same time.
“Here, please, take these. These two are curative potions, nothing major. But if you are lightly wounded they would work great. This one here helps you with a boost to your defenses. Bokken calls it a Shield of Faith.” Who? Sigra turned her head quizzically at Oleg's mention of a 'Bokken'. Was this someone she was supposed to know? “What are you planning to do next? I mean its still early morning, you have this prisoner, and he has told you where their base was located...” "Mh," Sigra agreed.
A sheet open for edit would probably be the better option. That way everyone can take what they need/are assigned and can update the loot themselves, so the list remains current.
Although Sigra joined in as Bertrand huddled them all together for a group discussion, she remained mute and seemed very distracted. The mercenary kept shooting nervous glances up into the empty sky. It was not altogether clear whether she had heard a word said. "Remember our charter. We are here to scout out the lands. Clearing the bandits will be required, but I think we need to keep both objectives in sight. Besides, we can't leave Oleg and his wife unprotected. For now I say that the prisoner can be bound in one of the buildings and we can stay our nights here. During the day we ride out and explore the areas nearby. If Oleg and his wife were expecting a contingent of guards I say we wait for more distant exploration, and location of the bandit camp, to come once they've arrived and the prisoner is given over to them."I agree with all. Our prisoner can be locked up until help arrive. He is not good enough to fight, but if he get to know soldiers are coming, he could try to escape "There are no soldiers coming." Sigra was still staring at what appeared to be a perfectly innocent cloud when she finally added something to the dialogue. It clearly took some effort, but the mercenary managed to wrest her eyes away from nothing at all and look the others in the face before speaking further. "Or rather, we should not proceed under the assumption that any help is coming. The Levetons asked Restov for aid; they are under no obligation to answer. And really, they can't." Sigra's formal education was near non-existent and even if she had been provided with any schooling growing up, her condition would have made academic pursuits next to impossible. But what she did have were a few years under her belt as mercenary. And it was real hard not to get a basic understanding of the politics of war working in that profession. "Rostland can't spare any troops here in the south because doing so would divert men from the north, to Issia. With war brewing, every available man is sent to reinforce the northern border. It's the whole reason we're here: we're expendable. And as long as Rostland and Issia can't make peace, we shouldn't expect any help. We're on our own. I think." Sigra suddenly looked up again. She knew there was nothing there, but she couldn't help herself; she had been hearing the beating of great wings for the last few minutes. This had happened before, although only rarely. Sometimes the Voice fell silent in her mind, only to be replaced by the repeated strokes of wings, waxing and waning. They could sound as if at a distance only to then grow in volume rapidly, creating the sensation of some huge bird of prey diving down after her. Except it wasn't a bird. No, Sigra couldn't even imagine the creature that would have wings as massive as these. Regardless, it was very distracting and upsetting, despite knowing it was all in her head. "... So yeah, the bandits aren't going anywhere until we make 'em. So let's." The discussion was concluded by Belchfast's impromptu blessing/post-victory drink, something the mercenary received only hesitantly. Sigra did not drink. Touching alcohol was a mistake she had only done once; she liked her inhibitions just as they were, thank you very much, keeping the Voice in check. But when the cleric's positive energy unexpectedly hit her, she felt a very immediate effect: the beating wings disappeared. Her mind was quiet. "... Thank you," Sigra said with unusual sincerity for someone who hadn't actually been injured in the fight.
Sigra's blank expression gave way to no small amount of surprise as the bandit passed out. Blacking out due to pain didn't even enter her mind as an option and she initially thought the outlaw had somehow died. She'd barely prodded the arrow. "Hmph." So they were tough enough to threaten women and children (unborn, at that), but swooned at the first hint of some 'enhanced interrogation'? Sigra's opinion of the bandits sank lower still: they weren't just scum, they were cowards too. Still, she looked apologetic at Lordar and Oleg's disapproval; the mercenary was no fan of torture herself and beyond that didn't want them to think ill of her. Stepping back to let Belchfast administer to the dainty desperado, Sigra turned to Oleg. "... Do you have a shovel, Mr Leveton? I'll get started on cleaning up the mess..."
“I’ll tell you whatever you’d like. Just untie me, please? Look, I have an arrow through my leg and...” "This arrow?" Sigra asked as she grabbed hold of the shaft sticking out of the man's thigh and applied some pressure to it. The result was predictably painful. She hated having to do this. Despite everything she was and did, Sigra Darastrix did not enjoy hurting people. But that hateful glance the bandit shot towards Oleg was quite unacceptable. If the Levetons and their unborn child, not to mention the group itself, were to come out of this mess whole, they clearly couldn't afford much leniency towards the outlaws.
"Talk," Sigra said flatly, her face completely impassive. "The gang. The hideout. Answer the man's questions." Without letting go of the arrow, she gave a nod to indicate Halden. Or perhaps it was just another one of her tics. Who knew, really.
Although it might have been put on the most tepid of back burners in her current frenzy, Sigra's rational side was not gone. And it was happy to see Lordar look significantly better now as he and Belchfast joined her at the gate. She suspected that the pious dwarf was to thank for that. We can't reach them... they will carry our warning to their leader... "The hell they will," she growled. The rage still reigned supreme in the mercenary's mind. Truth be told, the Voice's hold on her had weakened significantly; it was largely sated by the gore already spilled and she could hear its cries of delight ringing in her ears. But Sigra made a conscious effort to hold on to the fury. The job wasn't done yet. The bandits could not be allowed to escape. Putting aside the ramifications of their mysterious leader hearing about the party at this early stage of their mission, the Levetons would immediately be targeted for retribution. This was unacceptable. Gritting her teeth and clutching her sword tighter, Sigra prepared to pursue the fleeing outlaws. A small part of her, the aforementioned rational side, was vaguely worried whether she would be able to restrain herself from killing them; the earlier suggestion of keeping at least one alive for questioning was a sound one - but as if on cue Halden and Bertrand delivered a rain of arrows that solved this quandary. Only one bandit remained and he had no fight left in him. And for a second it almost seemed as if an errant arrow had struck the mercenary too, because she stopped in her tracks rather abruptly. For a second she looked disoriented somehow, head nodding slightly and eyes darting back and forth, unfocused. A keen-eyed observer would have noticed her lips moving, as if whispering to herself. It lasted just a few moments. Then, like a spell being broken, Sigra suddenly leaned forward into a half-crouch, hands on her knees, as if unable to carry her own weight anymore, with a mighty gasp for air. The fury had left her. From her perspective, it was like transitioning from a pure-blooded Qadiran war destrier to a halfling pony mid jump; her natural self felt weak, weaker still from the exhaustion the rage left her with. Good, Sigga. You did well, the Voice suddenly chimed in between its occupant's heavy breaths. They will fear us now, as they should. They will all fear you. "Is... is that what you wanted?" No response other than soft laughter. Sigra stared into the ground. Had the Voice been so eager for battle to have her behave like an unhinged barbarian in front of her new companions and hosts? Was that it? She knew it disapproved of any social relation of hers not based on fear and dominance; this had become perfectly clear over the years. Sh*t, she cursed internally. The presence might have played her. She needed to get along with the others for this mission. She wanted to get along with the others. It would have to wait. Sigra shook her head. These were concerns for later. Right now she just unpacked the rope from her bag and approached the surviving bandit to tie him up.
Sigra's vision had gone red in more ways than one; manipulating a nearly 6'' piece of metal into and then out of a human body tended to give one a healthy coating of blood. And she wasn't done yet. With the death of their leader, the bandits seemed considerably less enthused about the fight and were making a hasty retreat. This was not to the Voice's liking and like a general surveying the field of battle from his vantage point (also known as Sigga's head), it let its displeasure be known. Trying to flee, you mewling varlets? it hissed, reverberating in the mercenary's beating eardrums. Much could be said about the presence, but it was at the very least no hypocrite. Just as it would not allow Sigra to run from a fight, it detested the enemy that tried to do the same. Futile. You all die here. You're... "You're not going anywhere, riika!" Sigra screamed the words and launched after the bandits. Of course, at some later point, when she wasn't high on adrenaline and blood lust, she would be very concerned about the Voice suddenly speaking through her mouth. This had not happened before. Those were not her words. Heck, she didn't even know one of said words, although Bertrand, with his knowledge of Draconic, might have been able to tell her that she just called one of the fleeing outlaws 'bit*h' in the ancient language of dragons. And on the topic of said bit*h... He did not have to worry about the embarrassment of voiding his bowels upon death. Because the second he looked back and saw the blood covered terror pursuing him, sword in hand, he covered that bit of unpleasantry while still alive. Every muscle and vein in Sigra's emaciated musclebound arms stood out as she swung her sword in a horizontal arc with all the strength her rage enhanced flesh could muster, and...
... and the bandit suddenly found himself separated from his overfilled pantaloons. As his torso went sailing through the air from the sheer force of the blow, his last sight before fading into oblivion was of his assailant, standing over his newly detached lower half with a face hewn out of pure unthinking, carnal wrath. It was a sight that would haunt his spirit all the light-year long trek to Pharasma's spire. Current status:
16/16 HP, 13 AC, 3 rounds of rage left
As Sigga swayed back to avoid the incoming blade from the bandit narrowly missing her, she caught a glimpse of the bloodied paladin fighting alongside her. While the sight of a wounded ally might normally have spurred her to help, it did not do so now. No, Sigga had given in to the fury and blood lust. Right now it only amplified her rage. "Raaaaaahh!" With a roar the mercenary loosened her sword and pulled it off her back straight into the stunned bandit.
Current status:
16/16 HP, 13 AC, 4 rounds of rage left
"Lordar." When the motley crew now inhabiting Oleg's Trading Post were just about ready to settle in for the night, Sigra approached the paladin. She had a plea for him. "Could we swap bunks?" she asked, flatly. Lordar the Honest had claimed the loft in the stables as his sleeping quarters earlier, leaving the mercenary to bed in the bunk house along with the other three members of the party. This did not suit her. Not because she was so haughty as to require her own chambers, nor because she was uncomfortable being the sole woman in a bedroom of men. No, Sigra was afraid that if they lived together so closely, the party would discover the extent of her mental condition. She had a nasty habit of vivid dreaming and talking to herself that would make the current living arrangements very awkward indeed. Of course, despite this being a pressing concern for her, Sigra strove to maintain a stoic face even in making her request. She didn't want Lordar to catch on to anything either, but was rather desperate for the loft. "T-there's nothing wrong with the bed," she added, a bit too hastily. "I just... I need my space." Sigra hoped that the paladin just assumed that she was unwilling to sleep alongside three men. ----------
Kill them, Sigga. Go on, go out there. Kill them. Kill them all. *SNARL* Kill them... The Voice was thundering through her temples, a mixture of barely coherent words and animalistic growls and hisses. She leaned against the stable wall; her heart was galloping and she was already breathing heavy. The Voice's blood-lust had really hit her hard this time. Outside the stables the bandits were gathered and it was all she could manage to not leap out at them immediately. Sigra steeled herself, determined to wait for the signal no matter what the Voice demanded. Adrenalin high as she was, she managed to look to Belchfast to see if the dwarf was ready, forgetting for a moment that she must appeare a mess herself. Halden shouts "Now!" And just like that it was on. KILL! Sigra obeyed.
Bit of Luck is indeed great, especially if the archers in the group get Rapid Shot. Could also be good for Sigga's multiple claw attacks at lv.2, but the problem is of course it being a touch effect, requiring Belchfast to get up close and personal in combat himself. Then again, you have the HP for it. But I wanted to go over the battle plan OOC just so everyone is on board and nothing is misunderstood. Using this as our map, Bertrand and Halden hide up on the wall-walk near the gate and rain pointy death on the bandits at Oleg's command. At the same time Lordar, Belchfast and Sigga come out of hiding and engage in melee. Lordar, do you want to hide in the bunk house per Belchfast's suggestion? That way you could put yourself between Oleg and the bandits as he retreats to his own quarters (assuming he does retreat in that direction, of course). We should make sure to leave the doors to the bunk house and the stable open too, to make the most out of the surprise round. Nothing worse than blowing a perfectly good surprise round on something as inane as opening a door... I'm hoping to get a shot in with Sigga's sling before going melee.
"Ambush?""WHERE?!" Given how sparingly she spoke, Sigra had on one occasion been accused of treating every syllable uttered as if they were teeth pulled from her mouth. With this in mind the following might not mean much, but the mercenary was at a loss for word with Belchfast. She had never worked with anyone like him before and if she had trouble speaking with others, she had no idea what to say to the pious dwarf, opting instead for merely looking apologetic at the misunderstanding. It had been her fault, after all. Of course, inside her head the Voice was furious at her passivity in front of the dwarf, but Sigra bit the inside of her cheek and the pain drowned it out for now, enough for her to focus on Bertrand's battle plan. She nodded her assent to the strategy, despite being slightly uncomfortable with the ambush taking place within the trading post. Perhaps it was the fatalist in her, but Sigra was considering the fallout should they fail. If the party died here, then the consequences for the Levetons would be terrible. Better for the bandits to never assume any connection between the group and the trading post. Then again, attacking the outlaws in the wilderness was far more risky. And everyone else had already agreed to the plan. Failure wasn't an option then. "Thank you, sir, ma'am," Sigra said to the Levetons at their offer of room and board. Having a stable base of operations would certainly make the party's exploration of the Greenbelt much more manageable.
Sorry guys... the site was down Thursday night/Friday morning and I've had a busy weekend I'll try to catch up now. Totally understandable. The site was a complete mess until recently. Seems like it's stable now though. Knock on wood... Liking the game so far, guys.
"The carrier of this charter should strive against banditry and other unlawful behavior to be encountered. The punishment for unrepentant banditry remains, as always, execution by sword or rope." So declared the Swordlord's Charter that the five had pored over not one hour ago. And hearing Oleg recount his and Svetlana's experiences with the local outlaws, Sigra had no qualms following the law to the letter: the bandits were going to die. The Voice snickered underneath her scalp, clearly enjoying her outrage at the threats of mutilations and very late-term abortions. Good. I like this, Sigga. I like this anger. Use it. Use it to kill them all. She joined Svetlana in hooking an arm under Belchfast to right the dwarf; this was something all five of them needed to discuss together. That being their plan of attack, of course. Despite Oleg's hesitation, not aiding the couple wasn't even an option in Sigra's mind. So much so that she didn't even bother answering the man; she'd made her stance clear earlier. Instead she looked to the others and just asked: "Ambush?" How the party was going to approach the kill was all she wanted to know right now. Still, she wondered about her new companions. They didn't really know each and had never fought together. So hoped that Lordar didn't consider deception beneath him somehow. She had heard paladins could be a bit odd like that. And the dwarf, well... She was sure his inclusion on this mission was no accident. Hopefully.
Sigra observed their host's face shift from rosy optimism to its current crestfallen state as she learned that the group wasn't here chiefly for her and her husband's benefit. 'Taxes', huh? "The bandits. We know," she said, staring straight into Svetlana's eyes. "They're not our main assignment here, but they're our concern too. Don't worry. We'll help you." So the outlaws were running a protection racket minus the protection on these people. Smart. More profitable in the long term than just plundering the poor couple outright. And it told the party two valuable things to know about the bandits: firstly that they weren't stupid. And secondly that they were here for the long haul. Neither of which was good news for the five adventurers. This job really was going to be more trouble than anticipated. "How do you pay them? Do they come here? An ambush may be our best option." Somewhere deep within the halls of her mind, Sigra could feel the Voice growling its displeasure at her sympathy towards Oleg and Svetlana. But it kept quiet, no doubt because it knew this would lead the mercenary to the bandits and with them to more battle and murder. "... It's good stew."
Sigra furrowed her brow at the coach driver's words. The outlaws were banding together? Fighting an enemy on their home turf was one thing. Fighting a gang that outnumbered you was another. But fighting a coalition of multiple gangs where they had the terrain advantage? The mission ahead of the party suddenly sounded a good deal more daunting. But if the woman felt any hesitation at this development, it was immediately invalidated by the low rumbling growl echoing through her skull. The Voice would not allow her to walk away from a fight. Not without dire, mind-rending, consequences. For a moment Sigra looked truly despondent, not at the thought of the bandits, but at the certainty that the Voice would be the death of her some day. Some day she would get in over her head and not be able to back away. It was only a matter of time. It was good then that Bertrand and Lordar had a significantly more chipper outlook. 'No land is truly untamable'? Sigra wondered. They certainly sounded like the words of an academic and an idealist respectively. Perhaps it was due to her upbringing, but she had trouble seeing the world as anything but a great maelstrom of powers beyond man's control. Mayhap Bertrand was right and land truly was just land, but Sigra could have interjected that it then followed that man was just man. Sigra's entire life had revolved around little but adapting to forces beyond her control, whether it be starting life an orphan or surviving in an uncaring city or indeed her condition. It behooved one to know the limit of their influence. There was freedom in that knowledge. But what did she know? She was just a sellsword. A sellsword intimately familiar that some things were truly untamable. Somewhere behind her ear the Voice let out a raspy breath in recognition. What would you do uf you were the landlords? The question took her by surprise. Partly because she had never even considered such a scenario, partly because it seemed so hopelessly naive. Childish even. Here they were, five strangers not even in the Greenbelt proper, and the paladin was already speculating political policies and procedures of a purely theoretical state in said 'untamed wilderness'. It was awfully optimistic. But she liked that, actually. It even snuck a smirk on her otherwise impassive lips. While not the most hopeful of individuals, she admired optimism in others. The world was dour enough as is; nothing wrong with a little hope. "... I've never managed a room bigger than a prison cell. Poorly, at that. What would I do with a land?" It was true. Heck, she wasn't even master of her own mind. How could she rule a people? ---------- "... Thank you, ma'am." At Oleg's Trading Post, Sigra accepted the bowl of stew from Svetlana and sat down at her direction. Both as an orphan and as a mercenary she had long since learned to eat not when hungry, but whenever possible. You never knew when you'd see your next meal. She looked around the compound as she waited to hear how the party could serve here. Stop being so damn subservient. These peasants should serve you. They should fear you. You should MAKE them fear you. Sigra dropped her spoon in the bowl as a strong tremor overtook her hand.
"Nice to meet you all. I'm Lordar, keeper of the faith of Abadar." Sigra stared at Lordar just long enough for it to be uncomfortable. An Abadaran, huh? Was he a paladin, she wondered? He looked the part in his church endorsed armor, but one could never be certain with these things. Either way, she was glad to have him on board. A lawbringer was certainly appreciated in lawless lands and although Sigra herself was hardly the most principled of individuals, she had nothing against the Abadaran faith. Heck, she had spent many a night fruitlessly trying to pray her condition away, beseeching the Master of the First Vault too among many... Stop that. I've told you this before. Only the weak need the gods. They are not for us. WE are strong. Sigra made another unnatural twitch of the head to drive away the Voice, and, realizing how she must look, then tried to pass it off as a nod in greeting to the paladin. "... Hi." “What brings you down to the Greenbelt? You know its an untamable, deadly land?” After taking just a moment to enjoy the aroma of the pipe smoke, Sigra deigned to answer the question in her own subdued manner. She didn't want to be rude. "... Just a job. Bandit clearing." She nearly lapsed back into silence before realizing that their driver might be more familiar with the area and its inhabitants than anyone in the party. Good info was worth its weight in gold. "Know anything about them? The bandits?" Good. That's the way, Sigga. Find our next target. Find our next kill. Sigra gulped and looked a bit sick.
See, this is why I like PbPs. Because here you have to make all this rules malarkey make sense in a living, breathing world. Doing an AoO simply because the rules say you can is all fine and good, but actually describing how the paladin's eyes momentarily turn a shade of gold and how your character knows he can take advantage of the holy warrior's distraction due to this... That's the good sh*t, right there. That's what happens when the game takes place in written language. Love it.
The lean figure of Sigra Darastrix was reclined as far back as the cramped cart would allow. Her eyes were closed and her nearly six-foot sword rested between her legs. She almost appeared to be dozing. But even a cursory glance cast her way revealed that the young woman was anything but at ease. Her hands were busy wringing the long handle of the sword in what seemed a death grip, bony knuckles standing out pure white. Her eyes were also not merely closed, but shut tight with her brow furrowed as if in deep concentration. Which was precisely what she was doing. She was concentrating on ignoring the sinuous and insistent voice slithering its way into the forefront of her mind once again. The Voice. Sigga... Sigga... Sigga... Sigra had lived with the Voice inhabiting her head her entire life. Sometimes it went quiet for a while. At others it would speak to her directly. Sometimes it would snarl. And at others again it would scream. But she knew what it wanted with every syllable spoken. It wanted what it had always wanted, ever since she was a child: the Voice demanded that Sigra hurt others. And she was not at all happy about this. Don't you dare ignore me, Sigga... While the Voice undeniably dominated her life, Sigra had gotten better at resisting its commands with age. But she knew this would only work for a time. The Voice would only grow louder and more powerful the more she defied it. It would scream abuse at her every hour of the day if it had to. It would deny her sleep. It would drive her mad (assuming she wasn't already) if necessary. Sigra had been through it all so many times by now. All she could do was manage it. This was why she had taken up work as a mercenary. It was why she was here in the wilderness, in the Stolen Lands chasing bandits; because at least here she wouldn't hurt any innocents. Bertrand's voice caused her to sit up with a start, wide-eyed; her focus on her own inner turmoil was such that she quite forgot the world around her. She looked at the innocuous man as he introduced himself. A mage, huh? He was right, of course; the five companions needed to familiarize themselves with each other. They were to fight together, after all. But compatriots were something she had always avoided, as much for their sake as for her own. Someone with her condition couldn't afford friends. When Bertrand and Halden turned to her, Sigra had to somewhat haltingly clear her throat before speaking. "I'm Sigra. Darastrix. Sigra Darastrix." A second passed. "... Nice to meet you both. I... I'm just a sword arm. I'll hurt whoever needs hurting." KILL, Sigga. Don't try to sweeten it. You'll kill whoever I tell you to. Sigra compulsively shook her head as if to chase away some imaginary fly in a gesture that no doubt looked odd to her companions.
Not super comfortable sharing too many real-world details about myself on an open forum, but I can say that I'm relatively new to these boards. Bit a late bloomer with tabletop gaming in general, really; I've been playing PF a paltry five-odd years which doesn't feel like much compared to what's been shared here. I can say that I really like the PbP format though, as it gives a far greater focus on the individual PC than the average face-to-face session. When taken into this written, narrative format, the game allows for more character moments and a better look at every PCs' thoughts and motivations. It makes for good roleplaying which is why I'm here. On that note, I sometimes write overly long, meandering prose-ridden posts about feelings and other bull. Apologies in advance for that. Also I'm pretty sure my time-zone is not at all neighboring your own, so expect posts at odd times of the day.
Christ above, this site, huh? But yes, huge thanks for the invite, Relic. Stoked about finally trying Kingmaker. Also looking forward to reading all the characters' bios, but a cursory glance tells me that the whole party consists of dudes, yes? With Relic's blessing I'm changing Sigmar Darastrix into Sigga Darastrix, simply to avoid a complete sausage fest. Adds a little colour to the party. So! Sigga is the melee barbarian/soon to be sorcerer/soon to be Dragon Disciple. Not sure if she'll succeed in any of those roles, but we'll just have to see, won't we? I finished up her profile and added an 'appearance' section per Relic's original recruitment request and for those who like to reference these things in their posts. Also threw in an equipment list. Looking forward to playing with you all. |