Skurly Geddinloe's page

Skurly has been sullen and distracted since his hopes of a meaningful revelation were dashed amidst the papery promontories of the clerk's offices. He sulked alongside Talib, his only reaction to the proceedings being a redoubled misery at the mention of Mylok, but he says nothing.

As they come upon the macabre, mad scene, he remains voiceless- but the malaise evaporates into a purposeful, bowstring-taut silence. Like a ghost himself, he raises a finger to his lips to hush his comrades, and slips into the room at a moment when all eyes are off the door, feet surprisingly nimbles below his rotund body. Slipping into the room, he takes a position behind a high-backed chair, where he hopes to catch a glimpse of what so engrosses Halgrak, and puts a finger within a hair's breadth of the trigger of his crossbow.

Stealth for a chance to finally do something he's actually good at: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22

Skurly's shaking hands let the crossbow fall to the floor. I can't let them down again, says the better part of his mind, while the decidedly more prominent portion screams at him to RUN. He numbly grasps the hilt of his child-sized rapier and steps to confront the spectre, doing what he can to interpose himself between it and Talib.

Dropping the crossbow and drawing rapier as a move action, 5-foot step northeast, Aid other on Talib to increase AC
attack roll: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (3) + 4 = 7

Skurly looks up from amidst his endless reams of memoranda, his face drained and forlorn.

"There's nothing here about Mord's case, nothing at all-". He stops, suddenly thoughtful. "Don't know why I'm surprised. Whoever was behind all this mess was willing to have a judge killed- I don't suppose they'd let a paper trail stand in their way."

He lifts himself to his feet, thumbing pensively at some of the documents bearing the initials of "A.W."

"Whoever this lousy rascal is, or was, he was someone important enough to be known by his initials alone, and didn't need to hide himself from scrutiny, either. Unless it's a false name? And no one was brave enough to ask too many questions about it? What if that was Mord's mistake, trying to find the man behind those letters?" He paused again, grimacing in frustration. "We need to find the rest of the jurors, before they all wind up like poor Tablark. One of them must know something about A.W."

Skurly sighs with exhaustion- mental, physical, but above all emotional- as they leech quivers and expires. But seeing the reams of documentation all around them, a newborn spark of hope and determination lights up in his emerald eyes.

"There has to be a clue in here somewhere. This is the brain of this awful, rotted old beast, or at least it's memory, which is the better part of the brain, as some would say, and if it remembers why all this happened, then we can think our way out of it." Licking his lips and setting his chin resolutely, he begins to pore over the stacks of filings, summons, affidavits, and writs, looking for anything that might shed light on their plight- but particularly, anything that mentioned Mord himself, whether as a servant of the court, or as a subject of its judgment. The pieces were here, somewhere, it was just a matter of seeing their shapes...

Not sure whether it would be Perception or something else to find something of value in the paperwork, but here's a roll.
Let your fingers do the walking: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (7) + 8 = 15
Inspiration, not spent if Knowledge: Local is the appropriate roll: 1d6 ⇒ 1

Skurly cringes, both from the terrifying aspect of the apparition, and the suddenly sweltering temperature of the room. His face immediately produces a comical deluge of sweat, carving wide rivulets through the dried blood on his face. For the moment, he is stricken silent, mind racing to think of anything that might spare them the fate of the mutilated bailiff.

Knowledge: Religion: 1d20 + 7 + 1d6 ⇒ (7) + 7 + (4) = 18

Skurly yelps like a dog whose tail has been stepped on, and whirls around to face the threat, the plucky bravado of moments before evaporating in a flash of terror. Still, he's not so gutless as to shirk his duty, slipping past Rissi and Talienda to get a clear shot at the horror, and letting a crossbow bolt fly.

I'm assuming the creature is at the position directly to the east of Talib, and therefore not benefiting from cover from Skurly's new position- correct me if I'm wrong!

Crossbow attack roll: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24
Crossbow damage roll: 1d6 ⇒ 2
Critical confirmation: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (4) + 4 = 8

Skurly makes no effort to conceal his glee as he receives the alchemical wonders, childish joy spreading over his face and completing the craquelure pattern of dried gore over his cheeks and the corners of his eyes. "If I could've laid hands on these when I was a boy- my brothers would be dying of envy!" With almost reverential care, he tucks them into the pockets of his vest, before taking up his crossbow again and resuming his watch- this time, though, remembering having been caught unaware by the animated corpses, he aims at the doorway.

"I have the rear secured, Mr. Talib! Nothing to fear from behind while I'm here!" His soft little spirit seems buoyed, almost cocky.

appraise: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (18) + 7 = 25

Skurly, seeing that no one else seemed to pay them much mind, stuffed Malgrim's dental trophies into his pack- not for the value of the gold and silver they were composed of, but for the chance- however slim- that they would reveal themselves as unanticipated but crucial pieces of the deadly puzzle they found themselves within.

"Malgrim had quality work done on his gear," he groused in frustration. "A lot of good that'll do us to know. That cigar case would fetch enough to let a man live decently through the better part of a winter without one day's work- I suppose he's missing it, wherever he's gone to."

Frowning in consternation, which causes the drying blood on his face to crackle and flake, he takes up his crossbow again and follows Talib into the adjacent room. As his leader opens the door, he trains his aim on its interior, a little more confidently than he had before.

The refreshing breeze, bidden out of nowhere, returns some of the color to Skurly's face. He seems far more impressed by this, and by the eldritch repair of Tali's garments, than the eldritch bolts of lightning she'd called before. He smiles gratefully and clambers to his feet.

A look of resolute concentration fixes itself on his brows. Let them rest and recover, he thinks. Time for you to get your hands dirty.

He waddles over to the pile of hewn flesh that was once a terrifying hobgoblin gangster, and begins to methodically and thoroughly pick through the remains. With scrupulous attention to every last detail, he begins with the head and works his way down, searching over the dead skin, turning out pockets, unbuckling fasteners and clasps to search for hidden caches, and doesn't stop until he's pulled off the boots and overturned them. If Malgrim had been carrying some sign of what had lead to this moment, and the blackhearted conspiracy that brought them all here, Skurly was not going to let it go unfound.

Searching Malgrim's body for clues; if it's possible in the bounds of the scene I'd like to take 20, but in case not there's a roll below.

Perception: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (16) + 8 = 24

Skurly is slow to react to the sudden stillness in the room. The force of Talib and Sinesiel's combined assault had sent a thick, sticky wave of coagulated blood and viscera directly at him, and he's only now cleared his eyes of the gore; his normally-voluminous bush of hair is plastered to his scalp.

He ambles over toward Talienda, a little shakily, and offers a wan smile.

"See, Miss Talienda? Bet you never knew you had it in- y-y-you..."

His face is still caked in red, but where the skin shows through, it turns a slightly greenish shade of white. He turns to the side, and lets an orc-sized gout of vomit loose over the toes of his boots.

"Urgh... pardon me," he offers faintly. "Something's not sitting right with my tummy...

He plops down next to Halgrak, doing his best impression of a smile. A generous observer would call it "a good effort"; a more critical eye might call it "ghoulish".

"You're a hero now, you old sod. How's it feel?"

Seeing Talib cleave the undead dwarf in half, where his own blade hadn't done so much as scratch it, Skurly is reminded of an important fact: that he is small, weak, and no kind of hero whatsoever. Even Talienda, who moments before had seemed just as hapless as himself, had proven to be a sleeping giant. Leave the monster-slaying to the tallfolk, he thinks, and do what you do best: be in the way of things.

Turning to the still-rampant corpse of Malgrim, he thrust out his flimsy blade, not to strike but to annoy and hinder- any move the corpse made toward Halgrak would be met with a mosquito-like flurry of pokes and prods, nothing of a threat but hopefully enough of an annoyance to buy the fellow some breathing room.

Standard action to Aid Other, granting Halgrak +2 AC vs. Zombalgrim.

Aid Other attack roll: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13

While Skurly's mind is begging him shamelessly to get as far away from the hideous, cavernous gaze of the undead hobgoblin, his body has other ideas. Something stronger than his terror takes control of his legs and arms, and he finds himself stepping closer to the horror, and to the exposed back of the dwarf that was mauling his friend

In an unpracticed and somewhat clumsy motion, he slips his pint-sized rapier from his belt, and with a gasp at his own audacity, shoves it with all his might at the base of its skull.

Took a 5-foot step north, used a move action to draw the rapier, and standard action to attack Tablark.

Rapier attack, + 3 Dex, +3 Flanking (Craven): 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (17) + 6 = 23
Rapier damage, -1 Str: 1d4 - 1 ⇒ (1) - 1 = 0

Skurly, inspite of his prey-crature's instincts for danger, freezes up for a too-long moment as the corpses lurch toward them. Before he has time to react, a dead man's nails are ripping into his friend's stomach, and its more than the little halfling can bear to see.

With a thin, shaky, but whole-hearted battle cry, he hurls himself at the restless dwarf cadaver- no weapon in hand, he can do little more but shuck his pack off his shoulders and heave it into its face. No chance of hurting it but maybe enough to get in its way and make an opening for his stronger, braver comrades.

aid other for Talib: 1d20 ⇒ 14

Skurly's eyes flit anxiously to Talienda as Halgrak tells his tale, almost as if worried for her. Patting the half-orc on the shoulder with uncontrived sympathy, he withdraws and sidles over toward Talib, tugging on his sleeve and muttering to him in Kelish.

"القناص المحظوظ ... هل تعرف ذلك؟ يقولون أن والد الفتاة يملكها. رجل طيب ، أنا متأكد من ذلك ؛ سمعت كلامًا مفاده أن المكان تم إحراقه من قِبل الحكاكين بضغينة ضده. لقد بدأ يبدو وكأنه ضحية أخرى من مؤامرة ضد مورد."

Knowledge: Local: 1d20 + 7 + 1d6 ⇒ (14) + 7 + (3) = 24
Knowledge: Local: 1d20 + 7 + 1d6 ⇒ (19) + 7 + (6) = 32
Regained 1 Luck from 6 on Inspiration die

Skurly peers about, a shiver rolling through his body as he looks upon the weirdly distorted faces in the paintings. Turning away for the time being from their uncanny and inconstant features, he joins Talienda and Halgrak.

It must be even harder to be a big coward than a little one, he thought. He can't even disappear into the crowd to hide his shame, poor thing.

"Mr. Halgrak?" Skurly keeps his voice as gentle as he can, without falling into the bounds of timidity. "We know this is all just awful, and it might seem like everything is lost. But Ms. Talienda's right- you've survived something awful already, haven't you? We can't undo what's been done, but if you tell us how this happened to you, maybe we can make it a little bit right- it's never late to make good out of bad, I say. Do you believe me?"

Perception roll: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25
Perception roll: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (15) + 8 = 23
Diplomacy roll: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22

Skurly trails along after the crew, after having retrieved Judge Trabe's text from the shadow of Jarbin Mord. "I could get it open, I imagine, given a little time to work." He turns to look gloomily at Sinesiel. "But I don't know that what's on the other side of that door is any better than where we are now."

He then casts a fitful, worried glance at the prostrate Talienda. "Can someone help her? We can't do anything until we're all on our feet- we have to stick together, or we're all done for!"

Skurly was quiet while watching the apparition toy with the dwarf, bracing for another display of hellish violence. When it doesn't come, he blinks, and slings his pack to the ground, reaching in and drawing forth the ponderous tome of Silman Trabe, Punish the Guilty.

"This is your hand, isn't it?" He advanced toward the spectre with the book heal open, revealing the scrawlings of "LIAR" across the pages. He finally comes to within just an arm's reach of the hangman's noose, and lays the open book down like an offering. "You can't talk, but you can write, can't you. What were they lying about? We want the truth too. That's all we want. Let us help you."

His voice quavers, but he doesn't seem terrified so much as taut with anticipation.

Skurly had turned away sharply away from Talib's rebuke, whether in outrage or mortification it was hard to say. Sinesiel's kind words draw a wan, but sincere smile from him, but he's quiet on the way back to the courtroom, content to let the tallfolk do the talking among each other while he did was a halfling did best: fade into the scenery, watch, and listen.

He doesn't pipe up again until they are once again in the courtroom, and beginning to feel the unnatural ebb and flow through the room; at one moment sweat is beading on his brow, the next he's clutching his arms against the folds of his chest and shivering. By now, though, he's too exhausted to feel the keen edge of panic against his heart, and his voice is dull and almost jaded when he taps Mylok at the elbow and rasps:

"Can you feel it, Mr. Mylok? Something's not right. Someone isn't happy with us. The awfulness is going to start again soon."

Suddenly, something snaps in him, and a thin screech- like the voice of a different person, one older and bitterer than the Skurly they knew- rips from his throat. "Well?!? What is it now, you dead old devil? Why don't you come and kill us already, or eat our souls, or whatever it is you do for fun? We've all had enough of your games- tell us what you want, or just leave us alone!" His babyish face is twisted into a sneer, eyes half-wild and the rage of a wounded animal.

Skurly watches as the last of the carrion birds scatters, his flushed face draining to a blanched pallor of humiliation. He tiptoes back toward the courtroom, hanging his head low, hands folded behind his back.

Lingering at the threshold of the courtroom door, his eyes flit to Sinesiel, then to Mylok. "I... I'm so sorry." His voice quavers, biting back tears of shame. "I thought, maybe if I went in, I could- I could help, I could make it so no one else had to take the chance- I didn't know what-" The sentence is cut short by a choked-off sob. "I didn't think anyone else would get hurt."

He studiously avoids making eye contact with Talib, his gaze tracing a circuitous path to avoid meeting the inquisitor's.

From within the confines of his hidey-hole, Skurly couldn't see his companions, or anything at all apart from snapping beaks and mouldering feathers, steadily widening the narrow gaps in his makeshift fortification. But he could hear the report of Mylok's alchemical weapon, the crackle of flames, and above all, the dull and thunderous beat of his own blood pumping through his temples.

Not like this. Not like this! He might have whimpered, although if he did, it was drowned out by a chorus of cawing and noisome wingbeats.

And then, another sound- the high-toned, alien sound of the ratwoman's voice, singing in a meter that was as unfamiliar as anything that Skurly had ever heard, but spoke to his soul just as clearly as a favorite childhood lullaby. Though he couldn't make out the words, the message was clear: Take heart. Stand up. Your strength is needed. For a few moments, the fog of blind terror lifted, and he knew what to do.

Bursting from his shell of rotten wood, Skurly did retreat- but not, as Talib commanded, back to the office of the ex-judge, but through the adjoining door, back into the great hall. He shrieked as he ran, but not in the blubbering whinge his friends had come to know- more like a shout. "Look at me! Look at the tastiest halfling you've ever seen!"

Flinging open the door, he burst into the main hall, waving his arms over his head, and made for a point just below the remaining chandelier which still hung from the ceiling high above.

: Double move action, map updated

This is how it happens, then. Skurly's little sausage legs were launching him forward, quite outside the notice of his consciousness, not toward the safety of the doorway, but deeper into the courtroom. This is how they all die, this time. And I'm going to be left all alone again, and it's all my fault. He bounded and blundered among the wreckage, and sighting a sizable pile of splintered wood that might have once been the witness stand, he flung himself into it. Wriggling and burrowing into it like a piglet after a truffle, he worked his doughy frame into its midst as well as he could in search of safe haven from the malevolent flocks.

Skurly hovered at the threshold of the courtroom, peeking out from behind the protective mass of his larger comrades. If Mylok would have had apron strings, Skurly'd be hanging on them.

If there was any one among them who would be eager to withdraw from something as uncanny and grotesque as these... pustules, for lack of a better word, it would have been him. But something kept him staring in horrified fascination at their undulations and pulsations.

"B-but.." he stammers weakly. "What if, what if something important is in here? Something happened here, someone did something here. We have to know for sure."

Visibly shaking, he takes a step forward into the courtroom. His jitters draw a little jingle from the metal studs of his armor, and he freezes- takes a deep breath to steel himself- and begins to advance into the courtroom, without looking back.

With agonizing caution, his plumps cheeks taut with tension, he picks his way forward, edging past debris and clutter with the finely honed precision of a tightrope artist. His crossbow is now slung over his shoulder, and his rapier in hand, he probes tentatively at the dark crevices between overturned benches searching for any trace of the person or people who last drew breath here.

While his colleagues have been conferring and sharing counsel, Skurly has been feverishly occupied with the simple task of reloading his crossbow. Each time he tries to complete the straightforward steps of drawing a bolt from his quiver, slotting it into the groove, and cranking back the winch to ready it, something goes wrong. His sweat-soaked palms slip, his fingers fumble, once he even tries to load the bolt backwards. It takes the shaken halfling a full two minutes to get the damn thing ready to fire again, a fact which he prays has gone unnoticed by his betters.

Once again properly armed, he catches Talib's thinly-veiled accusation of Sinesiel's basic fraudulence. Something about it catches hold of the tiny shred of pride and defiance in his soul, and with as much certainty as he can muster, he faces the inquisitor and makes his case.

"B-but, Sir Talib!" he splutters. "I know you're cross with Ms. Sinesiel, and yes, perhaps she's putting on airs. But 'Malfi, she would always tell me something when I was scared. She'd say, 'Skurly'-" Judging by the way he mimicked her voice, Amalfia was about ten leagues tall and wiser than Nethys himself. "- 'sometimes, you have to pretend to be better than you are. It takes time, but you grow into the lie, and it becomes the truth.' Ms. Sinesiel's done nothing but help! She's always made sure anyone who was hurt was ok, and she's never held us back or played us false. If she wears the Dawnflower's garb, well, so what? Isn't she doing the work Sarenrae would ask of her? We can't turn on each other now, there's too many others who want to see us dead!"

He gives a stamp with his little foot- it's little more than a tap of the toe to all the tallfolk in the room, but to Skurly, it might as well be the tolling of a churchbell.

Mylok's good-natured ribbing had Skurly gaping, fully agog. Me, an assassin! he gasped inwardly. He was beaming at the idea, in jest or otherwise, that he'd even be a possible threat to anyone with the worldly, rugged bravado of the gunslinger. The air of mild-to-severe panic and anxiety that's been fixed on his face from the first waking moments of the day softens, and breaks into a broad smile of delight.

"Oh, you'd better watch your back, Mr. Mylock!" he'd grinned. "I'm Absalom's most dangerous cutthroat, and no doubt about it!"

Hands on his hips, he made for the door. "For Mr. Mylock's sake, allow me to the lead the way! He'll rest easier with Skurly the Scandalous in plain sight, and out of the shadows where he does his dirtiest deeds!"

Crossbow at the ready, he advanced onward, chattering away all the while.

"I've tried my hand at being a bad fellow, but I never really was any good at it. Papa did his best to make me tough and cunning, a real crook, but he always said I was Norgorber punishing him for his sins. Couldn't lie, not much of a thief, no stomach for fighting- a real embarrasment to the family. My sister, Amalfia, she was clever as a monkey and beautiful as a swan, and tougher than anything at all. But I'm sure that whatever awful thing happened here, she wasn't any part of it! And you too, Miss Talienda- I bet your father was a real gentleman, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise!"

As they entered the second judge's chambers, and the wizened canine revenant lifted its muzzle toward them, he squeaked and fell silent.

Spurred on by panic, more than anything else, Skurly snaps off a shot from his crossbow, and without waiting to see where the bolt lands, tumbles sideways out of its direct line of vision to a safer-feeling vantage.

Attack Roll: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (12) + 4 = 16
Damage Roll: 1d6 ⇒ 6

Skurly waddled a bit more awkwardly into the next room than he had the last, weighed down by the additional burden of Judge Trabe's copy of Punish the Guilty. He didn't know, really, why he'd brought it, but it seemed like something that might matter later on. Or perhaps it was simply something to hang on to, something solid and legible amidst the shadows and phantoms of this place. He'd stuffed it into the already cumbersome mass of his pack, but was regretting that choice quickly- less for the added material weight, and more for the tenebrous omens it seemed to bear between its leaves.

His eyes darting around the room, he paced around the table. She sat in one of these chairs, he thought to himself. This as close as I've come to her in so long! With the forlorn hopefulness of a lost child, he searched for some sign of his sister- a dirty word carved into the wood of the table, a hint of her cheap perfume, anything at all.

Ratspaws. No sign of her- only the crude and cheerless jest of some cad, some japing jackdaw, some charmless jester-

Skurly blinked, and pointed at the jibe that had been gouged into the table. "Well, Ebin's been here, alright." He stroked one of his chins thoughtfully. "'Who's funny now'? I can't imagine Mord was doing much joking during his trial, could he've been? None of the stories I'd heard made him out to be much for merriment. Seems a cruel thing, a spiteful thing, to leave here. There's a story behind this bit of nonsense, I think."

He looked back up at his companions. "Perhaps, if it is what it seems, which is to say, if it is all madness and awfulness, then there's a meaning to it all, 'cause it's not as if people lose their reason for no reason, is it, and maybe us, as we are something of strangers to all this and not really part of it, anymore than we have to be, but it isn't at all to do with us as far as it goes, and- and-" He blinks back his terror, not of phantasms but of the judgmental gaze of his "friends"- "Couldn't it be that we're not the ones that ought to be here? We're not the ones to answer to all this, are we? Could Ebin, or any of the others, know something we don't, know why there's nothing but blackness beyond the door-"

Just as soon as he said it, he clapped his hands over his mouth, eyes full of pitiful sorrow as he looked up to Mr. Talib. I DIDN'T MEAN TO! they squealed, with not a sound to be heard.

Skurly ducks and weaves through the gauntlet of ill-mannered ledgers and riotous rollsheets to join Talib at the desk, which in addition to being a significant point of interest, also provides the stout little fellow with a safe haven. Shakily, but with stiff-lipped resolve, he peers over the lip of the desk at the ominous tome, which- among all others in the room- seems content to lie in bookish repose.

With a hesitant hand, Skurly reaches to thumb through the pages, returning again to the opened page. He peers closely at what is legible of the open page, as well as the maniacal scrawlings with which it is defaced, his mind's eye forming a picture of the gaunt and demon-driven hand which it put it to paper. Could these words really be from the same author? he wondered.

Hoisting the halfling by the scruff is a bigger job than you might expect- between his ample bulk and the added weight of his armor and gear, he's a bit of a handful. But the manhandling is a blessing in disguise, effectively lifting the terror-induced reverie that has stricken Skurly.
"Y-yes, yes, I can do this! I can!" he splutters, eager both to prove himself more than a liability, and to think about anything but the horrifying scene his mind's eye had turned upon.

With barely-restrained panic urging him on, Skurly creeps to the southern exit, his sharp little eyes flashing this way and that. In every corner, every shadow, with every scrape or rustle of movement, his senses thrill and reel with unbearable sharpness and clarity. Somewhere, in a distant corner of his mind, he ruminates sadly. Mr. Talib is a good sort, even if he is cross. I'm sorry that he'll be dead soon. I should ask him who to send the news to...

Closer to the forefront of his mind, he searches over the exit, seeking any sign of danger, mundane or otherwise.

Skurly is not his usual eager-to-please self; Talib's instructions draw from him only a faint murmur of, "Yes, yes, in a moment."

He stares at the clockface still, as if ensorcelled by its melodramatic depiction of the torments of Hell. "By my toes and tassels,", he breathes. "Who was the fiend who composed this thing? The Law is there to protect people, to make them feel safe. This... this..."

He trails off, taking a few steps toward the clock with an outstretched hand. He's just like a boy, on a dare to touch a sleeping drunk, twisted by the same conflicting movements of revulsion, fascination, fear, and compulsion.

As the dust settled from the collapse of the fresco, a pile of broken rubble was the only thing visible from where Skurly had stood a moment ago. After a few moments, a feeble coughing issued from amidst the destruction, and a small, pudgy hand poked its way out from between two plinths.

The famous luck of the halflings had apparently manifested here, as a particularly large chunk of the ceiling had landed atop him with one end resting on the evidence table, creating an unexpected shelter from the rain of stone. Skurly made a silent prayer to a nameless god of carpenters, in thanks for the sturdy craftsmanship of the table, as he squeezed his large round head and ample belly through the gap.

He totters out, dazed and shaky but apparently unharmed. "Are we dead yet?" he murmurs, to no one in particular, but Talib's authoritative call to action seems to snap him out of it.

"Wait, wait!" he squeals, scurrying over to between the benches where he had awoken. From there he produces an overstuffed pack of sturdy leather, from which he draws forth an assemblage of armor pieces- simple boiled leather inset with shiny metal studs. Fumbling, hopping, and struggling, he squeezes his girth into its protective shell, which takes him a good few minutes. "I'm almost ready, don't go without me!" he pipes, apparently more afraid of being left behind than whatever lies beyond the door.

When the job is done, and he's girded for the unknown- looking more than a little comical, like a child playing at knights with a cookpot on his head and a wooden spoon for a sword- he rushes to peer around the corner of the great door. A halfling-sized crossbow is now clenched in his plump fingers, shaking ever so slightly as he advances.

He stares for a long time at the clockface, with the blank regard of a prey animal in the face of an unfamiliar predator. By now he has a new respect for depictions of the afterlife, and waits patiently for Asmodeus to leap from the scene and drag his soul to Hell.

Skurly pouts as Talienda walks away, feeling a bit awkward. She'd seemed like the only person as far out of their depth as himself, apart from the half-orc, who was no one Skurly was interested in getting closer to. Well, what did you expect, you clod-for-brains, he admonished himself. You're not brave or strong, so why would you think you could help someone else be brave and strong? He missed Malfi so bad, it began to knot his guts painfully.

Hoping to distract himself from his melancholy, as well as put some distance between himself and the mounting tension between the big, swinging dinguses of the crew, Skurly begins to perambulate about the room.

He peers intently up, down, and around, beginning to fill his head with an orderly arrangement of significant parts, tallying up every affordance of the room- doors, windows, any sort of compartment or aperture. He inspects the judge's bench, the jury box, and finally, the evidence table. He approaches it sidelong, as if the axe with it's decades-old rime of blood might take offense to his scrutiny, peering intently for anything that might elaborate on the grim pattern of facts established thus far.

Performing a general survey of the environs, and the evidence table in particular- providing two Perception rolls, should they be counted as separate acts.

Skurly's face sags as the old skeletons are dragged out from everyone's closets- disbelief and anguish warring across his features. Just because a few of them have dead relatives who were here doesn't mean anything, he tried to persuade himself. People die all the time- this isn't a pattern yet, just a few coincidences...

He also listens intently to the words passed in the Kelish tongue between Mylok and Talib, and with a furtive tug on Talib's sleeve, murmurs to him, "استميحك عذرا يا سادة. أعتقد أنك ربما تحاول التحدث على انفراد ... قد لا تعرف ، كونك من أراضٍ أخرى ، لكن الكثير من أبسالوميت يجيدون اللغة الكيليشية. عسيرياني أيضا. لا تثق أن أحدا هنا اشتعلت ذلك."

Not wanting to draw more attention to their sidebar, Skurly ambled over to the side of the wan-looking girl in the fancy clothing, offering her as cheery of a smile as he could. His naturally cherubic features did a good deal of work in bolstering the effort, though inside he was still staving off a creeping, icy sense of dread.

"I know this is scary, missus. It's scary to be a little person caught between big things- any halfling knows that. When I would get scared, my big sister would tell me stories to help me remember to be brave. Do you know the story of how Desna met Chalira, and they became friends, miss... He hesitated a moment. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name yet! I'm Skurly."

Knowledge: Local: 1d20 + 7 + 1d6 ⇒ (15) + 7 + (5) = 27

Struggling to keep her composure, she looks to Skurly, "In those stories... what kinds of awful things happened here?"

Skurly looks up at the Sarenite priestess with an expression of conspiratorial affinity- glad to have his store of hoarded gossip, rumor, and folklore drawn against.

"Some say Mord was a cruel, hateful man who tied his hangman's knots just so to make sure the condemned would twist on the gallows as long as possible, and never a clean drop to send them off. Others called him a cannibal, who'd steal off the bodies of the dead and share them with his wife, who was truly an ogress in disguise, and-"

He broke off his litany of tall tales at the sound of the half-orc's shriek, mirroring it with a little squeal of his own and a startled hop, spinning in midair to face the cry like a jackrabbit.

That's it, then, he thought to himself miserably. Eight jurors, plus six of us. Some devil has mistaken us for parties to this debacle, and now we're in the soup with the rest of them.

That thought was wiped away at the sound of his sister's name. He took a few paces toward the dwarf, his eyes piercing bright with fresh tears, and a quaver in his throat.

"Amalfia? You... you know my sister?" He reached out his hand toward the dwarf, as if somehow the memory of her name was something he could hold on to and pull back into this world.

But then the Abadarite's whispered instructions drew his attention. He turned and gave the slightest nod- though consumed with melancholy and fear, he was still a little proud to have his services requested by such an important personage. Even little pebbles can stop up a great door, he assured himself.

In the back of his head, the wheels were turning, fitting together the pieces of the puzzle. But for now, his conscious mind was singularly focused on the memory of his sister, and he returned his attention to Tablark, pleadingly. "How do you know her? When have you last heard of her? Please, Sir Hammergrind, tell me what you can- Amalfia is missing, has been for years. I'm sure she lives still, but..."

His little, sharp eyes would melt the heart of Asmodeus himself.

Oddly enough, the sight of a giant, talking rat seems to calm the halfling down a touch. Maybe it's simply because it confirms for him that this must indeed be a dream, as such things are beyond the pale of the Precipice's endless supply of horrors. His blubbering dwindles to mere sniffling, and when the commanding presence of the Abadarite makes itself known, he wipes the tears and snot from his face with a handkerchief drawn from one of the seemingly endless series of pockets on his vest.

At the offer of a hand from the gunslinger, the halfling visibly pulls himself together and places his pudgy little paw in the much larger mitt. He seems to be trying to give it a manly clasp, but winds up with something more like a toddler grasping a grown-up's finger for comfort.

"Skurly. Skurly Geddinloe." He lets go of Mylok's hand, and hops down off the bench to approach the rest of the menagerie of captives, steering well clear of the hobgoblin. He peeps about, a bit sheepishly- casting a solicitous smile of recognition at Talib. It's alright then, you old woolly-headed thing, he thought. Everything's under control, the Vault of Abadar has sent help. Everything will be ok.

"I did have a dream, an awful one. I saw this woman, this horrible old woman, doing something terrible to an elf. She seemed like she was lost, and gone mad." His eyes light up with fresh fear. "That won't happen to us, though, right?" he asked no one in particular.

Finally, he waddles over to a respectful distance from Talib. "I've never been here, exactly, sir. This isn't a place anyone wants to be." He shudders, and wears an almost guilty-looking face for what he says next. "I've been near, though, more than once. Close enough to see the dome of the courthouse- we'd use it sometimes, as a landmark, when we were on a mission. The Grey Boars and I." He looks down at his feet, scraping the toes of his boot through the dust on the floor nervously. "It's a bad place. There are stories about all the awful things that happened here, although no one agrees on who is the victim and who is the villain, exactly." He said no more on that, with a respectful glance toward the Iomedaean.

Knowledge: Local check 1: 1d20 + 7 + 1d6 ⇒ (19) + 7 + (5) = 31
Knowledge: Local check 2: 1d20 + 7 + 1d6 ⇒ (5) + 7 + (2) = 14
Knowledge: Local check 3: 1d20 + 7 + 1d6 ⇒ (9) + 7 + (2) = 18

Before any charitable soul can give the gnome a token chuckle, his performance is met with a very different sort of reaction. A shrill, piping scream cuts through the chatter and batters itself silly against the rafters above before fluttering down to earth in a rasping whine. An endearingly plump child- no, scratch that, an impressively plump halfling- is standing on one of the benches, apparently roused by the the gnome's landing on the seat-board, and is holding his arms out stiffly to ward off the throng of strangers. Perhaps he's a wizard of some sort?

"NO. This is not real. I am asleep in a safe place, and there are no hobgoblins there, or mad jesters. I am not in... in..."

His eyes roll around in his head as they pan over the fresco above, and although they are beady and bright, somehow they seem to grow larger and larger to take in the awful facts of his circumstances. Definitely not a wizard.

"I am not in Mord's Moot. I am not." He begins to pinch his- admittedly pinchable- cheeks, as tear glisten visibly in his eyes.

Hey guys! Glad to see you all here. With nothing but goodwill for those who didn't get here, this was the exact cast I was hoping to see picked. I foresee lots of great interactions and relationships developing between the characters!

On that note, I'd like to raise the question of pre-existing relationships. I think it'd be kinda cool if Skurly and Talib knew each other already, at least casually. They both seem to have been moving in the same circles in the Coins around the same time, and Skurly honors Abadar highly among some other gods, so they likely would have crossed paths at some point before. Perhaps other plausible links exist between other PCs.

This, of course, assumes that pre-existing relationships don't undermine the theme or plot elements our dear GM wants to employ!

One thing I want to work with is that she really doesn't know how powerful she is, and I'm curious as to how y'all would suggest I play a character learning how their magic works.

If you mean in the sense of how to simulate or depict it in your "performance"? People who are new at a skill that has great social significance (like spellcasting) are likely to be either addicted to or terrified by the potential of it. Either they're like a little boy with a hammer, solving every problem by banging on it, or they're anxious around it and avoid resorting to it unless needed. Or, more likely, either of the two depending on context.

The trick, I think, is to figure out how her experience of magic informs how she thinks about it, and how that idea serve her other goals and attachments.

Writeup and character sheet are complete, I think- I just need to transcribe the sheet into text for the profile. This was a really fun character to write, and it's been great reading everyone else's as well, so no matter who gets in this has been a win for me, and I'll be following the game in any case.

I'll be away from internet access throughout the coming weekend, but I will join you again on Monday. Cheers!

Nice backstory! Made for a good read. :)

Thanks! I was just reading Talib's writeup and it's got great style and imagery, so I take the praise highly.

Had a little time to look at some submissions from other people, although not all. I see nice opportunities for roleplay chemistry between Skurly and Talib, as well as Skurly and Rissi. Talib is the exact kind of person Skurly would fall in line behind as an adoring little brother, and Rissi is the type he'd enjoy a bit of small-folk inside joking. Plus, he'd love having a bard around to teach him new things, especially one as exotic as a ratfolk!

Combat-wise, I think Talib is a good "hammer" for Skurly's "hammer and mosquito" tactics.

Also, equipment sheet is finished.

Getting more and more juiced up for this game!

This writeup and sheet are only half-finished, but I'm excited for this game and wanted to put something into the mix. Skurly's the fat kid from every tween adventure movie ever, with a troubled past and an ominous future.

I currently do not have any commitments to other games, and in fact this would be my first game of Pathfinder in any medium or setting, ever. I think I've done a good job doing my homework though and shouldn't have to worry about hindering the group with mistakes and misunderstandings.

I'm in Athens, so GMT + 3.