Slate looks around before spitting in disgust at the chant, "Blasted devils... It is not safe here!" He will begin to chant, trying to drive away the haunt, his body and mind in Zen. First Action
He will then go into Mountain Stance 1 Action And move out into the middle of the floor, trying to draw the haunt's attention, if possible.
Slate grimaces at the sight of water again... And a half sunken boat, even better. "Lets just get this over with so we can be back on some proper dry land." He would move in the front of the party, here to protect his allies, but will wait to go in until the word was given. Just point me in the direction and I will head that way.
My bad! Perception: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (16) + 6 = 22
Slate looked around and sighed. He knew of the old timer's, now trying to shake the mountain. But the mountain is never shaken, as he moves over towards Ambrus and on the way, tries to break apart two other pathfinders that were getting ready to tussle over some odd Chronicle story, and tries to break them up with his stout body... Athletics: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (11) + 8 = 19
Slate came back from dealing with an unruly disciple of a fellow monk temple, breathing in the island air and muttering to himself in Osirian, I will never get used to that smell... He sighs as he goes and waits for the new comers, waiting to be of service to them. When they get to the Grand Hall for their celebration, they would see him, standing, for who but the gods know how long, never faltering, never moving. His skin covered in stone as a small stone was centered in his forehead. If any of them ask, he will respond in an earthy, deep voice, "Hello, I am Slate of the Stonedoor Thaig, and I am here to stop any evil in our path, though on such a glorious day I would hope that there wouldn't be any of that right? I am a Monk of the Mountain style, and have joined the ranks of the Osirian Living Monoliths." |
