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Friggin' ones! That's two in a row... I am amazing.

Rogan. Sorry.

My bad with the XP, dudes. I probably forgot to add 300 on my character sheet at some point.

And way to rock the crit for me, J-rod!

J-rod: XP-wise, Rogan is at 5,150.

This is what Rogan's shortbow looks like, in case you gents are interested.

Got your crit deck right here.

If you want it, your result was "Conduit: Double damage and target takes a -4 penalty on saves versus your spells for 1d6 rounds."

Though I have a feeling he's automatically failing his saves versus your spells from now until the world explodes.

Sorry, J-rod. I didn't see your previous post until post posting of my most recent post.

Since I can't come up with any reason other than metagaming to change Noctem's action, I will leave it as is.

No worries, Bro. 10 hours of comp screen would make me a little muddled as well.

It does not diminish your awesomeness in any way.

Actually, Rogan targeted kobold 5. Noctem went after kobold 3. As much as I would like to redo Noctem's attack, he whiffed.

I'll let you do the flavor text =)

"It can't be that intelligent."

If those aren't famous last words, I don't know what words are. I have probably just doomed the both of us, Johnny.

I'll be at church until about 8:30 tonight, men.

Omen and KotT

Ok. Will do. I'm probably gonna bring my laptop because it has my character sheet, the beta pdf, and other such niceties. That cool?

Cool. That will work splendidly. Johnny and I might duck out tonight and grab some snackity chow, then. Not sure what exactly yet. We'll surprise you!

I'm down with that, although if you beef the crap out of it, I don't see a tremendous need for making Rogan's level equal to a druid's for the sake of animal companions. Not that I would turn it down, cuz it would strengthen the bond between the two of them. I think I would prefer that to an NPC.

On another note, as for Sunday, what time would you like Johnny and myself to grace you with our presence? My wife will not be able to make it, she wants to visit her parents and her sister in the afternoon. Also, are we planning on doing lunch or should we grab lunch before we come and game like maniacs until dinner? (We don't mind doing either). Also, would you like us to bring any snacks?

I'm out of questions. Or am I?

I would say the tree would be next, being that it is closest. I think this is a good spot to leave off until Sunday, but I'm down with RPing a little until we get there between now and then. I'll be out until late tomorrow due to a softball game and then a team get together after work tomorrow, and I've got a sermon I'm hoping to work on most of the day Saturday, so my posts will be pretty spread out.

By the way, I'm thinking of adopting this as Rogan's theme song.

I'm goin' to postpone the knowledge of my fate until the morrow. 'Night, Chaps!

You're killing me, J-rod!!!

Oh, you don't get off that easy, my friend. We're gonna die, and we're gonna die horribly. That's how I roll. (Unintentional, yet awfully true pun).

I'll be away for a few hours again. We're going to Bible Study. I'll be back around 8:30.

Did it clean you or eat you?

Sorry to keep you chaps hanging like that. went to the state park after work again and when I got home dinner was on the table and I was soaked with sweatiness and in need of a dire shower.

So, would a dire shower be twice the size of a regular shower, with various bone protrusions and a rather nasty disposition?

Rogan walked cautiously down the street, giving the line and the obviously ill citizens exiting the building a wide berth. He looked rather conspicuously over his shoulder at the sick passers-by with a look mingling horror and pity. His eyes combed every building and alley as he walked, as though he were unsure what to do or where to go.

With his right hand he clutched the strap of a pack thrown over his shoulder. The other shoulder hosted a quiver full of arrows with black fletching. Nestled safely between the two containers was his bow - large, but simply made. The mottled deerskin jerkin and pants were a crude camoflage and stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of civilization. Even in a place like Falcon's Hollow. Strapped to his belt was a simple curved leather scabbard that housed what could only be a scimitar. A necklace of sharp teeth danced rhythmically against his chest.

His stature was to small to be human, and the grace with which he moved and the long, pointed ears under his broad hat betrayed his elven heritage. He stopped across the street from the end of the line and slowly scanned the breadth of it. He fixed his gaze for a moment on the half-orc at the end of the line, scanning his wardrobe and equipment, and staring for a moment into the yellow eyes. After a brief hesitation, he slowly crossed the street, placing himself so that the half-orc was between him and the line of plague. He came to a stop and rested his hands on his hips with his elbows slightly back.

Nodding once in greeting he said, "This is certainly not the scene that I was expecting. What plague has entered this place?"

On the outskirts of Falcon's Hollow, a creaky old wagon driven by an old and disheveled farmer and pulled by an equally old and disheveled looking mule rolled into view. The iron bearings wailed in protest on the rusty axles as the farmer pulled it to a stop where the road veered off into town. As he did so, a small figure lept from the back and slowly made his way to the driver's perch, munching nonchalantly on an apple. The gruff farmer nodded at the town. "Falcon's Holler."

The small young man didn't look. He reached into his cloak and removed some gold coins from a hidden pocket, then he handed them to the man with a nod of thanks. He strode up to the mule's head and whispered a few words in her ear. The mule snorted, and then accepted the rest of the apple that the man offered.

"Gods smile on ye, Rogan." The farmer said, and with a touch of the reins and a wail from the wagon he was on his way down the road.

Rogan removed his wide-brimmed hat and beat the dust of the road off of it, then used it to brush the dust from his mottled dark green and brown deerskin jerkin and pants. As he did so a gust of wind kicked up and played with his shoulder length, raven black hair. Invigorating it after it's apparently long confines in the hat. Taking a large bow from his shoulder, Rogan checked its tautness and play, nodded in satisfaction, and replaced it. Then he looked at the town.

Seeing the line of obviously sick and tired citizens, Rogan started to turn and call after the farmer, but he was now a fair distance away, and his hearing wasn't what it used to be. Rogan sighed, and his soft black leather boots made no sound as he walked into town.