Syrus Regol's page

Hi, therealthom...

My posting in this game has always been spotty. As of now it's been over a month since my last post. Not so much out of a lack of ability, but a lack of inspiration and enthusiasm. I feel like I've just been phoning it in, for the most part. I know you haven't called me out or anything, and that we aren't very far along, but I feel bad for not contributing to the game in any meaningful way.

I hate to say it, but I think it would be for the best if I withdrew from the game at this point.

Though at first Syrus seems reluctant to accept the couple's hospitality, the promise of some real food proves far too tempting. He pushes aside the bandages covering his mouth just enough to let him shovel food in, without exposing his ugly visage to their pleasant hosts. Being the shut-in that he is, he has nothing in the way of interesting news; quite the accomplishment, all things considered.

"Defensible until they box us in and light it aflame," Syrus mumbles, having evidently returned to his usual, cynical self. Having finally broken his silence after his earlier outburst, he pokes a finger through the bandages on his head and scratches his scalp. "Still, might as well I suppose. At the very least we wouldn't be sticking out like a sore thumb."

Syrus blinks, apparently stunned into silence by the concept of being wrong. Or perhaps it was fear of the prospect that someone worse than Dentor Shythe was in charge. He turns away from Slick, harboring that loathsome thought. It certainly explained a few things.

"Yeah... I'm ready to move on, whenever you all are."

"Yeah, I know them. Whole reason I'm here," Syrus replies, still glowering at their prisoner. "Their boss was a Cyran officer - Dentor Shythe was his name. They were small time when I first fell in with them. Thought it was just a refugee camp back then. They had me doing supply runs; goods were probably stolen, but it wasn't hurting anyone from what I could tell.

"Wasn't till I started seeing how sadistic some of his men really were. That son of a b%&$# Deadshot, for one. Once I realized that I was among a load of bandits, I got the hell out of there. Wasn't too impressive of a group at the time, but unless they're lying through their teeth, they've gotten pretty big. Isn't that right, Slick?"

"Bah!" Syrus suddenly interjects, hobbling over to the wounded bandit. Evidently, the topic of the Day of Mourning had touched a nerve. He glowers at the man through the gaps in his bandages, but his sneer remains hidden. "Enough of this Count Barrabas nonsense! It's Shythe, isn't it? Did you think I wouldn't notice? He even sent that bastard Deadshot! And I recognize your face, too!"

An awful lot of assumptions, but the sorcerer does not stop there. "He's just up to the same tricks as always, huh!? Thinks that just because he has a little clout and a few more men that he can call himself 'Count'! Ha!"

"Looks like they had an old camp nearby. Maybe he was heading there...?" Syrus mumbles, grimacing when he gets a better look at the man's face. "Gah. I've seen this bloke. I think he's in the same band as Yellowbow... can't recall his name, though."

"Too easy," Syrus remarks with grim satisfaction, hobbling out from his hiding spot. He casts a sidelong glance before nodding at Jamorin, indicating that he wants to approach the fallen bandit. "Well, he's no good to us dead. Let's see about getting him back to the others."

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (7) + 3 = 10
Initiative: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24

"Tch." As the wounded bandits rides past their position, Syrus stretches out his fingers, performing the motions necessary to channel his arcane power. A bolt of force leaps out from his hand and chases after the rider with unerring accuracy. He did not want to risk killing the man, but letting him escape could prove troublesome.

Magic Missile: 1d4 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5

Range is 120, so it should be able to reach him.

"Not a half bad idea," Syrus replies, his head bobbing up and down in agreement. He quickly scratches the bottom of his nose with his sleeves, eyeing their surroundings warily. "Let's be quick about it, then."

The sorcerer saunters over to a hiding place not too far from Jamorin's. Unfortunately, he is far from inconspicuous.

Stealth: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9

"Crap," Syrus remarks when he sees the empty campsite. He pants heavily, his heart still pounding from the sudden running he just did. His eyes dart side to side as he tries to determine their next course of action. "Any ideas?"

Fortitude Save: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (16) + 1 = 17
Fortitude Save: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18
Fortitude Save: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19

"Wise...? Probably... not... not" Syrus says in between breaths as he runs himself ragged. Right away his lungs start to feel like they are on fire, but the sorcerer pushes on regardless.

Untrained Knowledge (local): 1d20 ⇒ 19

"Bah." Syrus pulls himself off the ground and dusts off his clothing without much effect. Watching the riders in the distance, he remarks to Jamorin without looking, "Seems like the jig is up."

As he trails off, his eyes flick off to the side, recognizing something a bit quaint. Had he been through here before? His initial trip to Haltwhistle had always been a blur to him. Shaking his head, he points the pathway out to Jamorin.

"You see that? We can catch up, but only if we really haul it."

Syrus will start running, assuming Jamorin will follow.

"You're one to talk! At least I'm hunched over!" Syrus protests. When he notices the bandit in question however, he quickly complies, diving to the ground and scrambling to conceal himself. Unfortunately rather feeble attempt makes him look more like a writing worm, hardly inconspicuous.

Stealth: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9

I am fairly certain that I screwed up my skill modifiers somehow. Will get around to fixing them shortly. For now I'm assuming that I didn't put any ranks into Perception.

Perception: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (7) + 2 = 9

Syrus squints, but fails to capture any of the details the others described. He would just have to take their word for it.

"I don't know about this..." he mumbles as he follows after Jamorin, no more stealthy than he is.

Syrus runs a hand over his bald, bandaged head, sighing with relief when Lydia calls for a break. He had not quite considered the gravity of his commitment when he volunteered for this mission. Had it really taken him so long to get to Haltwhistle in the first place...? That time all seemed to be a blur to him. After taking a draught from his waterskin, he grunts at Thenji's suggestion.

"Would you mind taking my horse, Mr. Cross?" he asks without really asking, dropping off the saddle. "I need to go stretch out my legs." He nods to Lydia and approaches, wordlessly announcing his intent to join. Having volunteered for this mess, he had might as well do something useful.

Syrus rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, debating on whether or not to spill the beans. How would they react to him knowing these things? Would they assume that he was a spy? A traitor? Already he could imagined being drawn and quartered. Eventually, he lets out a defeated groan and saunters away from Thenji, and right up to Lydia.

"The town those bandits came from. Black Pit. I've been there before. Nasty place," he starts apprehensively, glancing around at passersby. Last thing he needed was for Mildred or some other townie to catch wind of this. "The scum responsible for... for this. I think I know who they are... and I might know who their bastard of a leader really is."

"But what I'm really saying is sign me up. I'm no militiaman, but I'm no slouch in a fight either. And once we get to town, I can tell you exactly where to find their camp."

Syrus snorts derisively, but does not argue anything to the contrary. "I know of her. Don't think we've met officially - I usually keep my nose out of militia business." He scratches the underside of his nose. "Usually."

As he follows Thenji he keeps his ears open, picking up on the townsfolk's gossip. One particular detail dredges up some unpleasant memories. You would be the one responsible for this mess... 'Count' my ass.

Syrus follows Thenji out of the temple, practically glued to the man's shadow. He grunts at his assessment of the prisoner.

"I don't know, Mr. Cross. Seemed like a typical bandit grunt to me. Mighty talkative though, and more forthright than one would think. Must have been the wine." He chuckles to himself, more to relieve stress than out of actual amusement.

Syrus would absolutely love to avoid certain death, if at all possible.

I'll probably have a post with him spilling the beans up soonish. Hours soonish, not like, two weeks from now soonish. :P

Sense Motive: 1d20 ⇒ 4 In case Mayhew's full of it, not that Syrus would know with this roll.

Eight hands of hands... Syrus does the math in his head twice and then thrice, just for good measure. He suddenly felt like throwing up. Fortunately, he still had the stomach for these kinds of things.

Since the unpleasant encounter with Mildred, Syrus has made it a point to stay as close to Thenji as possible, almost as though he were a shadow. He was, as luck would have it, one of the few people in town that could vouch for him. Still, it seemed his "heroic" deed had been enough to tell the woman off. Of course, shadowing Thenji seems to inevitably drag him into militia business. It figured that it would take Pensive's death of all things to have him comply. Didn't mean he had to be very happy about it, though. That being said, he has no qualms with dragging the bandit off to his interrogation.

At the temple, he listens in with mannerisms more indicative of eavesdropping. At the mention of the Black Cap Mountains, Syrus' eyes narrow into slats, as though he could filter out the unpleasant memories associated with that place. A mild suspicion twinges in the back of his head, one that he could only hope he was imagining.

Untrained Knowledge (local): 1d20 ⇒ 12

"No, ma'am. I am just astoundingly ugly," Syrus answers in an even tone, trying very hard not to be offended. It was about the most honest answer he could give without going into graphic detail. If he told her the rest, she would think he was insane. Or worst, that he was a monster. She wouldn't be wrong, in either case. He glances warily at the assembling militia, his belly already lurching again.

"But if you'd like to make a big deal out of it, we could, um, get the authorities involved."

Still on the edge after the attack (indeed, he had never even bothered to dismiss his invisible protection spell), Syrus practically leaps out of his skin when Smothers starts barking out orders. He had not expected such authority from him, to say the least. Well, at least he has good lungs on him... he thinks with a very weak, reluctant smile. Unfortunately, he is not exactly invisible; on the contrary, he sticks out like a sore thumb.

When the woman addresses him directly, Syrus recoils as though she had struck him across the face. He looks to her with those beady eyes of his, from which suspicion could easily be misconstrued. The body wraps did not help.

"I, uh, don't get out much," he mumbles, tugging on his mask self-consciously.

"So he's really dead..." Syrus says quietly, having finally caught his breath. Underneath his mouth wraps was an ugly frown. He had never much cared for the man, but he had done the town some real good. It was much more than he could say about other men he met over the past few years. The thought of them alone was enough to make him shudder.

As the subject of leadership comes up, the sorcerer quickly clams up; it was not really in his place to weigh in. He wasn't even a part of the militia. Didn't stop me from getting pulled into this mess...

Syrus is left breathing raggedly once the bandits take their leave, strained not by any particularly strenuous physical exertion, but by the force of will it took to use his magic after so long. Thanks to the heat and his state of dress he had already been sweating like a pig, but now he was utterly drenched. Whether he was actually bothered by this was anyone's guess.

On their way to Main Street, the sorcerer tugs at the wraps binding the lower half of his face, pulling them down and exposing his mouth. From the way his horrible skin looked, one might think he was a leper. Rasping for breath, he squeezes the pittance left in his waterskin right down his throat.

Should have brought something a little stronger... he thinks sheepishly as he wipes off his mouth and covers it up again, berating himself for being so brazen. The last thing he needed was for everyone in town to think he was laden with disease.

When they reach the street, Syrus stays on the cart, peering down over at Pensive and awaiting the inevitable bad news. He could already feel his gut doing backflips.

With the wagon nestled in the alleyway, Syrus scrambles to the ground, dodging a hurtling spear entirely by accident. He stares at the weapon for a second with big eyes before stepping back out into the main road, only to notice that the bandits were upon them.

They were in dangerous proximity to the enemy, but Syrus quickly recalls an old trick he learned during his training. The enemy would not always give him the luxury of being a hundred feet away, he had been told. He concentrates extra hard, managing to fire another arcane bolt at one of the bandits attacking Thenji.

Assuming defensive casting is necessary.

Defensive Casting: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (17) + 6 = 23
Magic Missile: 1d4 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4

"Good idea," Syrus says as he repeats the arcane gesture, firing another force missile at the bandit he attacked before, "Never a good idea to break what you've borrowed.

He tugs on the reins hard, trying to get the horse to turn around. If there's an alleyway to turn onto, swell, otherwise he will just park the wagon so that it gives Brawny some cover.

Magic Missile: 1d4 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4

Handle Animal: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16

As the beasts of burden finally seem to yield to Syrus' demands, he squints at the bandits up ahead and lets out a grunt.

"I hope you got your codpiece on, Mr. Cross, 'cause it looks like we're finally making some headway."

Taking one hand off the reins, the sorcerer recalls an incantation that had been practically drilled into his head. Times he would rather forget, those, but at least they would come in handy. He points at one of the spearmen and fires a projectile of force. It was a weak spell, but no measly shield could hope to block it.

Magic Missile: 1d4 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2

Sorry about my slowness/lack of posting, DM. Having Syrus ride this cart is kind of wearing on me creatively.

Handle Animal (untrained): 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9

"Come on, move it!" Syrus hisses at the horses, trying again to get them to move faster. And closer to danger, as it was. Once again however the beasts of burden ignore him, continuing their plodding pace. Cursing under his breath, he glances over his shoulder at his passengers and scowls.

"Looks like you're in luck, Mr. Cross. These horses are giving you all the time in the world to get your business suit on."

Syrus clutched the reins desperately, as though the entire world would fly away from him if he let go. Beads of sweat now run down what little of his face was exposed; the stress had gotten to him in a way that the heat never could. His eyes nervously dart side to side, as though more bandits might pop out of nowhere and rain pointy death down on them. Even his force armor wouldn't hold against that.

He snaps the reins, hoping that the action would make the horses move faster. That was how it was done, right? Alas, the beasts of burden continue to plod along at their same speed. He would have to settle, as usual.

Handle Animal: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7

Eh, why not? Duration is 2 hours, so I'd might as well.

"Right. You militia types..." Syrus complains when he sees Thenji's signaling, shaking his head. Frankly, he should be leaving this problem to them; he didn't go out of his way to avoid getting signed on just to get dragged into it anyway. Still, seeing Pensive gutted like a pig bothered him far more than he thought it would. He didn't like the man, but he never wished for any harm to befall him.

He curses under his breath, the words flowing seamlessly into a brief incantation he had not used in years. A shimmering veil of force envelops his body, promptly becoming invisible the second after it appears. If they were going to play hero, he sure as hell wasn't going to get pelted to death by arrows while doing it.

Casting mage armor.

"Oh gods. Don't look now," Syrus says to Thenji, ducking down in the cart again. He wasn't entirely sure what in blazes was going on, but he wanted no part of it. Of course this happens the day I go outside!

Initiative: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (2) + 3 = 5

Perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (6) + 3 = 9

"If you say so," Syrus says, too concerned with hiding himself to be able to get a better look at the passersby. "Maybe he was just worried that you'd stick him like a pig." When the sound of falling hooves fades, he sits up again and sighs. It's too damn hot for this... Hearing Thenji's last words, Syrus lets out a grunt. "Then let's not be around to hear it. I've never liked that kind of music anyway."

As an aside, he adds, "But that was a big damned horse, though. Could feed a whole village for a week with that thing."

Syrus raises a brow (the eyebrow itself having fallen out over a month ago), but catching the gist of Thenji's message, suddenly takes an interest in the floor of the cart. He never went out of his way to look for trouble, but trouble always seemed to find him. Especially if it involved that nosy bastard Pensive - he was sure that he was around here somewhere.

Stealth: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20

Though he was in no hurry to say it outright, Syrus shared in his compatriot's suffering. Not once had he raised any complaints about the oppressive heat, nor had he shown any apparent signs of discomfort. Given his state of dress, the latter was easy enough to hide. But with one look at his heavy patchwork cloak and the bandages that seemed to cover him from head to toe, anyone would be able to tell that he had to be uncomfortable. They would be quite correct. His comfort sacrificed not at the altar of good fashion sense as with Thenji, but at that of secrecy. The desire to be hidden. And yet, here he was, quite literally in broad daylight. None of the irony was lost on him.

How in blazes did I let him talk me into this? Syrus wonders, only feigning sleep. It was easy, really. All he had to do was sit there with his eyes closed and let the motion of the cart bump him side to side. Not that he could actually fall asleep while he was soaking in his own perspiration. He would have to give the bandages a thorough washing yet again. They would have lasted another week at least if he had not been driven out into this hell. Hmph. 'Kind soul' indeed.

Nonetheless, when Thenji gives the word he slowly opens his eyes, while stifling a yawn that was never going to show up in the first place. He embellishes the act a bit by blinking the 'sleep' out of his eyes before looking to the man with rather convincing bloodshot eyes. They actually almost always looked that way, but he did not make a habit out of looking into mirrors.

"Does that mean I can go home now?" he asks dryly, as in his tone of voice, and not because the sun had sucked all the water out of his mouth. That cruel, flaming bastard.

I think that for a time, it would have been easy enough for Syrus to pass himself off as being a sickly individual - technically true, perhaps. Later on and in more recent times however, I imagine that it would be much harder for him to conceal the true nature of his "condition." That being said, he takes special care to act meek and useless when he's around Pensive.

In that respect, I think I will switch his Intimidate skill to Bluff, if that's all right. Either way I'm all ready to go.

More or less finished.