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p309 states simply that, using the Shield Block reaction REDUCES the amount of damage that you take from a blow by an amount equal to the shield's hardness. The shield takes the damage instead. It also says this may cause the shield to be dented. Seems simple enough. I would take 10 damage, but my wooden shield takes 3 of it, and I take 7, right? But what happens to the shield? Page 175 says that an item reduces any damage dealt to it by its hardness. So my wooden shield, hardnes 3, tekes 3 damage, which is reduced to 0. But then how could my shield possibly ever become dented, as it cannot deflect more damage than it has hardness? But right there on page 175 it gives an example of a wooden shield taking 10 damage and getting two dents. But how could a wooden shield ever take 10 damage - it can only deflect 3? (unless it is attached to a wall or something and someone is hitting it, not in combat). There doesn't appear to be a sunder action any more. The intention, supported by the examples, and the fact that shields can't get potency runes, seems to be to have frangible shields. But the rules don't support that. I have no idea how this works. *EDIT* the only way I can see to make this all work is if the Shield Block reaction doesn't REDUCE the damage at all, but instead the shield takes ALL the damage. But that is absolutely not what it says.
Eclipsed and discarded for nearly 20 years, why was the return of this iconic piece of equipment not given its own blog? Hells, it's own podcast? No longer must we herd sheep through dungeons! And it actually has codified rules as well! Yay! Surely worth one Bulk of anyone's money.
Publisher n. (chiefly US) Someone who gets to spam their customers about their weirdo pet projects, like crossover comics or obscure table games.
In light of the new Retailer Incentive PFS program, I'd really like to understand where this obsession with playing in game stores comes from. I understand why it's great for the store - they get a captive audience for the period who will be exposed to their stock, may be incentivized to purchase, and may even pay for the privilege. I understand why it's great for the game publishers - "hey, Mr Store Owner, carry our stock/support our organized play programme, look at the footfall it gets you" But for the life of me I can't understand what's in it for the players. Who wants to spend hours playing games in a shop? I refuse to believe that there are locations out there that are sophisticated enough to have a games stored but not a cafe/pub/hotel etc. within walking distance. Maybe there are fantastic luxurious game shops out there with comfortable chairs, sturdy tables, adequate toilet facilities, a wide selection of hot food and snacks and drinks, table service, wifi, proper disabled access etc. but I have never seen one. Whereas my local cafes and pubs offer exactly that. And as long as you're not being disruptive and spend some money commensurate to the time and space you take up, they don't really care what you get up to. Which is pretty much the same criteria that the games shops would apply. So - sell me. You can choose to play in a cafe, and have all the things I describe above. Or you can cross the street and play in a games store that, on average, won't. So why on earth would you choose the latter? 
Questions, comments, complaints, pop-culture references and blatant rules lawyering go here.
Questions, complaints, discussion, jokes, obligatory Monty Python quotes and blatant rules lawyering go here.
Gameplay thread B
Gameplay thread A
Far west of Tamran, in the foothills of the Mindspin mountains, the conflict between Nirmathas and Molthune is more far off tales of war than everyday reality. When the kingdom sundered, no-one was quite sure on which side of the border one lone, swampy, unnamed valley stood, and even fewer cared. So the Castellan of the keep ordered all flags lowered, all signs of loyalty hidden, and waited for someone from one side or another to come to give him orders. He's still waiting. So the Castellan maintains a ragtag garrison as best he can, mostly old soldiers, younger sons of local farmers, drifters and those looking to leave their past behind. He pays them from charges levied on travelling merchants whose wagons make the long, slow trek up the valley, taxes on scattered dwarven prospectors staggering back triumphantly with a pouch full of nuggets, and from selling 'charters' to scattered groups of adventurers who find their way to the Bree-Yark Inn, drawn by vague legends of the goblin-infested Caves of Chaos, and the whispered wizard hold of Quasqueton. Such groups rarely stay more than one season, but their charter fees, beer money and the rare treasures that they manage to liberate from the local goblinoid tribes just about meet the Keep's maintenance costs and the garrison's pay. But each year, the Keep's walls crumble a little more, the garrison's blades get blunter, and fewer soldiers are levied to wield them. The howls outside the walls at night get louder, and vague shapes are seen moving in the morning mists. And the Castellan, fretting in his tower, wonders if perhaps those orders from Tamran or Canorate will come too late... With the spring snows melting, and the road from the lowlands now open, the Castellan looks out down the valley to see who will make the trek up country this year, to seek their fortune at the Keep on the Borderlands.
Haunting of Harrowstone brought us the grim Splatterman. Now In Search of Sanity introduces the chilling Tatterman. Presumably future APs will introduce us to the Millinery-themed Hatterman and his charming, silver-tongued companion Flatterman?
Discussion thread, for OOC questions, chat, tantrums and cheesy rules lawyering.
Please dot for your convenience.
If I have a weapon that normally deals nonlethal damage, and it gains a quality that grants it extra dice of damage, is that extra damage also nonlethal? Does a flaming whip deal nonlethal fire damage? More specifically, if I use a whip against someone wearing armour, it normally can't hurt them. What if I use a flaming whip, or a bane whip? Does it hurt them at all? Thanks.
Signup for Part 1 - The BloodCove Disguise is here As the society returns to Azlant Ridge in the new season, I thought I'd offer parts I and II of the Before The Dawn series from Season 2, that originally introduced the site. Note: I'd strongly prefer that the same party, or most of the same party, play both scenarios, as they are closely linked and one follows on immediately from the other. If you are able to, please sign up to both recruitment threads. If this is not possible then we'll manage things. These scenarios are being offered as part of PBP GameDay V, and so will begin on 27th August
Pathfinder Society Scenario #2-01: Before the Dawn—Part I: The Bloodcove Disguise. A Pathfinder Society Scenario designed for 1st to 7th level characters (Tiers: 1–2, 3–4, and 6–7). You are sent to Aspis Consortium-infested Bloodcove to gather supplies for a nearly doomed Pathfinder mission nearby. Disguised as ordinary merchants, you have little time to gather what you need and get out before the Consortium discovers and destroys you. Pathfinder Society Scenario #2-02: Before the Dawn—Part II: Rescue at Azlant Ridge A Pathfinder Society Scenario designed for 1st to 7th level characters (Tiers: 1–2, 3–4, and 6–7). With supplies in hand, you rush from Bloodcove to the Pathfinder expedition site at Azlant Ridge only to find it under siege. You must brave the newly discovered halls beneath the ridge in order to find the key that might save everyone.
Signup for Part 2 - Rescue at Azlant Ridge is here As the society returns to Azlant Ridge in the new season, I thought I'd offer parts I and II of the Before The Dawn series from Season 2, that originally introduced the site. Note: I'd strongly prefer that the same party, or most of the same party, play both scenarios, as they are closely linked and one follows on immediately from the other. If you are able to, please sign up to both recruitment threads. If this is not possible then we'll manage things. These scenarios are being offered as part of PBP GameDay V, and so will begin on 27th August
Pathfinder Society Scenario #2-01: Before the Dawn—Part I: The Bloodcove Disguise. A Pathfinder Society Scenario designed for 1st to 7th level characters (Tiers: 1–2, 3–4, and 6–7). You are sent to Aspis Consortium-infested Bloodcove to gather supplies for a nearly doomed Pathfinder mission nearby. Disguised as ordinary merchants, you have little time to gather what you need and get out before the Consortium discovers and destroys you. Pathfinder Society Scenario #2-02: Before the Dawn—Part II: Rescue at Azlant Ridge A Pathfinder Society Scenario designed for 1st to 7th level characters (Tiers: 1–2, 3–4, and 6–7). With supplies in hand, you rush from Bloodcove to the Pathfinder expedition site at Azlant Ridge only to find it under siege. You must brave the newly discovered halls beneath the ridge in order to find the key that might save everyone.
I suspect Ron Lundeen had some involvement with this issue.
Event # 81743
21st August 11am - 5pm
All are welcome, especially those new to the Pathfinder Society, and we will have a selection of scenarios available to run. Please drop the organizer a message beforehand, so we have a good estimate of numbers. The venue is a Wetherspoons pub, wheelchair accessible and child-friendly. There is WIFI, food available all day, and no piped music! Please join the London Weekend Pathfinders group on Facebook, or contact the organizer directly. Wayne Stubbs
When
The mists came for you, and you have been in them ever since, however long that has been. It must have been days ago, or was it just now? And you are falling. You don't feel like you are falling, but then you don't really feel anything. But whenever you try to focus on anything, to think coherent thoughts, to remember anything, a great yawning pit opens up in your stomach, and you feel reality drop away leaving you plunging into nothingness. Thoughts flash through your mind. Images. They're not your thoughts - they can't be, because you're not thinking them. They seem to blossom in your mind, and then fade instantly, like dreams on waking. It has been happening in the endless, timeless days, the few brief seconds, since the mists came for you. Images: a tall bearded man in blue robes; a town trapped on the other side of a mirror; a sinister, laughing monkey; a silver key; an hourglass, frozen, its sand grains suspended in mid air, time never flowing. You try to focus on the images, and find yourself falling again. You are not falling any more. You are lying, face down, on soft, sweet-smelling well manicured grass. A lawn. In front of you a great, gothic manor house rises up out of the gloom. It is neither day nor night. There is only the manor house, and around it the mists. There is light -enough to see, although you cannot tell from where it comes. Others are lying on the lawn near you, and beginning to stir.
Please check in below.
Please check in below.
Years ago, I used to run Living Greyhawk in London on a Sunday, in a pub or coffee shop in Central London. I just wondered if there is any interest in running Pathfinder Society along similar lines? It would be one Sunday a month, somewhere quiet but public in central London - very much turn up and play. Please let me know if there is any interest.
Deep in the Ethereal Plane lurks a small demiplane, consisting of a large gothic manor house and its grounds. Lights flicker in its windows, fountains play in its carefully manicured gardens, and the sound of feasting and jollity comes from within. At first it might seem like a welcome respite to planar travelers, but those few who have escaped describe a place of chaos and madness, where all times and places seem to converge, and yet nothing ever changes. Where the dust of millenia lies on flower that are still as fresh as the day they were picked, and where visitors from a thousand worlds and realities have reshaped the very fabric of the house to their wills. They describe an ancient, powerful, inbred family of nobles, trapped by a timeless curse, who have existed so long that they are sure which parts of their personalities are truly their own, which are masks they have adopted to break the boredom of endless eons, and which have been whispered in their ears by sinister manipulators in the shadows... They tell of visitors wandering the halls who have been searching so long that they no longer remember their own names, and of others whose minds have broken because they cannot find what they seek, and have taken up a role of their own in the endless, macabre dance that is the society within the house. And when asked what those lost souls were seeking - those who escaped always blanched and whispered the same thing. "A way home. A way OUT." ------------------------------------------------- This is the old TSR adventure X3 - Castle Amber by Tom Moldvey. Loosely based on the Averoign stories of Clarke Ashton Smith, it is a crazy, creepy, slightly campy and hugely strange adventure of high fantasy.
Is there any interest?
Hi I have some questions around homeplay of sanctioned Adventure Path content. I'm going to summarize my understanding, so please correct me if I am wrong, and then ask some questions. 1) If our home game plays the appropriate content from a sanctioned AP, then the GM and players can get chronicle sheets afterwards.
So, the questions... a) Do I have to 'sanction' my homegame in some way for this to happen?
Thanks for your time.
Elidir is the capital of a Cheliaxan vassal state.
Whose bright idea was that? I bet that led to some fantastic confusion during the empire.
I really like the Wizard's ability to gain an Arcane Bond with an item, and it gives you the very cool "cast any spell you like once per day" ability, but having flicked through the various splat books (Ultimate Magic, Advanced Class, Advanced Player) it seems not to have receieved a great deal of love. I was expecting to find feats, alternate bond features, special abilities etc but nothing. No way to increase your 'free' spells, add metamagic feats, add special abiities to the item etc. Surely this is an area ripe for development? Why has it been passed over? (or is there an Ultimate Arcane Bond splatbook I've missed?)
All over Golarian, small children thrill to tales of the excitement of the sailor's life. Fierce seamonsters, wicked pirates, savage storms and all manner of perils stir the imagination of those who are snug and warm, a hundred leagues from the ocean. The reality, as you have discovered, can be very dull - on-board the Jenivere, one day is much like the next. The crew, under the firm discipline of Captain Kovack, operate with practiced efficiency, such that there is little for First Mate Devers to do. The ship has made the run south dozens of times, bringing luxuries from the more civilized lands of the north to trade for spices, gems, plumes and exotic fruits to be sold in the chilly northern markets of Varisia. This run, however, the fortunes of trade have not favoured the Jenivere, and Captain Kovack has tempered his losses by adapting some of the cargo area to passenger quarters, taking on more paying guests than is his wont. So it is a motley group that emerges, yawning and stretching onto the decks on a fine, hazy morning, three days out of Port Peril, as the Jenivere turns towards the rising sun and begins its long run up the Gulf of Sargava towards the colonial city of Eleder.
This is the OOC discussion thread. Questions, complaints, threats, bribes, witty banter, rules lawyering and special pleading should go here.
It is often said that "Restrictions breed creativity", so let's see if it is true. I'd like to see if there is interest for a Core Rules only game - no web-enhanced gunslinging drow, no advanced gestalt alchemical half-fey. Core rules only. And since we're being old school, let's choose an old-school adventure - Smuggler's Shiv is basically the Isle of Dread, so seems a good place to start. So, rules are: Core Rules only except you may also take one free campaign trait from the Serpent's Skull Player's guide to get you going. The guide is a free download.
I'll be looking for about 5 players who can post every other day at least. Anyone interested?
We've had a slow start, and lost two players somewhere along the lines. So I am looking for two replacements. As long as you keep the character name, and general class, you can remake the character as you will. The party is just about to leave Sandpoint, looking for information about a suspected demonic cult that has been kidnapping homesteaders in the Varisian wilderness. They are escorting a homesteader family who is their unwitting bait. The character I need are: Jessie - 3rd level human female cleric
You can find the gameplay thread here:
and the original recruitment thread, which includes some background here:
As I want to get things moving again, I'll take a character concept, or a writing sample, and you can jump right in, and stat up the character as you go along.
"There's somethin' goin' on near Sandpoint." The words of your patron echo in your memory. The old man was leaning forward in his chair, fixing each of you in turn with his rigid gaze. "Small village, up on the Varisian coast. Real frontier place. Seen a lot o' traffic lately - new families movin' up from the cities, lookin' ter make a new life fer thesselves. Heard reports o' homesteaders an' woodsmen's families disappearin'. That's life on the frontier, yer may think. But there's a pattern - only young couples, when the woman's had her first child. About four months later, when yer might be expectin' her ter be able ter get pregnant again - they're gone. All o' them. No trace." He paused a moment, before continuing. "Mebbe they're after the infants. Mebbe it's the women. Mebbe it's somethin' else. But I know a pattern when I sees it. Get yerselves up there, an' find out what's happenin'. An' stop it." He swallowed hard, looking for the words. "One last piece o' advice. Go in quiet - don't throw yer weight around. Most cult'll have an agent in the nearest town, lookin' out fer trouble. Tell everyone yer've come ter hunt goblins or somethin' - plenty o' them on the frontier. Good luck. The 'Dawn Glow' sails at the dawn tide - captain's a pal o' mine - owes me a favour. Will take yer all the way ter Sandpoint." That was two weeks ago, and the intervening time has been mostly tedium as you have shared the cramped passenger quarters of the small trading ship with your fellow hunters, getting to know them and their quirks.
Rollcall!
"Heard a philosopher once say that there ain't no such thing as good an' evil - them's just names we give ter things that we like an' don't like." The old man shifts slightly in his chair. "But that's goblin-crap. Evil's real. I know. It leaves a taint - a metallic tang in the air. Yer can taste it. There ain't no mistakin'. A hungry bear, even a troll - that ain't real evil. A thief in the night, a bandit - they's just greed an' stupid. But there's other things - an' when I say they are evil, I means it. They embody it. It's in the very nature o' what they are." He pauses a moment, and then spits into the fireplace. "Thirty years I fought it. Seen things yer don't want ter know about; things I don't even want ter remember. Still, I had my reasons, just as yer've got yers. The war'll never stop, 'cos o' the nature o' what they are, an' the nature o' what we are. But I kept fightin', savourin' the small victories. Yer don't need ter know my reasons, just as yers are yer own. Then this. He shifts again, leaning slightly forward so that the stump of his right leg, taken off just above the knee, can be seen in the flickering firelight. I got sloppy. Forgot what I was facin'. Thought I knew it all. It showed me better, afore I finally banished it. The priests tell me that they can fix it, make it grow back, fer enough gold. But I don't mind. I can get 'round well enough. I prefer ter see it as a warnin'. I was too old, too jaded. It's time ter pass on the torch. He shifts back and surveys the individuals before him from beneath grey eyebrows. I'm figurin' I can do a more important job here. I've got ears in every tavern in Absalom. Hear all the travelers' tales, notice the details that others wouldn't. Put two and two tergether. Know what's really goin' on. Cos they're out there, believe me. Waitin'. Patient. Growin' in strength. Usin' our natures against us. They've waited fer eternity, an' they'll wait again, until they reckons the time is right. Unless someone stops 'em. He leans forward intently. "There ain't no glory in this fight. They can't recognise yer, know yer comin'. If'n yer lucky, yer'll get ter retire like me. Yer can guess what happens if'n yer unlucky. Yer've got ter want this fight. Yer've got ter fight 'cos it's right, 'cos yer can't bear the thought o' not fightin'. Yer've got ter fight even though yer know that any victory's only temporary, but at least yer bought others some time ter laugh an' love an' see their children grown. That's the reward. Fer thirty years I've thought it worth fightin' fer." He settles back in his chair. "And I'm thinkin' maybe yer does too."
Ah, I see you're posting for free the content of a product I have paid for. Please don't be surprised when I decline to pay for your content in the future.
It was a rare thing to see the stars. During deep winter, great clouds laden with smothering snow blocked out the sky, so that even during the day the light of the low sun did not illuminate the land. In the summer, even when the sun did set, great fogs often wrapped the land like a mother swaddling a child. A single misstep by an unwary hunter could lead to him to his doom - beneath an icy bog, off of a cliff of broken rock, or into the jaws of a hungry predator. Only for a few days in the spring and autumn, when the winds were still, as though the world itself were drawing breath, did the skies clear to allow a view of Magor and Rix, the twin red and blue moons, and the infinite sea of stars. Parents whispered to their children that they were distant shards of ice, flung into the sky by the Worldbreaking, but the Stories told that the Ancestors knew of the stars. For them, the skies were often clear, and they laughed and danced and loved beneath them, giving them names, and drawing pictures in them. They would watch the stars, and marvel. Until one of them fell from the sky and broke the world asunder. But as the snow began to melt, the skies were clear, and the shamans watched for omens. From outlying camps and winter lodges, people began to gather, having heard the Overchief's call. They battled through the wet drifts and muddy hollows, eager to bring the fight to the orcs. Strangers arrived too, unfamiliar faces for unfamiliar times. When an adolescent mammoth was spotted emerging from the forest, the hunters grabbed their spears and hurried forth, thoughts of fresh meat in their minds. Until, that is, they saw the figure that rode atop the beast, one of the mysterious Mammoth Herders from the great grass plains of the west. The underchief greeted the young man as required by the Law of Hospitality, and requested that he tether his beast on the outskirts of the village, where it could not cause trouble. No-one saw the Bonecrafter come, but when the campfires were lit he was there, squatting at a distance with his strange, skull-headed staff, quietly carving some patterns into the shoulder blade of an auroch. The tribe's shaman exchanged a few, brief, words with the visitor, bowed once, and led him to the campfire. From a distance, some mistook him for a halfling, hunched in bulky furs, but it soon became clear it was a dwarf. Not one of the usual trade princes, with darkly-dyed sheep wool cloaks and beards braided with gold. This dwarf wore ragged furs, and smelled of fish. He said nothing to anyone, but sought out the tribe's wisewoman. They locked silent gazes for a dozen heartbeats, before he nodded, turned on his heel, and took his place at the fire. Among the many hunters to arrive was a young man with an unusual, light gait and high arched cheekbones. He avoided eye contact, and said little, but when the breeze blew back his hair, the soft, slight tips of his ears spoke of ancient elven blood. He arrived with a freshly-slain yearling deer draped across his shoulders, the first fresh meat brought to camp that year. The shamans accepted his gift and, slicing open its belly on the snow, returned its heart and liver for him to roast at the campfire, as was custom, before reading the omens in the twists of its entrails. As night fell, the shamans led two of their own tribe to the strangers' campfire. One was a young shaman apprentice, dressed in the traditional long fur and loincloth, and with a large bone club hanging from his belt. He sat on his haunches, looking distracted and distant, occasionally jerking his head as though to catch a voice only he could hear. The other was a warrior, with the smooth, sure gait of a hunter, although in his case his movements were almost feline. His sharp teeth shone in the firelight, his eyes glittered, and as the shadows danced across his face they made him look almost feral. He carried a variety of spears and darts, which he fingered with a sharp-nailed hand. At a nearby campfire, Garrilk, the chief's son laughed and boasted with his coterie of favoured warriors. They occasionally cast curious glances at their neighbours, but devoted most of their energies to assuring each other of the mighty orc warriors they would slay, and the precious iron weapons they would claim. Their loud bragging seemed partly to assuage their own nerves, and partly an attempt to entice any herostruck girls into their sleeping furs one last time. The moons rose, and the stars whirled overhead. There was a sense of expectation throughout the village, as the warriors around the various campfires pondered what the coming season would bring. [A chance for you all to introduce yourselves]
Please report in: Wheatbeard - Dwarf Druid
This has been brewing in my head for a while. A world that previously made it iron-age technology levels, but has now regressed because of an ice age caused by an asteroid impact. Please let me know if you would be interested in such a setting. If there is interest, I will set out character creation guidelines etc. And, as it is a homebrew, please forgive the long, scene-setting post =================== It began with an arrowhead. It was an orcish arrowhead, buried deep in the shoulder of the warrior who had staggered back to camp almost delirious with pain and fever from the wound. The healer there gave him poppy-seed tea for the pain, and willow bark for the fever, and placed a thick strip of reindeer leather between the man’s teeth as he cut the broken shaft of the arrow out of the swollen shoulder. Afterwards, he cleaned the wound, smeared it with rendered bear fat, and wrapped it in strips of soft rabbit fur. Only then did he turn to inspect the object he had retrieved. The shaman to whom the trembling healer brought the object turned it this way and that in the palm of his hand, before washing it in clean water to get a better look. He sniffed it, tasted it, and finally drew it along the side of his gnarled staff, watching with interest as the sharp edge scored deeply into the wood. And then he called a meeting of the tribal council. In the chieftain’s tent, made of heavy seal furs hung on a lattice of mammoth bones, the elders examined the object, while having the skald recite the relevant Stories. Passing it between their gnarled hands, they wondered at it, comparing its dull gleam and sharp edge to the words of the Stories, an object out of legend. But in the end there was no doubt. It was iron. The Stories, passed down through the generations since the time of the Worldbreaking, told them that iron had once been plentiful, how every hunter might have a blade of the grey metal on his belt, or on the tip of his spear. Pieces of iron had been stitched onto leather vests, deflecting axe-blows and shattering flint arrows. It was worked into tools that could hew through rock, and forged into mighty hammers that could shatter bone. Their ancestors had worked great wonders with it in their service. But iron had a flaw. The cold and the wet ate at it, making it brittle and the colour of blood. Slowly, inevitably, the years would eat it away, as the glacier grinds against the mountain. It could not survive the climate that had engulfed the land after the Worldbreaking, the freezing winters, the cold, rainy summers, the endless damp chill. Over time, the belt-knives corroded into dust, the armour-plates into red stains, the great hammers into piles of red flakes. Iron passed from knowledge into the Stories. Perhaps the dwarves still had iron, scraping it in traces from the walls of their exhausted mine cities. But if they did, they did not share it. The taciturn folk would happily trade coal, gold and dark, shimmering gems at the annual trademeets in the smokey shadows of the burning mountains, but all the wheat beer and smoked meats, arrayed temptingly on woolen blankets, could not entice them to talk of iron. There was still bronze, of course, although only in tiny quantities, as few tribes were willing to pay the terrible price that the troglodytes demanded for the metal. In past generations, a few of the more unscrupulous, or desperate, tribes had launched raids, or full scale assaults, to obtain the captives necessary for such desperate trade. The troglodytes accepted such payment with cold, hungry eyes, leading the wretches into the dark mouths of their steaming caves, and provided the agreed price in bronze knives, spearblades and axes in return, but refused all alternative offers of payments. But no-one had iron. And now the orcs had it. And they had enough that they could use it on something as disposable and easily lost as an arrow-head. All that summer, while the people of the tribes worked to hunt, and trap, and gather, hoping that they would be able to store enough food against the coming months of darkness, the chieftains met in the great hall of the Overchief, in the great cave said to have been cracked open in the earth by the Worldbreaking itself, warmed by the river of fiery lava, the world’s blood, that ran through it. While they argued, and posed, and bickered, more reports came in, both from human hunters and, at second hand, from the nomadic elven tribes who followed the caribou herds through the northern Mistwoods. Reports of orc parties pushing further south than they had for generations, and far more organised. The leaders of such groups more often than not bore blades or spears of grey-black iron. One hunt-leader, veteran of a dozen hunts, swore that he had lost half his party to a great hulking brute who had wielded a great double-bladed axe with blades that glinted in the wan sunlight. And a wild tale, whispered fearfully around campfires, even told of a huge orcish warlord clad in plates of iron, like the great lobsters that the halfling fishers, in their walrus-skin kayaks, pulled from the icy depths of the frozen sea. Long the chieftains argued, while the meat was smoked and salted, the berries dried, and the roots pounded to paste. And as the first powdery snows swept down on icy north winds, they emerged from their council, and the Overchief spoke. The world was changing, he announced. In generations past, the tribes had united to repel orc hordes, but these had been sporadic, unorganised incursions. Now the orcs were more organised, and they bore weapons out of legend, iron weapons that could shatter flint, break stone and blunt bronze. The tribes would not wait to be overrun. During the dark and cold of the winter, each tribe should prepare, and when the melting came, and the snows retreated, they should all send scouting parties north, across the Burning Rivers. The parties should seek out the source of the orcs, determine who, or what, was organising them, and above all, find the source of the iron. No person, resource, or ally should be spared in this search, for if the tribes did not succeed, they would surely fall beneath the inevitable orc horde. They needed luck. They needed iron. And above all, they needed heroes.
I haven't seen the Beginner Box, so I've never seen a Pawn, but I understand them to be printed cardboard that you slot into a base. Whereas, the Paper Minis line is completely different, in that I can, er, print them on cardboard, and slot them into a base. (yes, I can also print them on paper, acetate, recycled cereal packets etc.) So, the only difference with Pawns is that they a) come pre-printed and b) supply the bases, right? But you only get a few of each, whereas with paper minis I can print my own Goblin Army of Doom. So why is everyone going bonkers over them? And why is Paizo ("We will not split our base") maintaining: 1) A line of metal minis from Reaper
Earthfall wasn't just a single meteorite striking Azlant - there were multiple impacts(1). In which case, I would expect there to be multiple impact craters across Golarion, especially as there hasn't been an intervening glaciation to wipe them all away. So where are the equivalents of Meteor Crater(2) on Golarion? (1) City of Seven Spears mentions "the impacts of countless falling stars
(2) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meteor_Crater
Captain Napoleon Able surveyed the group before him. He was an imposing presence, his flaming red hear contrasting with the dark blue-green tunic that was the uniform of the First Guard. Through the open window drifted the various sounds of Azlanti Keep: the sound of soldiers drilling, the barks of their sergeants and the distant clangs of weapons being forged. "Welcome" said Able "to the snake pit." He turned slightly to the side, unconsciously drawing his famous dark-lensed goggles from a pocket and fidgeting with them. "The laws of the city are clear." he continued. "The Primarch and High Council rules the city. The Nomarchs and Provincial Councils rule their various districts, and are responsible for the District Watches. That works well. Most of the time." He focused his attention back on the group before him. "The District Watches are fine at maintaining order, collecting taxes, and rolling drunks. However they usually lack the ability to investigate unusual crimes, or ones requiring special attention. Then it becomes a mess, and that mess usually ends up on the Primarch's plate." "He is not a patient man. So he has ordered me to set up a taskforce to deal with such crimes. It's a political nightmare of course. The District Watches will resent the intrusion into their jurisdiction. The Noble Houses will suspect the Primarch of extending his power. The guilds will raise merry hell about their autonomy being undermined, and the High Council will watch every move." "Since whoever I chose for this taskforce from inside the city authorities would upset someone, I decided to appoint outsiders. I decided to appoint you." He fixed the group with a stare. "Here's what I want you to do." "You will be granted the honory ranks of Corporal in the First Guard, except you, Jack, who will have the honorary rank of Sergeant. You will have a suite of rooms in the Keep for your use, including, I understand, a cold storage area for bodies and a laboratory. There were several large packing cases marked "FRAGILE" delivered this morning. I assume that Mr Infernobucket will know what to do with the contents. You will also gain the right, of course, to trade in the Open Quartering, which will give you something to spend your stipend on." "Remember your commission is to deal with the crimes that are assigned to quickly, effectively and quietly. You will not disrupt the business of the city. You will not cause trouble between the various factions, and most of all you will not embarrass the Primarch." He looked at the group again. "Any questions?"
Players, please check in here, and make sure your character profiles are updated and complete. If you need any input from me or other players, ask for it here.
Who or what are the District Watch for the foreign quarter? Either this info is not in the Guide to Absalom, or I'm missing it.
The body lay on its back, its top half hanging off the narrow bridge that led across the chasm to the Cathedral of the Starstone. Another few inches and it would have slid into the bottomless moat that surrounded the building. Members of the District Watch were keeping back the crowds of curious onlookers. Most were tourists, small
Even from a distance, Captain Napoleon Able could see that the man's throat had been cut. He struggled to fight his way past a group of Varisian musicians, large stringed instruments and drums in hand, who were setting up their busking pitch. Passing through the picket line of guardsmen, he withdrew a pair of leather-trimmed goggles from his pocket. The rumour amongst the junior guardsmen were that these were magical Goggles of Minute Seeing, that helped the captain in his legendary ability to discover clues. In truth, the magic had faded years ago - Able kept them partly from nostalgia, and partly because of the effect they had on those around him, making them draw back and give him the space he needed to think. He was at the body now, and a nervous Guardman sergeant stepped forward, saluted, and turned towards the body. "No identification yet, sir, but the guy is dressed in wizard robes. Not much blood about, which suggests that he was killed somewhere else, but then why dump the body here?" "Failed magic trick" grunted Able, kneeling to peer at the body. A look of confusion flitted across the guardsman's face. "Sir?" he inquired. Able straightened and looked the man in the eye. "I think somebody" - he slipped the goggles easily into place - "was trying to make this body disappear." With a wail, the Variasian musicians struck up their opening chords. ==================== CSI Absalom PbP. Who's interested?
Dear Paizo, thank you for the marketing email and the free "Legacy of Fire Guide" PDF. You invite me to take out a subscription. This I will gladly do, as soon as you offer me a PDF-only subscription. I am happy and accustomed to working with electronic media, and see no reason to pay for you to print something out for me and then ship it half way around the world at my expense. Yours, Potential Subscriber |
