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Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber. Organized Play Member. 13 posts. No reviews. No lists. No wishlists. 3 Organized Play characters.


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Cosmic Encounter

An Abomination Vaults Story

“I knew this was a bad idea.”

She spoke to herself, of course. Nobody else worth talking to, out here in the Fogfens, and no reason to besides. Leska had long ago learned to be self-sufficient in the marshlands she now called home. Few ventured out here, and those that did, didn’t stay. Except for the Gozrens over at Stone Ring Pond. Now that lot, Leska understood.

Looking down at her leg, she grimaced uncomfortably. Blood flowed out from a gash the length of a longknife, not enough to be immediately dangerous, but a sizeable quantity nonetheless. Likely infected with mud fever. I’ll have to clean it thoroughly. She stepped back onto the solid slip of land to the north, her weight resting on her unharmed right leg. That rogue leaf of razorgrass was hidden just so within the patch of silvergrass, obscuring it from her normally keen vision until she’d already felt its bite. I should have just gone to my usual spot. That’ll teach me to explore new territory after a full day of gathering.

Sitting carefully on the segment of land, she pulled her pack around to her front, rummaging through the gathered dirt-coated roots and knots of vegetable matter for sweetgum paste and her skin of springwater. Best chew up some fenroot too and stuff the wound. While she’d been saving the fenroot to sell to Magiloy, Leska knew that she’d be a fool if the leg went bad from gangrene just because she wanted to make a few extra silver.

As she washed out the sliced skin, she put the dirt-crusted fenroot in her mouth and set her molars to working. Powerful jaw muscles fought the tough root, as her saliva slowly macerated it. As her left hand dripped water onto her lower left leg, the mud-crusted fingers of her right slowly slid up and back on the jagged scar crossing her upper left arm. A memory sprang up, the flash of white-yellow light, the smell of burning flesh, the sound of her own scream echoing off the valley walls. Stop it. She shook her head, willing the memory away. They’re long behind you, and not coming for you tonight in any event.

Crack.

The sound all but froze her blood cold; the image immediately reforming. Their laughing faces as the lighting struck her again. They’re here. How? Panic brought bile welling up in her throat, choking and burning her. Leska quickly spit out the root, grabbed her pack, and tried to get to her feet, ready to run. Hobble.

“My apologies, Leska. I did not mean to startle you.” An unknown voice spoke from behind, as Leska turned to look toward the cracking sound and the newcomer. A strange sight looked back at her, from deep, white, pupiless eyes. The newcomer was tall, thin… and had horns. Like a ram.

Not good. Leska hadn’t known many creatures with ram’s horns, but nearly all of them were dangerous. Even rams, if you’re between them and a ewe at the wrong time. But this creature didn’t have a predator’s look. She stood, nearly unmoving, twenty feet back along the thin pathway splitting the marsh, staring at Leska impassively.

“I don’t know you and I don’t know how you know me. But you can leave. I’ve no need of anything from you.” Leska intended to punctuate the sendoff with a low growl, in hopes of putting a note of threat into the air, but she gasped sharply as her leg suddenly flared into fiery pain. With a grunt, she looked down to see that the blood flowed even heavier now. By Gorum’s fang! she thought. That hurts.

Looking back up at the ram-horned woman and seeing she hadn’t moved, the orc warily set her pack down. “You stay where you are. I need to bandage this wound. You let me finish that first – then we talk. Maybe.” Leska looked warily for the woman’s reaction to this semi-truce.

The woman simply nodded and sat herself down on the earth, plopping down without a care. Leska noticed she was wearing quite a fancy set of clothing, completely inappropriate for mucking around the fens, but she seemed to care not one bit about the mud soaking into her finery. The woman looked up, wide, white eyes taking in the night sky above.

Leska looked up too, almost involuntarily, noticing something in the woman’s gaze that seemed to draw her upwards. The night sky was bright, a full field of stars blazing in a multitude of faint variants of white and yellow and occasionally red or blue. A beautiful night, she thought, thankfully devoid of the mist that kept the stars clouded on most nights. The extra light should have made it easier to spot that stray razorgrass, but the silvery starshine washed all the grasses with a similar white sheen.

Taking her attention away from the stars above, Leska set to patching her leg. As she grabbed her necessaries, the voice spoke up again, politely. “I could heal that, if you would permit. You would do me an honor if you allowed me to assist you.” Leska looked back. The woman still stared up at the night sky, unmoving, but speaking to Leska all the same.

“No. I need no help. I’ve suffered wounds far worse than this and recovered on my own.” Leska reluctantly continued, “But thank you for your offer.” She didn’t know if this woman was a local or not, but if she were, it would be best not to insult her. The so-called civilized folk already had a hard enough time countenancing orcs being in the vicinity; best not to be a rude orc.

Leska heard no response, which was just as well, and set to her mending. Some minutes later, the wound was cleaned, packed, sewn, and dressed. She hoped the woman hadn’t heard her muffled grunts of pain as the needle passed in and out the skin. As many times as she’d had to stitch herself up, the pain was always the same.

After re-packing her bag, including the remaining fenroot stump, Leska hobbled to her feet. She tested the leg gingerly, concerned about tearing it back open. It felt solid, but she didn’t trust it enough. Deciding it likely needed a few hours for the clotting to begin in earnest, she was about to sit back down when the woman spoke up again.

“Wrin.”

“What?”

“My name is Wrin. You wonder who I am. That is who I am. You also wonder why I am here.”

Leska looked at her. The woman continued staring up at the stars, speaking away from the orc. Then Leska spotted the starknife at her belt, and it all clicked. Desnan. Moony-eyed idiot. Leska spat. “Let me guess. The stars guided you here?” Leska shook her head in annoyance. She best not have decided to stargaze out here with me. I don’t think I can put up with a jabbering Desnan all night long.

“Yes. And no.” Wrin spoke calmly, continuing her vigilant watch of the starfield, as if she sat above it, staring down upon the whole of the night. “The stars have long guided me. In many ways. To many places. But they did not guide me here. They guided me to you. You just happen to be here.”

What kind of idiocy? With an exasperated sigh, Leska raised her voice. “Look. I don’t really care who you are or why you’re here. There’s plenty of marsh that’s not near me, and I’d welcome you to go elsewhere. All your noisemaking is going to attract mitflits, and I’ve had about all the annoyance I can handle for one day. You can take your Desnan proselytizing and try it on someone else.”

Wrin laughed, more like a giggle and a sigh combined, and smiled sweetly. “What the Cosmic Caravan sets in motion, no mere mortal can resist. Do you think to stand against the Lurker at the Threshold? To avoid the fall of Desna’s Shadow across your path? Gozreh’s power is but the faintest mote of light under the evergaze of the God of the End Times. You must know that, druid.” The words ran with truth and force, but the tone was light. Airy. As if the speaker could barely be bothered to let them loose from her lips.

Whatever this Wrin was, Leska perceived, she was no flighty Desnan priestess. Something more was at work in this meeting. Something old. And powerful. Portentous.

Gazing warily, the orc druidess carefully adopted a less hostile tone. “I hold no quarrel with your gods, or any. But they have no reason for interest in me. I am content to stay here, in my marsh, to gather my herbs and live my life without bother to any. If you would respect that, then we may conclude this conversation.” Leska watched for a sign that her words had landed as she intended, sufficient to resolve this intrusion into her solitude, but not enough to give offense.

Wrin took her gaze down from the stars, looking across the eight or so paces that separated them. Starlight twinkled in her eyes. Strange. How does starlight glitter off white eyes? “It is not a matter of quarrel. The land does not quarrel with the sky, nor the wind with the waves. They simply exist, one with the other, two halves of one whole. As you exist, and the Cosmic Caravan exists, and as you interweave with each other.” The thin woman stood up, heedless of the dirt coating her backside. As she turned to leave, her voice whispered out, crossing the space between them. “Come find me, Leska, when the time is right. I will set you on your path. When the tower glows, then shall your destiny be born.”


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Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber

Listen Here

An Abomination Vaults Story

“Listen here, Anderran…”

The annoying lout’s voice trailed off as Reeve turned his attention back to end of the story. “… and with that last breath, Aesephna Menhemes passed into the hands of Pharasma, forever to rest,” the storyteller intoned, his cadence slowing as his somber story concluded.

The sour smell of wine grew stronger as the drunkard’s face moved in close to Reeve’s right ear, breathing heavily. “You think yer better than us, eh? With yer fancy boots and that big hammer swingin’ off yer belt? Compensating fer something, I think.” The wrinkled face, aged hard by too many years in a bottle, split open with a self-satisfied grin. He laughed overhard at his own insult. “Compensatin’, I say. Fer yer tiny…”

The last word never made it past his lips, replaced instead with a whoosh of rapidly exiting air as Reeve’s elbow jammed into the drunk’s solar plexus. Slumping to the ground and gasping for breath, the wretch tried to continue his diatribe but spasmed instead, reflexively struggling to regain his feet.

Reeve looked around, shoulders hunched a bit, to see whether his jab had been noticed. It wasn’t that he cared anything about the target sprawled on the floor. It was just… unseemly. Getting drooled on and insulted by some lowlife wretch in a dive bar in this backwater excuse for a town. It wasn’t a fitting place for an Andorman of noble stock.

But something in Reeve had always craved action. The thrill of the unknown. The possibility of the unexpected. Maybe it was the Chelish blood of his birthplace, pumping through him at something of a low boil, ready to heat up when provoked. His father had tried to train that out of him, droning on endlessly about the need for control, mastery of self, blah blah blah. You’re so self-controlled, you won’t do anything, old man. When are we going to reclaim our honor? Our name? You’ll control yourself right into your grave while we all sit and wait for you to take action. Reeve shook his head, remembering the crossed words. It was embarrassing, having lost his temper and lashed out like that. The smug, self-satisfied grin on Lord Marcellus’s face signaled that he had won and Reeve had lost. He’d shown himself to be a hotheaded, uncouth, brat of a son he’d always claimed he wasn’t.

Reeve downed another gulp of dark, nutty ale and sighed, releasing some tension. Glancing out the tavern window onto the Osprey River lit by the fading light of sundown, he thought briefly that, for a place calling itself Crook’s Nook this tavern served half-decent drink. He was pretty sure the Crook part of the name wasn’t too far off from the truth and wondered, not for the first time, about such brazen advertising. But no matter, he decided. There didn’t seem to be much law enforcement here – certainly nothing like the Golden Legion or the Almas Watch. And whatever was going on in this cheap flophouse didn’t concern him.

He turned his head at a scraping sound and movement to his right, watching the drunk finally make it to his feet and stumble away, clutching at his midsection. “Nice shot, young man,” the grey-haired storyteller said as he set down his own mug of nut brown. The one Reeve had paid for, of course.

Reeve smirked at the complement. “You noticed that? Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your story. It’s just that… I hate being pawed at. That guy wasn’t getting the hint.” The storyteller barked a laugh, caught himself, and shook his head. “You’re judging Keeleno too harshly. He was just too deep in his cups. Happens sometimes, even to the best of us. And he’s got a lot more reason to drink than many.”

Reeve’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like hearing excuses for weakness, for personal indulgence. “Everyone’s got a sob story. Doesn’t mean he gets free license to be an ass. Especially to someone he doesn’t even know,” Reeve responded, taking another sip of ale.

“When you come upon the love of your life, her throat slashed open, air bubbles popping as her windpipe chokes on the gushing blood, her eyes wide as you feebly try to hold her and tell her she’s going to be fine. When you wake up in a fever dream, reliving the nightmare of that sight, week upon week, for thirty years,” the older man’s firm, piercing gaze stared at Reeve. “Maybe then, you’ll have the right to judge.”

Ale sloshed a bit, spilling a few drops onto his leather trousers, as Reeve recoiled slightly at the vehemence in the storyteller’s reaction. He held up his left hand, in surrender, and his head moved back slightly. “Alright, I get it. Sorry. I didn’t know. Man…” Reeve briefly thought of what that would look like, a throat slashed like that. He saw his mother’s face flash in that image, and the shock of it tore him immediately back to reality.

“That would… suck. I’m sorry for what happened to him. I guess he’s got reason to be bitter. Did they catch whoever did it?” Reeve looked up, hopeful for a happier ending to the story.

The old man shook his head. “No. Jaul’s the one who did it. Jaul Mezmin. Nobody knew he was a wolfman, you see. But that’s the way with wolfmen. Nobody knows ‘em for true till they show their wolf-selves. When the townsfolk figured out it was him, they chased him out toward the cliffs, but he jumped rather than be captured. Guess he figured a death at the hands of Gozreh would be more merciful than whatever Keeleno’d do to ‘im if he were caught.” The storyteller took another slug of ale, draining the mug. He put it on the table, not so subtly indicating that another full one would be a mighty nice gesture if Reeve would be so kind. “Never found his body, but that was 30 years ago. If he died, good riddance. If not, he moved on out of here long past. Nobody else died like that since Ayla, poor girl.”

Reeve waved toward the server, a middle-aged halfling with a pot belly and long fingers, and caught his attention. Two, he signaled, pointing to the mug. The server nodded and Reeve turned his attention back to his companion.

“What’s your name, anyway? I’m Reeve.” The youth inclined his head, cocked slightly to the side, as a sign of bemused, delayed respect.

“Carlthe. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Reeve. It’s nice to tell stories sometimes, rather than just to listen to them. Or read them, for that matter.” Carlthe chuckled quietly, some sort of inner joke at work, but the point was lost on Reeve. “How long are you in town?”

Reeve shrugged. “I don’t know, actually. I was planning to leave earlier today, but someone I ran into here wants to talk to me this evening, and it was too intriguing to pass up the opportunity. So I decided to stay another night.” Carlthe’s eyes widened slightly, a coy, conspiratorial look blossoming on his face. “Do tell, mi’lord. Did some young townswoman catch your fancy?” Reeve could tell Carlthe was a bit into his cups, but so was Reeve, and he didn’t mind a bit of gossiping.

“No. It’s not like that. But… maybe it is like that? I don’t really know. It’s all very strange,” Reeve said, leaning in his chair and thinking back to the odd encounter from a few hours before. His momentary reverie was interrupted by the clunk of two mugs hitting the table, and Reeve thrust a hand into his money pouch to pull out three coppers. Carlthe deftly snatched up his mug, winking at Reeve and nodding in appreciation. As the halfling bustled away, Carlthe piped up, “Who was it? Did you get her name, I hope?”

“It was the curio seller. The one with the horns? Wrix, I think it was.”

“Wrin.” Carlthe smiled widely. “Wrin Sivinxi. Hoo-boy, you’ve felled yourself a big oak, you have. Or maybe she’s the one who’s doing the chopping. Guess you’ll find out tonight.” Carlthe laughed uproariously, slapping the table. Both their faces flushed red, not for the same reason.

As Reeve started to sputter out an objection, Carlthe interrupted. “I’m just giving you grief. Don’t go wind yourself up again. Wrin is wonderful. You’ll like her. And you best pay attention to what she tells you. That woman has some power, there’s no doubt about that. Not the kind of power that rattles the walls; the kind that slips into your ear and sets you on the right path. That’s the true kind of power, you know. The one that keeps you doing the right thing when your instinct is to do the wrong thing.” Reeve listened carefully as the thin-faced man went on. “Just listen to what she says – and make up your mind what you’ll do about it. At least you’ll have a new story to tell, either way.” Carlthe smiled again, a wistful look in his dark brown eyes.

Reeve said nothing, drinking slowly from the mug. He was a bit surprised to see this one was tan crockery, not wood. Reeve guessed the halfling had decided Reeve wasn’t likely to throw his mug on the tavern floor, like some did.

“If you’ve got time for another story, I should probably tell you the Tale of the Roseguard. Anyone who stays in Otari for long is bound to hear it eventually, and best you hear it from someone who knows the real story….” Reeve sat quietly, listening to Carlthe’s soothing, calm voice begin to weave another tapestry of words.


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Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber

(My apologies in advance to the mods if this is in the wrong forum.)

All of these stories are efforts to provide my players with some sense of important NPCs in Otari. We didn't have a session zero and I started them at the entrance to the ruins, although each of the PCs has already spent a varying amount of time living in Otari. I want to give them reasons to go back to town and to have connections to it, and this is the best way I can think to do that.

Also, there will be some slight spoilers in these stories in the manner of vague foreshadowing. If you're a player who wants zero hints of upcoming aspects of this adventure, steer clear.

This first story requires a touch of additional background. Ash is a PC whose parents are well-known fiction authors. Their stories are in the style of romance novels, which are just thinly veiled accounts of the authors' own trysts.

*ahem*

Ash and the Angry Bookseller

An Abomination Vaults Story

"Put that drivel away. It'll rot your brain."

Morlibint coughed reflexively and slipped the thin, red-bound volume underneath the store ledger, his pinky tucked surreptitiously between two pages to mark his place. Ash shook his head disapprovingly, but it was a teasing gesture meant in friendship. The bookseller smiled shyly. "I can't help myself! It's just so... naughty." They both laughed.

Ash leaned up against the counter, rubbing his hand across the polished laurelwood surface. He liked the counter, its smooth, refined feel, its height - so easy to rest his hip against, and the thought of how many volumes had made their way across the counter into the eager hands of readers. "You know how I feel about that book. It's like you're watching my parents...." Ash’s voice trailed off, the revulsion shivering through his skin. Morlibint saw the subtle movement, and his look of reproached amusement shifted to one of sympathetic friendship.

"I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't have pulled it down. Perhaps I should just throw it in the fire." Morlibint grabbed the book and started to move out from behind the counter, in the direction of the small hearth toward the back of the store.

Ash held up his hand, motioning for him to pause. "Don't be absurd. There's no reason to destroy it. I was just giving you a hard time." Ash grinned and chuckled as he saw the edge of relief pass across the bookseller's face. "You can even read it if you like. Just... don't let me see you doing it." They both shook their heads ruefully as Morlibint put the book on a shelf under the countertop.

"Are you joining us at Founder's Day? It's next week, you know," Morlibint changed the subject smoothly, years' of experience making small talk with customers gilding over the conversational awkwardness.

"I heard about that. I don't know. Not sure what to expect, really," Ash shrugged noncommittally. "Are you and Carlthe going?"

Morlibint's mouth turned down into a scowl, settling into its well-worn position. "Carlthe doesn't like Founders Day. Says it's a bunch of 'stuff and nonsense' and that our founders weren't all everyone says they were. I think he's just angry at Rajani still." Morlibint noticed the lack of recognition in Ash's countenance. "Carman Rajani. You know, over at Blades for Glades - the smithy?" Ash nodded, recognizing the name. He remembered the owner now, a thick-necked, musclebound oaf of a man, always going on about his "legendary ancestor", Vol Rajani, one of the Roseguard. Some sort of fighting man, Ash seemed to recall.

"What happened? Between Carlthe and Rajani, I mean."

"I wasn't there, so I didn't see it. They were both drinking at Crook's. Carlthe goes there sometimes when he's itching to pick up some new gossip about the town. Rajani was there too, continuing his supposed campaign for mayor." Morlibint laughed briefly, a sound somewhere between a bark and a cough. "The idea of that man as mayor. Ridiculous! He was probably buying Yinyasmera's backing for the election. That woman is a powerbroker, mark my words." He paused, running his hand through his thinning red hair, thinking for a moment. "I can't imagine she'd actually back him. Not as long as Oseph keeps running for re-election. She's got a good thing going; no reason to upset the wagon cart, right?" Ash's look indicated that Morlibint had wandered off-topic again. "Oh yes. The argument. Well, what I heard is that Rajani was boasting that he was going to take down Oseph in the election. Carlthe coughed - a bit of wine down the wrong pipe. But Rajani thought the cough was mocking him. Got beet-red in an instant and stormed up, shouting in my husband's face, calling him vile names." Morlibint's hands were shaking slightly, the second-hand shock still fresh. He clasped them together and dropped them out of sight under the counter. "The nerve of that man. The things he said. Disgusting. We have every right to live here, same as everyone else."

Ash reached out and rested a hand on the bookseller's shoulder, patting slightly. "I didn't mean to bring up bad memories. Forget I asked. Let's talk about something else." Morlibint calmed, looking up at Ash with thanks in his eyes for the sympathy. He turned, looking down the counter, and spied a rolled parchment tied with a dark purple ribbon edged with gold. His eyes widened. "Ooo! I haven't had a chance to show you this one. You're going to be thrilled...."

The young fetchling smiled wistfully as his new friend toddled away down the counter to grab the scroll. It was nice to have someone who understood him, at least a little bit, but his slight upturned smile blended to bittersweet as he hoped this friendship wouldn't end like his last one had....


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Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber

I'm running an online AV game which we started a couple of weeks ago. In my downtime, I've written some short vignettes to establish the PCs into the Town of Otari, since I began the first adventure right at the doors of the ruins.

Would it be acceptable/appropriate to post those in this subforum (in the event there's any interest)? It might help spur ideas about how to involve various NPCs in the characters' backstories. If not, is there another subforum where fiction would be acceptable?


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Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber
Zapp wrote:
Zapp wrote:
(Probably the easiest/laziest change? Change them into level 3 creatures! ;-)

I'm kidding... or am I?

Actually, this means only a single number needs to change. (If you use XP, the heroes get a bit of extra XP. If you use milestones, the players just have to suck it up.)

Either way, it's a minimal solution :)

If they're level 3 creatures, the Room F3 fight becomes a Severe threat encounter, unless you remove one enemy in which case it's a Moderate encounter again. It also makes the Room F26 fight a near-Extreme encounter if not otherwise adjusted.

For a CR 3 creature:

+11 attack is a Moderate-High attack bonus.

2d8+4 damage (average 13) is slightly above High strike damage, not counting the damage that gets added on a crit due to the Fatal trait. With the Fatal trait considered, you're probably looking at Extreme strike damage.

20 AC (with shield raised and Rage active) is just above High AC.

HP 35 (including the 5 temp from rage) is Low HP.

At CR 3, this basically a higher-than-normal damage fighter/champion type. Either way, probably a reasonable CR 3 creature.


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In Chapter 3, page 35, the corrupted retainer is a CR 2 creature that has a melee attack that does 2d8+2, which actually ends up being 2d8+4 due to tainted rage (with a d10 fatal crit die as well). The creature has +11 to attack, AC 20 (counting shield and rage), and 35 hp (counting rage).

Comparing that to the creature creation rules in the Gamemastery Guide, it appears this creature is overpowered by the math of PF2.

For a CR 2 creature:

+11 attack is a High attack bonus, akin to a fighter ("Use a high attack bonus for combat creatures - fighter types - that also usually have high damage.") (GMG, p. 64)

2d8+4 damage (average 13) is above the Extreme strike damage (11), not even counting the damage that gets added on a crit due to the Fatal trait. (GMG, p. 65) On a crit, you're looking at average 31-32 damage for a CR 2 enemy.

20 AC (with shield raised and Rage active) is just below Extreme AC. Note the warning on p. 61 of the Gamemastery Guide to "reserve extreme AC for a creature that is even better defended; these values are for creatures that have defenses similar in power to those of a champion or monk."

HP 35 (including the 5 temp from rage) is above Moderate and just below High HP. "Give a creature HP in the moderate range unless its theme strongly suggests it should use another range.... Brutish creatures usually have high HP, compensating with lower AC.... As mentioned in the Armor Class section above, you don't want a creature with extreme AC to have high HP too." (GMG, p. 62)

These enemies have the attack bonus of a fighter, damage output above Extreme (i.e. above barbarian damage), the AC of a champion, and the HP of a near-barbarian. And they are used as standard enemies, not boss-type enemies, since there are many of them in this section of the module. Their only area of weakness is their saves, which likely doesn't mean much to a level 3 party with limited spell slots to expend on enemies (although a stunning fist or other similar actions might help).

It seems to me that their damage should be lowered (perhaps by removing the extra d8 from demonic strength but leaving in the d10 fatal trait - I don't mind them being extra dangerous on a crit) and their effective AC lowered to 18. They'd still be quite dangerous even with those adjustments, but at least they'd be in a reasonable range per the GMG guidance.

Am I missing something, or are these creatures in need of adjustment?


Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber

Given that this is a xulgath racial ability and they're the main antagonist of this AP, I expect making saves against their stench will be a continual issue for parties. I'm seeing increasing DCs against the stench as higher-level xulgaths show up in later modules. I'd be shocked if any party didn't take steps (at least after the first few encounters) to try to mitigate the effect of the stench.

I'm not inclined to give a penalty to an "unprepared" party and then remove it when they decide to take steps to reduce the stench. I'd rather give them an item bonus or status bonus for taking that step. I suppose the nature of the bonus might depend on how they go about it. For example, a coroner would use menthol rub or something to mitigate the smell. If a character said they were using Nature to identify some sort of strong smelling herb to block the smell, I might allow them to find something if the local terrain permitted and they rolled a critical success on their Nature check, with the usage of the herb being very limited (1-2 uses at most).

Alternatively, if they're blocking up their nose with wax or something, then maybe no adjustment is appropriate (as you note, they still have to breathe).

It just seems like something that any intelligent player is inevitably going to ask about and I'd like to be prepared to address it.


Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber
Ron Lundeen wrote:
TheDivider wrote:

The Show Must Go On, p. 64: "If a trick's trait is followed by the name of a skill in parentheses, then a performer gains a +1 circumstance bonus to Perform a Trick with that trait using that skill check."

So if Elizia or Axel do their tricks (which have the Animal trait) with Nature, there's a +1 circumstance bonus. Is that circumstance bonus already factored into the +7 Nature skill listed on their profiles, or should they effectively have +8 for their Nature rolls when they do their tricks (although Elizia would still have +7 for Intimidate)?

It isn't factored in.

Thank you, Ron! It was very helpful to get such a quick response straight from the Developer. Our first session went splendidly yesterday. My group had a great time and were very surprised that the session quickly went in a direction they weren't expecting. Great job to you and Jason for a perfect start to this AP!


Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber

Xulgaths have stench auras with the olfactory trait. Any suggestions on how to handle efforts by the PCs to avoid the aura by plugging their noses with wax or something similar? If they took such a step, would you allow characters to completely avoid the aura, give them a +1 or +2 status bonus to their save against the aura, or decide that the aura still has its normal effect?

If there's a bonus to saves or avoidance of the aura entirely, should there be some drawback to counterbalance the benefit? For example, I was thinking that any character plugging their nose might gained the Fatigued condition during combat because they can't take in as much oxygen while exerting themselves. Here's my initial thought on a mechanic:

Any character taking steps to plug or cover their nose gains a +2 status bonus to Fortitude saves against olfactory effects, but is Fatigued during combat due to reduced airflow.

I am certain that my players will try to plug their noses or cover their noses/mouths with a wet rag or do something similar once they start encountering xulgaths. Suggestions on whether my suggested approach makes sense and is balanced, or recommendations for alternative approaches, would be appreciated.


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The Show Must Go On, p. 64: "If a trick's trait is followed by the name of a skill in parentheses, then a performer gains a +1 circumstance bonus to Perform a Trick with that trait using that skill check."

So if Elizia or Axel do their tricks (which have the Animal trait) with Nature, there's a +1 circumstance bonus. Is that circumstance bonus already factored into the +7 Nature skill listed on their profiles, or should they effectively have +8 for their Nature rolls when they do their tricks (although Elizia would still have +7 for Intimidate)?


Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber
Zhyth wrote:
TheDivider wrote:
1. Page 13 states that the first Peacock Shrine is in the Cloister of Cerulean Languor. According to the map on page 16, the Cloister of Cerulean Languor is in areas B1-B3. However, the entries for areas B1, B2, and B3 contain no reference to a shrine (unless I missed it). Also, since each shrine is trapped if the incorrect rod is removed, I need to know what the trap is for the shrine in the Cloister of Cerulean Languor.

It seems as if the shrine list has a typo for the first shrine; the list (as you mentioned) says that the first shrine is the the Cloister of Cerulean Languor, but the shrine actually appears in the Glorious Approach, in area C5. It doesn't seem to be trapped, other than the effect listed in the shrine master list.

Thanks Zhyth. I had missed seeing that shrine. I might need to add a trap to that one too.


Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber

Two questions:

1. Page 13 states that the first Peacock Shrine is in the Cloister of Cerulean Languor. According to the map on page 16, the Cloister of Cerulean Languor is in areas B1-B3. However, the entries for areas B1, B2, and B3 contain no reference to a shrine (unless I missed it). Also, since each shrine is trapped if the incorrect rod is removed, I need to know what the trap is for the shrine in the Cloister of Cerulean Languor.

If anyone else encountered this problem and home-brewed a location and trap for this shrine, please share your approach.

2. In the printed module, the maps on page 16 are all missing grid lines, so I cannot determine clearly the dimensions of all these areas. It may be that the digital version of the map contains the lines, but unfortunately I didn't buy the digital version since I already have the hard-copy version. Is there a way I can get a copy of the page 16 maps containing the grid lines?

Thanks for the help.


Pathfinder Rulebook Subscriber

Am I correct that Khrysm's sneak attack does not apply when she uses her bombs? The description for the "Throw Splash Weapon" special attack on the SRD specifically states that splash weapons cannot deal precision damage. However, Khrysm's tactics mention that she "makes another sneak attack with a bomb the next round."

Ruling?