Well, here we are. *throws arms around friends, sings against the dark*
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+3! We're set to fight fey!
"Thanks," Therrik says with a nod to Naali as he takes one and observes the color. "...looks intense. I also hope it won't make me throw up. "What do you say, Naali? Want to try to scout like Sadron said, or should Gwyn and I just barge along?"
You are a rock star, Gwyn <3 We will! Sadron has to share a room with me some of the time, so I'll be sure to give him a friendly punch or something. And lest you all think the big half-orc is bullying the bard, well, the typist for Therrik is only 5'2". ;)
re: the loot-- so should we wipe the old gold value and start over? Otherwise it seems like it would get confusing, haha. ** Going to post in game in a bit, but as a heads-up, I'm going to be at DundraCon Friday through Monday. I'll have Internet, but I'll also be playing or GMing roughly 12 hours of PFS a day, so while I will try and check in after my games, please feel free to bot me during that interval rather than letting me hold up the action.
Therrik looks down the ladder. "Floor down there, not too far. Twenty feet," he informs the others, and nods towards the closed eastern door. "Underground river or waterfall, maybe?" He helps strip the corpses, for their armor is more finely made than murderous scum like this should get to keep, in his opinion. "Anyone know what all these scrolls and potions are? I say we check those doors in the first room, make sure it's safe for the others to stay there."
That'd be 68 GP, 8 silver for all then. Beyond that there's a lot of physical loot on the tracker I don't think was sold in terms of the coinage listed at the bottom, since there was never a sell value listed. I think we kinda meant to sell that stuff in Neathholm but didn't necessarily track the added gold value? Unless I missed something there.
So where are we standing on gold/etc? Now that I've picked up my ranger fighting style I might sell the morningstar the next time we have a sell chance, but that won't have been part of the last split. The loot tracker lists the 344 in coins, should we just split that and call it fair for now, or did we sell anything else?
Therrik stands, breathing hard and touching warily at the spot on his chest where the cultist had hit him. That had felt... weird. He figures he needs to work on his defense some. "You okay?" he grunts at Gwyn. "That looked like it hurt..." He crouches by the dead cultists, turning them over to see if they had anything of use on their persons.
GM:
At some point, I'm likely going to dip at least a level or two of barbarian; that won't be yet because I want to justify it with RP. Right now, I see Therrik as a predominately calm individual, sort of the 'common sense Joe' in with the more religious and fervored folk. However, I imagine that the taint from the ritual in his youth has left him with a deeply-buried font of quasi-demonic anger, well below the surface, and that it's entirely possible that campaign events could bring this out, in months to come. I.e., maybe a specific injury from a demon further taints him, or triggers an element of transformation (possibly reflected mechanically as a gore or a bite rage power), or the PCs get caught in some sort of ritual, etc. I have no idea if any of the AP as written will include anything that I could use in this fashion, to explain the story element, but I'm just putting it out there so that if there IS a great moment in the AP that would be a good 'trigger time' to start bringing in the idea of the barbarian rage, hopefully you can tell me 'yeah, now would be thematically appropriate' at which point I'll start on however many barbarian levels I wind up taking. Anyway, /blather! Yaaay level 2! Summary of level-up goodies: HP gained: 8 (5 from a d10, +2 con, +1 favored class)
*goes to post in game*
Therrik growls low in his throat and once again swings his hammer in both hands. "You know, my mother always said it was wrong to hit a lady..."
"...course, she usually said that to let her get in the first shot." Perhaps Therrik would have been better served by less attempt at witty banter and more focus on his form, for the strike misses.
"Sonofa--" Therrik growls as he gets poked, expecting pain; his brows knit together a little at the lack thereof. Shrugging to himself, he doesn't hesitate-- he just swings again.
To Therrik's bemusement, it seems like fate itself conspires against him. He has a brief mental image of striking, but the reality makes his blow swing wide. Though he's discomfited by this, Therrik stays where he is, unwilling to move with Gwyn so hurt behind him.
LOL, I just realized I rolled a d20 for damage in an earlier post. Good going, self. Y'all have to watch me, apparently I cheat.
"Hanspur's hairy ass!" Therrik blurts as Gwyn gets hit, and hard. He retaliates, trying to give back as hard as his companion just got hurt.
Therrik waves a hand for quiet. He holds up two fingers, pointing at his door, and beckons Gwyn closer. He points again at the door, silently holding his blade up with the other hand, and then tries to ease the knob noiselessly open...
Therrik nods with a little frown on his face at Gwyn's words of 'utter waste'. "Sometimes you gotta go through people," he says flatly. He beckons the others to follow up to the barricaded area, at least, then looks to Horgus, Aravashnial, and Anevia. "You three, dock here while we clear rooms, alright?" Slipping into the room after Gwyneth, Therrik makes for the first door on his left, and listens at it a moment.
Therrik wordlessly strides forward to help deal with the next mongrelman.
It's gory work but the chance for quiet has definitely passed, what with Naali's fall and Sadron's cymbals. Therrik figures the best thing they can do is move quick and keep the mongrelmen from mounting a defense that might mean more lives lost. Like, say, those of he and his new friends.
Therrik glances over as the third mongrelman lands a solid blow on Gwyneth. "Alright there?" Sadron's cymbal performance makes Therrik's brows dance a little. "--huh-- that's pretty catchy..."
"Where the hell'd that drumset come from?" Therrik says, bewildered, running forward and unslinging his new warhammer as he goes. "Hang on, Naali--!"
Therrik dashes up and takes a swing at the mongrelman. If they gotta fight their way in, so be it. It's just like boarding an enemy ship, he thinks.
"Let's just say you both got a certain way about you," Therrik responds with a little snort.
"Uh, well." Therrik blushes, which is a weird look on a half-orc. "Could you maybe pick up another set of clothes for me? I'll pay you back! It's just that my old ones..." are ingrained with maggot fluids. "You know, just a tunic and trous." *** Now, squinting ahead at the mongrelfolk, Therrik grunts to himself. "...well, some of us are damn persuasive," he points out. "And by persuasive I kinda mean 'scary'." Tiny head jerk in the direction of Abrielle and Gwyn. "Still, sneakin' might get us more details."
Sooooo...... *puppy eyes* What's up, Rat King?
After his bath (oh gods, to be clean again!!) Therrik realizes his clothes are not worth putting back on again, hell no. At least not without like three or four scrubbings. Towel wrapped around him, he sticks his head out from the room where the copper tub had so beautifully sat, and looks around for one of his traveling companions plaintively. "Anybody here, or did you all go to shop already?"
"Hey," grumbles Therrik half-heartedly when Gwyn's voice cuts across his communion with the suds of nature. "Knock first, gah." As for the question: Therrik sits upright in the big copper tub belonging to their generous hosts and rubs suds off his face. "Oh. Yeah. If they've got any of those little bottles of fire that go fwoosh when they land?"
Therrik's voice follows Gwyneth when she eventually leaves: "Oh, and some of their soap! This stuff's great! Wonder what they put in it..."
"Aye to that bath idea!" Therrik says, eager to be on less emotionally fraught conversational ground. He thanks Sull again, and suffers to be led on to the house. He strips his armor with relief. Bath, hot food, bed-- in that order. Maybe some tea in there somewhere...
"....sorry for your loss," Therrik mumbles at the revelation of whom the brooch had belonged to. "Uh..." Yeah, that's awkward. Come into town and bring the news his son's dead, great. (Therrik tries not to wonder if the son was as rat-looking as his father.) But Sull still is more than civil, and the half-orc rubs at his head. "Yeah, I think cultists won't be an issue. It's-- it's the least we can do. Our word on it," he adds gruffly. Gwyn's words earn a faint smile from him. "Anytime you think you're ready to get dragged in too," he answers.
Therrik listens; the man may look like the unfortunate byproduct of a rat and a gopher's drunken night together, but he speaks civil-as-hell, and Therrik's a believer in actions speaking louder than looks. "Hey, I think that some of us," he tips his head in Gwyn's direction, "want to go deliver some steel to the bellies of those cultists anyway, so.... not like it'll be out of our way," he says drily. The offer of the potions makes him whistle, though he doesn't really know what the potions are beyond the chief's words. "No, you keep your folk safe-- who knows what the quake mighta released into these caves? Don't worry about us. We'll take a night's rest here gladly, though. I could use a bath like nobody's business... and my companions probably also think the same."
Therrik smiles ruefully. "That ain't much of a favor. Like the lady says, I'm sure they'd be glad to hear it.... if anyone's left up there alive."
Therrik lets the others recount the details; he still feels outsider enough to Kenabres that he doubts he could do any better a job telling of her fall. Best to let those who love and know the city speak of it, he figures. Should the chief glance his way and expect his contribution, Therrik spreads his hands a little. " 'S what the ladies said. We've got the injured," a little nod at Anevia and Aravashnial, "and... a noncombatant to try and get safely back topside. We're grateful for your hospitality, assuming you can tolerate us, but we'd be more grateful for any road you might know of that leads up."
Therrik offers Gwyn's retort a toothy grin. "I'm hard to throw," he says, "but I might just go in anyway. Believe me, I like the smell no more'n you." He helps sort some items for purchase and sale, if the mongrelfolk of Neathholm wish to purchase. "Let's talk to their chief first, then really shop it up, eh?"
Hmmn, by the loot tracker nobody laid claim to the masterwork hammer. I wouldn't mind a +1 to hit unless someone else has a hankering for it, but I could also be okay with just selling it and banking my share of the gold for a better falchion down the road, etc. Opinions?
Therrik listens to Gwyn and Abrielle's exchange, his brows dancing a bit in what might be amusement. "Well, I'll keep it in mind if you start talking in growly demon talk. Or grabbing people by the collar or anything," he deadpans. As they stop at what passes for the 'the shops' in Neathholm, to allow Sadron and Naali to make a few sales, he pauses. "What about some of that stuff we're hauling that we've found?" he asks the other. "That armor could probably see more use for someone in this town, and they might be able to pay for it, then it will sitting in my pack. And the brooch, and stuff."
"Hell, maybe the chief would want to buy that armor, even," Therrik muses. "It is nicely made."
Therrik winds up falling into step a few feet behind the determinedly-striding Gwyneth, idly observing her grip on her blade, the line of tension in her shoulders. "Those cult guys really got you off your keel?" he mutters quietly, only intending to be heard by Gwyneth.
Therrik returns the gazes of the mongrelfolk just as curiously as he is gazed at in turn. Gods below, but they're a motley lot, he thinks.... but as a half-and-half himself, he supposes he's got no call to wonder at others. They're just... smaller fractions. A quarter of this, a quarter of that.... Therrik is actually fairly relieved when the gate closes behind him. Unlike many in the group, Kenabres isn't his home-- he is not frantically worrying about friends who might still be in trouble in the city above (well, with the possible exception of Janayya, but he's decided for his peace of mind that she isn't in the city); he merely would like a good night's rest, in a warm room, and a hot meal... and the village seems liable to offer that much, at least. He also brightens at the sight of the rafts, however clumsily built they may be. That's a bit of home. "Sure, we'd be happy to talk to your chief," he says. And happy to unshoulder his pack too, for that matter.
" 's not bad," Therrik observes of Gwyn's drawing, peering over her shoulder. He adjusts his pack with the new armor stuffed into it-- huffs a little bit at the added weight-- and shrugs. "Abrielle's right. Let's set sail, these people have waited long enough to get home."
Therrik doesn't rise from his crouch just yet, gazing down on the bodies. "I agree we don't need to be hauling bodies through the tunnels. Got enough stuff to carry." Like people, when going up and down chasms. Therrik pauses a moment, then adds deadpan, "Could just take the heads." Cracking his knuckles, he straightens back up... without doing any field-decapitations. "Buuut we don't know how long before we get back to Kenabres. They might rot to the point that nobody could identify them anyway. And the smell'd draw anything hungry down here, heh. "Gwyneth... weren't you drawing, the other night?" he asks. "Could you sketch their faces?"
Therrik looks up at all the talking of gods and things, his thick brows knit a little. "Hang on," he says curiously. "So this armor they got on is decked out like they worship your sword-goddess, but they've got these little symbols of this evil minotaur god-thing? So, what-- you think they were pretending to be good citizens, but really on the side of the enemy? Maybe spies, or something?" He is not sheepish about pulling off the other chain shirt, though he doesn't intend to wear it himself. It would still make decent protection for their wounded, he supposes. And, perhaps down the road, decent coin as well; it is nicely made. Speaking of coin, he picks up both the coin pouches, peering inside.
Therrik peers into the alcove with the others, frowning at the sight of the fungus, and the big pile of ropy plant matter. "...huh, a bastardirond," Therrik mutters. "I mean, uh, a basidirond. Heh. Old joke..." He clears his throat, shaking away the memory of Janayya telling him about the plants. "They can be pretty deadly, but that one looks like it's no longer a threat-- those corpses saw to it, I figure, but didn't last long after." The big half-orc scratches at his jaw, surveying the tableau a moment longer before he shrugs and steps in, crouching by the bodies to pry the vial and the other objects from their corpses.
With armor redonned, Therrik makes a cautious way forward after Gwyneth, his green eyes peering into the gloom for any sign of a hostile wielder of that glaive.
Therrik has to shift his grip several times on the rope when it comes to lowering Horgus, winding up leaned back against a rock to brace, and wrapping the rope around his forearm. The half-orc huffs and puffs as he tries to keep the feed of rope steady and not let any slip-- if Horgus b!$&#es this much when he's in one piece, Therrik doesn't want to hear it if the guy actually gets bruised up.... He takes a moment after Horgus is finally on the ground to wipe a little sweat off his brow before moving on to the next soul. Aside from the complaining, it's not much different than loading and unloading cargo, he supposes. Once everyone's up on the far side, Therrik starts to rebuckle his armor with Gwyn's assistance (he gives her a nod of appreciation), only to pause, staring off into the tunnel ahead. "Little alcove up there," he points out. "And I think a... glaive? Looks like what Naali's carrying, anyway. Let me get this scale back on and we'll check it out."
Therrik favors the bard with a toothy grin as he belays him down. "Just don't like crashin'."
"...yeah, not feeling up to jumping that," Therrik says warily, watching how Rabbit-guy cleared it easily enough. "We got rope, hang on...." Therrik digs out his coil of pre-knotted rope from his pack, glancing around for anything to tie off to. "Most of us should be able to climb this easy enough-- if you can't, cuz of your leg, or your eyes--" a little nod at Anevia and the elf, "then I'll knot two loops in it and you'll stick a leg through 'em.... guess we can do it around your belt, too." Since Anevia's leg is broken, and all. "I'll just lower the two of you, yeah? Don't think either of you weigh so much we can't get you down the drop alright. I'll come down last, and then we'll get up the far side and repeat it, going the other way." Therrik's tone is calm and steady. He looks at Lann and Dyra, already starting to climb. "I know you folk want to hurry-- can't blame you, I would if it were my home. But hurry's a great way to slip and break an ankle here. If you want to wait for us, I'll gladly help haul and belay you, but if not, mark your course as you go and we'll catch up with you."
"Hope there's no more big bugs or evil dwarves or nothing down there," he mutters, half to himself. With his dark-piercing gaze, Therrik scans the bottom of the freshly-exposed crevice for any critters.
Therrik looks even more bemused at Mr. Rat-Rabbit... whatever he is. They're so damn strange it's hard to even feel threatened, if that makes sense. Still, they seem.... nice enough? "Wouldn't mind a place with a fire," he says. "Feels like I've been cold since we tumbled our asses down here. You hurt at all?" he asks Crel.
Therrik lends his arms to the digging, nodding a little at the names. "Therrik," he grunts.
Hey Gwyn, I found a nice future toy for you (assuming you didn't already know about it) - the Culling enchantment.
Therrik is a little weirded out by the bizarre appearances of the ... people... but he keeps his mouth shut. He just hopes the tumor-lady isn't... catching. "Yeah, uh, we'll... lend a hand," he says slowly after the elf points out what they've got to do. "Just... tell me where to dig, or whatever..." He side-eyes the strange folk as he goes to help apply Sadron's knowledge, but keeps any commentary to himself.
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