Did the game go to inactive automatically due to inactivity, or...?
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Same!
Is GTG okay? I don't really know what the protocol is for PBPs, has anyone PM'd them?
Smashmancer has a good point, people with equipment > people without. We'll need to be really cautious until we can get our hands/claws on some weapons and armor. Even though Vuram is going to specialize with a polearm, having a big composite longbow will be excellent. Enemies take a Perception penalty for distance, and in low-magic campaigns landing a few shots early can be a *huge* advantage once things get into melee. Heck, maybe fighting at relatively long ranges will be a useful counter to the humans' firearms. As a more immediate concern, does anyone have Knowledge [Geography] or some other means of navigating? We don't know much about the GTG's world just yet, but we'll definitely want to keep our heads down and make for the nearest region that isn't friendly to Nexoras, preferably via a route with rough terrain and lots of cover!
Vuram's leaning towards some sort of build involving a Lucerne Hammer, with Lunge and Combat Reflexes he can dominate a truly marvelous swathe of battlefield. Would also like to emphasize his tactical nature, though he doesn't have the Charisma to be a classic great-general type. "How" is the tough question. I had originally wanted to go Phalanx Fighter for heavy armor + one-handed polearm to crank that AC, but with the Nexorans being so gun-heavy that seems like a trap. Too big for Cavalier to be all that helpful :( I could see a Vanguard Slayer being fun, but already have one of those in a different campaign. Currently leaning towards Ranger as guerrilla warrior against Nexoras, but I'll wait and see what the rest of the world looks like before committing to anything. I've got 3 negative levels, plenty of time. As far as crafting, I was considering smithing (melt down human-sized equipment to reforge minotaur-worthy weapons) or possible trapmaking (with the level cap snares & such can go a long way towards evening out a fight) but I'm not committed to anything.
With a shrug Vuram follows the kobold, being careful to keep close small creature, but he doesn't speak. He's on to us. Maybe not the overall details, but he definitely knows something is up. That means he doesn't get out of my sight.
Is Greeter beckoning us to follow him down the right fork, or waving us down the left while he goes right? 'Cause that dog won't hunt.
I had wondered about that. Perhaps if we can get a "Flowers for Algernon" thing going with Lio if we level up, then fight some wights or something.
Scratching his chest, Vuram considers the kobold--nearly as scarred as he--and dark thoughts start bubbling up in the recesses of his mind. He's a risk, a threat, he'd sell us out in a heartbeat, I've seen a thousand others just like him. Kill him. It would be the work of a moment to wring his neck and dump his corpse in a ravine, some ugly, scarred part of him urged. Before yesterday, he'd have probably done it, but the tantalizing chance of escape had breathed new life into parts of him he'd thought long dead. Like a breeze blowing aside the ash from last night's fire, hope stirred to life the embers of the person Vuram had been before the camps--especially the small, iron core of his sense of honor. No. There are too many variables, killing him may prove as dangerous as leaving him alive. My enemy is not the kobold, rat or not, but the humans who put us both here. Heed this mercy, Greeter, and don't interfere.
Hefting his pick, the minotaur offers Greeter a slow nod. "Yes, the best ore veins. I would appreciate your guidance, Greeter. A lot of work ahead of us, lead on."
Molebold?
Vuram's eyes grow significantly wider as he wakes up to Lio's face inches from his own, and he blinks several times before answering. "I...am alive, and mostly hale thanks to Sithiliss. I am ready. Let us be off, Lio." Wincing as he lumbers to his feet, he waves off the trolls well-intentioned by clumsy help and limps his way towards the mine. Yes, I have languished long enough. It is indeed time to wake up, Vuram Kalloth. Hefting a reasonably intact pick, the minotaur
With a pained groan the minotaur's eyes groggily blink open, and the slowly sits up, wincing at the pain in his ribs and lacerated back. Meeting Sithiliss' eyes, he murmurs, "My sincere thanks, priest. Please tell me that the nagaji was able to pull off the trick?" Prodding gently at his injuries, he mutters, "It's been a while since I've drawn enough attention to warrant that sort of treatment. I can't say I missed it, but if this works it will have been worth it. Though, if it's all the same to the rest of you...I think I'm going to sleep this off." Laying back, and trying hard to lay still to avoid more twinges of pain, the minotaur soon drifts to sleep, his breaths coming deep and slow.
Assuming we're not being elaborately set up...I think that went about as well as it possibly could.
Rereading the posts, I don't know why I said "nine years" out of all the possible timeframes. Consider that super non-canon and whatever GM thegreenteagamer decides it was is how long it was. I just figured being abused in a prison camp for years is a good way to justify negative levels--Vuram can spend the next three levels knocking the rust off, as it were.
Driven to one knee by spasming muscles, Vuram feels a flutter of panic. Every instinct developed over the past nine years is screaming at Vuram to keep his mouth shut, that he'd done enough...but he wasn't certain the Volnar had made it out yet. If He Sees Volnar:
"Troll, if you swipe at me again I swear by all the gods I'm going to tear your arm off and beat you with it." If He Doesn't: Glowering at the approaching guard, the minotaur taunts, "Look, if you're going to fix the fight at least have the stone to admit it. You're going to undo all my hard work."
As Lio's claw rakes across his arm Vuram hisses with pain and backs away, keeping half an eye on the troll as he examines his wound. Well done Lio, didn't think you had it in you. Another scar for my collection, I suppose. Today I bleed for you, my brothers. Affixing the troll with a dark glare, Vuram roars back "Shut up and fight!" before tearing at Lio, his hooves throwing up clods of dirt and he rapidly closes the distance.
I mean, worst case scenario Vuram will try to grapple and choke Lio out. Seems about the only way he could manage. Bluff -4 for Vuram with negative levels, so he might decide to just go all-out for reals since without fire or acid he can't do worse than knock the troll unconscious.
Right, so Vuram wasn't kidding about being a bad liar. If he just starts goring Lio with his horns (and Lio claws him) is that worth a circumstance bonus?
How would you like us to handle the fight? Rolling, RP, hand-waving, some combination thereof? I'm alright with anything.
I'll wait for GM to provide input before posting again. But: just in case.
Not 100% sure where everyone has positioned himself, or that Volnar has had a chance to take a look at the thread and sneak into position. Rolled the Perception check because Corrin is probably a few tents away? I'm working on the assumption that we waited a few minutes for our nagaji friend.
At Gehuil's words Vuram snaps a glare at the gnoll, then decides to run with it as he takes a few steps back and bellows "CALL ME A COW, WILL YOU?!" Lowering his head, the dark-furred minotaur feels the muscles in his legs coil like a steel spring, powering him forward into the troll. Ramming a shoulder into the troll's gut, he bodily lifts Lio into the air, the force of his charge carrying both of them out of the tent. Aiming for the nearest tent, Vuram heaves the troll into the canvass-and-wood construct. Snorting and stamping his feet like--well, like an enraged bull, Vuram rolls his shoulders and tosses his head back and forth while his hooves gouge long grooves in the dirt; a traditional minotaur dominance display.
Vuram takes a deep breath, and darts a quick, nervous glance at Corrin (if he didn't go with Volnar). With a level stare at the troll, he says "They were stupid, troll. They confronted those humans with no weapons, no plan, and for what? Some dumb bastard who wasn't smart enough to keep his leg from getting broken? Even if they'd succeeded, they couldn't have escaped with their gimp friend dragging along behind. They were stupid, and they deserved to die for it."
Vurom gives the troll a solemn nod, then turns to Volnar. "How much time do you think you'll need to get into position? We'll wait here for a for however long you need, then start our little brawl. Once we've got their attention you can do your thing. Once you're done, or if it doesn't work, yell to us "Tear his arm off and beat him with it!" to signal that we should wind things up."
To Lio: Vuram moves closer to the troll, extending his hand to shake. "We're taking a terrible risk here, Lio. If I may make one request? Don't use your claws on me more than once or twice, I don't heal the way you do. Do it at least once, the blood'll go a long way towards convincing the guards, but I'd be grateful if you mostly limited yourself to punches or throws. Good luck."
Frowning somewhat, Vuram glances from the troll to the gnoll and ventures. "I appreciate the willingness to help Gehuil, but I'm a poor liar and an atrocious actor. If I'm going to be convincing, it's going to need to look pretty real, and I can't kill Lio even by accident. We can wrestle a bit, throw one another into tents, gouge each other up some--and in a couple of minutes he's good as new." The minotaur gestures to himself--matted fur criss-crossed with scars, and a slightly emaciated look from too much labor and not enough food for far too long...but imposing still, tall and muscled despite clearly being far from his prime. "I'm a pale shadow of the soldier I was once, but I don't think I could pretend to fight you well enough to convince the Nexorans, and if it was real you could be hurt badly, if not killed. I'm not so far gone that I'm willing to risk that."
Vuram nods, then looks at Lio. "I think you and I could fake a fight easily enough. Something flashy, that'll draw a lot of attention. Collapse a few tents, do a lot of bellowing. Might even be fun." Looking about at the others, he proffers the piece of cloth. "Anyone feeling sneaky today?"
Vuram waves a hand at the hobgoblin. "Then say they're for Corrin. Besides, horns and claws are alright in a pinch, but I prefer to kill my enemies in a civilized fashion. Being able to fight at range is handy too."
Vuram muses for a moment. "Problem is, if he's bait there's not much we can ask that his handlers wouldn't agree to. Except maybe...yeah, ask for the map, but we'll need him to smuggle us some weapons too. No guns, just a couple of blades or the like. If it's a trap they won't feel good about arming us, and if he refuses, well..." Vuram scratches his chin. "Maybe ask for the map first. If it's not a fake I can guide us through, that way even if he's a plant we can still make the attempt. Bah, plots and counterplots weren't my specialization!"
Vuram heaves a sigh. "You don't know when to quit, do you? Look, Sithillus right? I see what you're trying to do, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop. If the Corrin guy's on the level then I'm leaving. I'll find what's left of my squad and break them out, and failing that I'll die killing every damn Nexoran I can get my hands on."
Sorry if the latest gameplay post is too sappy, it'll be worth it once we hit the Django Unchained portion of this adventure.
Vuram stares at Corrin for a long moment, looking for the tell that doesn't come. He's gotten pretty good at reading people of all races, and he doesn't think the hobgoblin was lying to him. Unbidden, a spark of hope arises. "Alright, we'll send him a letter, you'll write exactly what I tell you to. If this is on the level...we'll see." "The worse thing is if those horrors cause you not to feel. If you build a wall to block everyone out, you end up in the cold and dark alone." Sithiliss replies to Vuram. "And people who have no emotions can do anything without remorse." Sithiliss gestures at scene outside the tent walls. "We're all in this together, we need to help each other get out of this place." Vuram's nostrils flare and he ducks his head, an instinctive gesture of anger for a minotaur. Glowering at the lizardfolk he speaks in a dangerously soft voice as hard and cold as ice, "Do not speak to me of emotions, I've been in these camps for years and you have yet to clear your first hour. Emotions are what got us into this damned mess. We were soldiers, captured in battle and promised honorable treatment--but it was all a lie. My sergeant, he confronted them at the very first camp they sent us to, tried to fight for us, and they sawed off his horns and laughed as he bled to death there in the mud. I don't know whether anyone else in my unit is even still alive." Vuram takes a slow, shuddering breath, then continues. "We were warned. Everyone had heard the stories of how the humans treated prisoners, even then. But we'd been under siege for months, we were starving and desperate and they fed us lies like honey. We convinced ourselves that the camps were just propaganda, that the humans considered us more than mere cattle..." Vuram seems to run out steam, seemingly deflating a little before everyone's eyes. Barking out a sound halfway between a cough and a bitter laugh, the minotaur turns and walks into his tent, not willing to meet anyone's eyes.
Vuram listens to the group from a short distance away, also keeping an eye out for any approaching guards or nosy fellow prisoners. As the hobgoblin speaks of escape, the minotaur's eyes narrow in suspicion--the new arrivals hadn't been here fifteen minutes, and already here was some stranger offering them an entire escape plan, complete with secret tunnels and a helpful guard. Vuram hadn't survived the camps this long by being naive, and he wasn't about to start now. "If these tunnels are big enough for me and the troll to get through, what's to stop the humans from following us? Why should we trust this guard of yours--and why is HE the one making the map? And how, if these tunnels are such a secret?" "Avoid the kobold. He lives because he's a rat." "I knew it." Vuram's lips pull back in a frustrated snarl. "Even if everything is as you say, hobgoblin--which I seriously doubt--the guards are only part of the problem. The other prisoners will notice if the entire new batch of arrivals goes missing, and more than a few of them will report it to try to avoid punishment." As the troll slices into himself he raises one eyebrow, the gruesome strangeness of the scene serving to distract him from his cynicism for a moment. "That's...a new one for me. Never seen anybody read their own entrails."
Vuram gives a shake of his horns and snorts. No. If this madness proceeds, we kill the kobold and eliminate the risk he poses. To the lizardfolk cleric he offers a shrug. "Between the war and the camps, I've seen horrors that would make your scales fall out. A troll spilling his own guts is weird, but it doesn't seem to be bothering him, so." .
Agreed.
I do sometimes roll as a means of guiding my roleplaying--fluffed that Diplomacy check? Maybe I lose my temper and snap something I'll regret or sneeze in the midst of an inspiring speech. Are we considering Vuram to have walked off before Corrin made his offer? Or is that being back-tracked to when Sithiliss healed him?
When the troll whispers, Vuram half turns, but it didn't seem to be speaking to him so he walks away, letting the tent flap close flop closed. Don't think he'll last long. At first his intention is to simply lie down in the adjacent tent and wait for sweet oblivion to claim him, but the nattering of the other prisoners and the gnoll's shrieking laughter prod him to his hooves once more. Stomping out of his tent, he shoots a glare over at the little cluster of new prisoners before making his way in the direction Greeter had indicated the mines lay. At the last moment, he turns back to the group. "You all seem new to this, so a word of advice: keep your heads down, and your mouths shut. Anybody tries to bad-mouth the guards or the camp to you, don't say anything. They'll try to goad you, then report you for privileges. Not that the humans need a reason to make your life hell, but no sense in giving them an excuse either." As he walks--head down and shoulders slumped submissively--he takes a careful count of all the guards and prisoners he sees. It was critical to survival in the camps: if you knew the shift schedules you could stay out of their way as much as possible. If you could identify which guards went out of their way to be vicious, and which ones were just marking time you could save yourself more than a few beatings--the nasty ones especially loved to lord it over the larger prisoners. Figuring out which prisoners could be trusted, and which were on the take...that was probably more critical still. And some small part of him, so small and quiet that even Vuram didn't recognize it, waited for them to make a mistake.
Okay, thanks! Was just curious about relative proportions more than anything.
Do all their soldiers have them? Or is it something only carried by the serious customers? If they're very commonplace Vuram will probably go Slayer or Ranger since heavy armor is pretty much eclipsed.
Also out of curiosity, are firearms commonplace amongst even Nexoran rank-and-file? Or more like a relatively-recently developed edge that's employed by their elites, airship corps, etc?
So I'm just sort of tossing out general details to emphasize Vuram's tired-old-soldier aspect, feel free to correct or disregard anything I type about that. If the minotaurs & hobgoblins never fought together no biggie.
To his own surprise Vuram feels a twinge of anger and sadness of the death of the hobgoblins. He'd fought alongside several of their companies, years ago, and they'd been disciplined & professional, good allies. And they died protecting their comrade, as I should have done. A small shudder of self-loathing and despair ripples through the black-furred minotaur, followed quickly by another smothering, numbing wave of despair. It doesn't matter now. With a small grunt, Vuram gives the troll--who seems to have gone into shock after that damned shriek--a push towards one of the tents, guiding him through the flap before occupying the next tent over. "In you go leatherneck, sleep it off."
Vuram shuffles along at the back of the group, eyes still downcast but carefully watching any guards with his peripheral vision. As several of the new arrivals start chattering at the front, he raises his head a fraction and hisses, "All of you should shut your mouths, unless you want to find out what those rifles do. And if you're worried about informants, maybe don't ask the kobold who's already said he survives because he's useful." Greenhorn prisoners. If they survived the month they'd learn that there was no such thing as too paranoid, but it wouldn't stop the despair from seeping in through their pores like some oily miasma. They'd learn, or they'd die. Probably both.
Vuram shakes his head to clear the fog as he blearily awakens. Every time. We were promised honorable treatment, but every time it's the same. When the train car comes to a stop he wearily hauls himself to his feet, only to be pitched forward as the car unexpectedly tilts--he'd not encountered such a device at the other camps. They always have had a talent for hurting us in unexpected ways. Splashing awkwardly into the water, he feels a small body strike him in the shoulder, then another hits his back as he furiously fights his way free of the waterlogged pile of corpses and corpses-to-be. Years ago, when these horrors were still new and fresh he might have bellowed with rage, or vomited...but now? Now Vuram is numb, the scars on his back hinting at the scars on his soul. He has no energy left to mourn the unknown dead. He does not even glance about at the fellow survivors. Staggering ashore, he makes sure to keep his hands visible...but that was no guarantee they wouldn't shoot him anyway. He'd long since learned that the hard way. So, another mining camp. At least it isn't another rubble detail. He ceases scanning the camp and immediately averts his eyes as the human begins speaking, his shoulders slumped and his thoughts consumed with looking as nonthreatening as an 8' 5" horned bull-man could. |