Wetscale's page

At 1st level, as an immediate action, a flowing monk can attempt a reposition or trip combat maneuver against a creature that the flowing monk threatens and that attacks him. If the combat maneuver is successful, the attacker is sickened for 1 round (Reflex DC = 10 + 1/2 the monk’s level + monk’s Wisdom modifier to halve the duration), plus 1 additional round at 4th level and for every four levels afterward (to a maximum of 6 rounds at 20th level). The monk gains a +2 bonus on the reposition or trip combat maneuver check and the save DC for redirection increases by 2 if the attacker is using Power Attack or is charging when attacking him. The benefit increases to a +4 bonus and an increase of the saving throw by 4 if both apply.

At 4th level, a flowing monk can use redirection against an opponent that the flowing monk threatens and that attacks an ally with a melee attack. At 8th level, a flowing monk can make both a reposition and a trip maneuver as part of a single immediate action with this ability. At 12th level, a flowing monk can use redirection against any opponent that attacks him in melee, even if the flowing monk is not threatening the opponent who attacks him. A flowing monk can use this ability once per day per monk level, but no more than once per round.

When unarmored and unencumbered, the monk adds his Wisdom bonus (if any) to his AC and his CMD. In addition, a monk gains a +1 bonus to AC and CMD at 4th level. This bonus increases by 1 for every four monk levels thereafter, up to a maximum of +5 at 20th level.

These bonuses to AC apply even against touch attacks or when the monk is flat-footed. He loses these bonuses when he is immobilized or helpless, when he wears any armor, when he carries a shield, or when he carries a medium or heavy load.

Starting at 1st level, a monk can make a flurry of blows as a full-attack action. When doing so he may make one additional attack using any combination of unarmed strikes or attacks with a special monk weapon (kama, nunchaku, quarterstaff, sai, shuriken, and siangham) as if using the Two-Weapon Fighting feat (even if the monk does not meet the prerequisites for the feat). For the purpose of these attacks, the monk's base attack bonus from his monk class levels is equal to his monk level. For all other purposes, such as qualifying for a feat or a prestige class, the monk uses his normal base attack bonus.

At 8th level, the monk can make two additional attacks when he uses flurry of blows, as if using Improved Two-Weapon Fighting (even if the monk does not meet the prerequisites for the feat).

At 15th level, the monk can make three additional attacks using flurry of blows, as if using Greater Two-Weapon Fighting (even if the monk does not meet the prerequisites for the feat).

A monk applies his full Strength bonus to his damage rolls for all successful attacks made with flurry of blows, whether the attacks are made with an off-hand or with a weapon wielded in both hands. A monk may substitute disarm, sunder, and trip combat maneuvers for unarmed attacks as part of a flurry of blows. A monk cannot use any weapon other than an unarmed strike or a special monk weapon as part of a flurry of blows. A monk with natural weapons cannot use such weapons as part of a flurry of blows, nor can he make natural attacks in addition to his flurry of blows attacks.

At 1st level, a monk gains Improved Unarmed Strike as a bonus feat. A monk's attacks may be with fist, elbows, knees, and feet. This means that a monk may make unarmed strikes with his hands full. There is no such thing as an off-hand attack for a monk striking unarmed. A monk may thus apply his full Strength bonus on damage rolls for all his unarmed strikes.

Usually a monk's unarmed strikes deal lethal damage, but he can choose to deal nonlethal damage instead with no penalty on his attack roll. He has the same choice to deal lethal or nonlethal damage while grappling.

A monk's unarmed strike is treated as both a manufactured weapon and a natural weapon for the purpose of spells and effects that enhance or improve either manufactured weapons or natural weapons.

A monk also deals more damage with his unarmed strikes than a normal person would, as shown above on Table: Monk

Rugged winter outfit of Gorum's colors
Satchel & belt
Bedroll
Pack
Waterskin x2

Unbeknownst to him, Wetscale's history began in the Sodden Lands, far from his current location.

A few decades ago, a group of traveling delvers out of The Shackles happened across a marsh inhabited by many creatures, the lizardfolk most of all. They resided along the Terwa River, pushed out of their homeland adjacent to Lake Ocota, the polyglot pioneering pygmies pushing them out of their original location. Constantly driven back by this expansion, the primitive beast-men of this lizardfolk tribe developed a seething hatred for them and like-seeming humanoids, attacking on sight. Unfortunately for the tribe, one of the vendors was an arcanist; he burnt them to a crisp. The same heat from his spells which cooked the grown defenders served to complete the incubation of a batch of their eggs, hatching as the group scoured the area for material gain. One of the more innovative tradeswomen took the hatchlings, hoping to sell them as exotic creatures for a noble's menagerie. That she did, and one of the offspring ended-up in the River Kingdoms - Mivon, to be precise.

In his early years, Wetscale didn't remember everything, but a few details stood out to him. He got his name from the numerous fishing errands the servants sent him on - after all, he was but an animal to them, a spectacle at best. They taught him how to speak - but not read - the common tongue to communicate, and even with none of his native tongue or culture known to him, he was content. Wetscale knew no other life, after all, and it wasn't as if the servants had it that much better; at least as the exotic pet, he needed to be kept well for show purposes to the haughty guests of import which reared their heads from time to time.

The tradition of the swordlords being strong in the region, one of the young scions in his family - Fondel - got into a squabble with another and decided to settle it with a blade. Not a stated duel, Wetscale took the clashing of steel as a mortal threat - and it would've been. The challenger gouged the Lizardfolk's young master between the ribs, and he defended the wounded teen as he was taught to; his claws ripped through the aggressor's throat, and the cold-blooded creature was covered in warmth for once. Fondel, seeing the lack of a living future for Wetscale once the opposing family discovered what happened, bid the creature away, telling him to swim as far as he could. Wetscale wasn't dumb, just uneducated; he swam.

*******

After a few weeks living on the wild, he reached a new large civilization. Fortunately for Wetscale, his tribe's generations in the Sodden Lands had favored lineage with thicker blood to retain warmth, so he did not perish outright in cold Brevoy's wilds, but his sluggishness meant he was barely getting enough food to survive. His muscles had dwindled, and his frame was laughably overkill for the meat on it. He came ashore on the docks of New Stetven, shivering, hungry, and utterly weak. At first meeting him at swordpoint, the guards were astounded to learn the beast could speak. Sentience upgraded him to a jail cell, apparently, but he at least got old bread to eat while his fate was decided, and it was no colder than the waters of the river.

To his great fortune, there was a trademeet in the city, and history repeated itself once again: A certain minor member of House Orlovsky decided the family at the roof of the world would show its affluence best with a beast from so far away when news came to him about Wetscale. A few coins and a week later, the malnourished Lizardfolk found himself at Skywatch. This time, however, he found under the watchful gaze of more than simple mirth-seekers. Speaking a human tongue earned the reptile a certain amount of unspoken respect among the more learned of the house, and some took more than a dabbling interest in him. Each had their own motives - train the beast to be better at sums than the lady's son to snub her, teach him how to outcook the servants to threaten the servants' job security and make them work harder - the list went on. Wetscale saw he was being used for their gain, but his past experience in Mivon told him not to get invested - it would only cause trouble.

One day, a visiting arcanist who'd seen the lizard once or thrice before returned with a proposition: He would teach the orphan about his true culture in return for besting a swordsman in a duel, and he must agree to keep the arrangement a secret. The vast political web of the unstable nation wasn't fully known to Wetscale, a young adult at this point, but he knew keeping his mouth shut was often a good idea. Not rocking the boat with the Orlovsky family, he'd been well-fed, well-warmed, and even taught to read. He towered above all men in stature now. However, his heart yearned for nourishment. He had no friends, was treated like a thing more than a person, and had no sense of self. His emotions won over his logic, and he accepted the man's proposal, the memory of his past experience with a duelist returning to him. The bearded man smiled and handed him a book. "I'll be back to see how you're doing planning for that duel." He left with a hint of haste. Not bothering to ask him the details, Wetscale opened the book. It was ... a lingual text. A note scribbled on the side read: "Start with your real tongue, and we can discuss more in it when you've learned."

Each night after his duties were complete, he tried his hardest to learn the alphabet, the phonics, the grammar. The structure was so much more complex than the human language, but it felt so ... right with his own tongue, as if he were born to speak it. Excitement took over him, almost as if he made his first friend with the parchment. In a way, he had; the learning in (relative) secret gave him a sense of self, and it gave Wetscale confidence in his abilities to do something besides fetch and kill.

*******

The better part of a season later, the man returned, looking somewhat older than last time. Using German for Draconic for flavor. Wetscale's eyes shone with happiness when he saw the man, who bid off the servants which were usually around the reptile. "Wie finden Sie das Buch?" Did you like the book?

"Esss war Ssspitzzze!" replied the Lizardfolk, his long tongue and lengthy respiration drawing out the consonants. "Ich habe sofort angefangen, weil es mich freute, über meine Leute zu lernen." It was fantastic! I began it immediately as it filled me with joy to learn about my people. The man nodded, and looked about. "Sind Sie für den Zweikampf fertig?." Are you ready for the duel? Not having completely forgotten his end of the pact, Wetscale was a bit taken aback by his contact's abruptness. "J ... Natürlich," replied the reptile in affirmation, showing his vocabulary. "Wenn?"

"Morgen." Tomorrow. The man's smile disappeared, his face deadly serious. "Good luck." His last words in common, he spun on his heel and walked out. He was left to dark confusion as sleep took him hours later. How would it happen? Where? With whom?

Roused from his sleep by a couple of the house guards, he was marched out of the residence to the town square. Dawn had come not long before, but a crowd was gathered. The headsman was present ... his axe sharp and waiting. On a platform sat the lord, lady, and a few of the family - including his purchaser and the arcanist, their eyes deadly serious. "Wetscale, you stand accused of murdering Lady Medvyed's youngest daughter. What say you?" The visiting lady happened to be on the platform as well.

Stunned with the suggestion, he didn't know how to respond initially. "...No," came from his mouth slowly.

"YOU BUTCHERED HER!" screamed the woman. "Her throat cut overnight to shreds by those claws, her bosom with teeth marks all the way to her ribs. THAT BEAST KILLED MY BABY!" Their family had been visiting that week, Wetscale recalled. She pointed a condemning finger at him with the last yell, appealing to the crown with a wild cry, tears, and a sweep of her head.

Lord Orlovsky shut his eyes, sitting straight in his chair. Clearly, he did not enjoy this. "It seems there could be no other killed in my own keep. You are sentenced to death by steel in, combatant or coward alike." The traditional pronouncement cut through his surprise-paralysis. It had only happened twice that Wetscale had seen, but the convicted were allowed to duel for their lives with a champion of the lord's choice; most chose the silent death instead without putting up a fight. As the guards restraining him attempting to force his head to the block, the lizard spoke up. "I choose combat! Gasps of surprise took over the crowd.

The lord stood up after a moment's pause. "Silence! Trial by combat it is. Let victory be the judge," He glanced around, his eye falling on someone. "My new swordsman from the South, exact my justice this morning in my name." The crowd gave way between them.

It was Fondel.

Either the now-adult dandy didn't recognize him, or his new loyalty was more important, for he drew his blade - the same one he'd had as a youth, judging by the markings - saluted his lord, and approached. A sword was handed to Wetscale by a servant, and he palmed it absentmindedly. He'd seen enough of the fights to know how they went, but he wasn't skilled in them at all - or with any weapon for that matter.

"Master Fondel, don't -"

"HEATHEN!" yelled the scion as he took a thrust at his old companion, Wetscale dodging the jab just in time. "How dare you soil my name with that filthy tongue of yours!" Another two swings came, both wide, arcing - perhaps for the public, which now was cheering the young man.

Whatever empathy Wetscale had for Fondel evaporated in the moment though, and he began to defend himself in earnest, treating him as one of the wild beasts he'd felled on the hunts. Luring him into range seemingly, then darting away, looking for an opportunity to pounce. Such an opportunity occurred. The Lizardfolk tossed his useless sword at Fondel, his overconfidence getting the best of him; it tore through his ornate clothing and gave him a gash on the swordarm. This shocked the crowd back into silence.

First blood must have activated the man's adrenaline, for he flew into a flurry like Wetscale had never seen. His face was red with fury, his arms moving with superhuman strength, the bloody arm seemingly forgotten. Like a bear, an unstoppable force. Wetscale could not hope to stand against him with that fatally-sharp blade butchering the air; he wove left and right, hopping over a cut to his waist. Then his opening occurred; Fondel righted himself with a garish upswing, throwing his balance off in the other direction. Wetscale seized the opportunity, charging his opponent, a claw wedging itself in between the ribs as another's sword had done years ago, his other grabbing the man behind the shoulders, culling his swordhand's mobility.

"Fondel, stop this!"

"What did I tell you, beast?!" The man was seemingly impervious to pain and memory, giving one last futile stroke with his hindered arm; the slash scraped along Wetscale's armored skin without harm.

"Finish it," a familiar, but just-out-of-recognition voice whispered in his mind. It wasn't Fondel's. Heeding his id and its bidding, history repeated itself as the Lizardfolk sunk his teeth into the exposed throat of his former master. As the duelist dropped to the ground, the rage faded from his eyes, and his mouth opened slightly as if to say Wetscale's name. A chill ran up his spine as silence deafened the area.

What seemed like hours passed before Lord Orlovsky broke the spell. "Gorum's grace has declared you innocent." The god held much sway in these lands. Wetscale turned to see a sobbing Lady Medvyed run from the scene. "Approach." Queerly, Wetscale did not see the arcanist - or his seat - upon the platform anymore.

His voice merely a whisper between them, Orlovsky quickly relayed to the exonerated reptile. "I will not have a war because of this. You'll die anyway if you stay around the Medvyed's lands. Understand that." He took a step back and raised his stentorian voice, a thing not often down by the ambivalent lord. "You are hereby exiled, Wetscale. You will have a weapon and a flask of mead. Out of my land with you!"

And so it was Wetscale wandered South along the river, through the lakes, skirting the forests the slain daughter had called home. Why wouldn't he stop? Did he not recognize me? The day haunted him endlessly. The Stellen River met him at its Eastern end, and he swum along its path until he reached the place where he was sold. Stronger now than in his youth, he weathered the trip better, but still was cold and hungry.

A forceful hand on the back took him by surprise. "If it isn't the the Dripping Dragon!" Wetscale turned to see a ... jolly follower of Gorum's, judging by the symbols on his belt, surely a couple of pints in him. His puzzled look must have transcended even the stark racial difference between them. "Tales of you besting a swordlord in single combat - unarmed - are known to us even here. Come! Let us drink spar, and talk."

*******

And so it was the temple took him in, attempting to train him in the ways of steel, scolding him for letting his gifted sword rust. An odd man - nearly an outcast by the standards of the temple - got along much better with him though. He came from the South, looking for famed warriors that matched "his expertise," as he put it. Using no armor or sword, he invoked the ire of the temple, but they revered his prowess in battle, moving as fast as the wind, staying out of harm's way. Though he didn't much harm his sparring partners, he tired them out. If only I could've done that to Fondel instead of .... The two shared tales and trained together, two outcasts making a friendship far from their homes.

One day, an opportunity arose. Land in the South, a way to leave the ever-present threat of a Medvyed assassination in retribution. Wetscale sought out the chance, seeing were fate would take him...

Intense but aloof, the lizardfolk has an insatiable curiosity of his kind, wanting to know more about the people from which he was torn. Diligent and predictable, he is objective-oriented and smart enough to find the shortest path, metaphorically-speaking, from A to B. However, he is often beset by bouts of loneliness, thoughts of what could have been in his life, and haunted by the memories of him slaying his former master.

With those he does associate with, he may be off-putting because of his wandering eyes, seldom starting at the subject of his speech, looking instead around for potential threats. This not-unjustified paranoia comes from a lifetime of being treated as a thing instead of a person.

As is a part of his kind, the taste for meat is strong with Wetscale, particularly fish as he caught so many in his claws over the years. His teeth, lacking molars, make grinding lettuce and such difficult, but he also enjoys more homogeneous mixtures of foods, especially spiced dishes. Not able to have much in the way of ale in his younger days, he's developed a bit of a taste for it now - and its effects on the circulatory system help him stay warm in the cold climate.

A scaly tower, the reptile's overbearing physical presence must be sustained with a ponderous amount of food. A large, webbed, teal fin forms a crest from his forehead to where his neck ends at Wetscale's shoulders, symmetrically halving his head. Angular bone features push out from where eyebrows might be on men. His scales themselves lack the blue tint of his fin, though the teal manifests itself mildly once more in his claws - on hands and feet both. Giant carnivorous teeth adorn his mouth, a lengthy tongue resting inside.

His scales a faded green, they blend slightly better with the foliage in lands a bit to the South of Brevoy, though the average eye would take a moment to tell them apart from the pines. The eyes are orange, savage but alert - darting about with the instincts of both predator by nature and prey by nurture. Bare, clawed feet leave distinct prints in his wake.

Unlike most of his kind though, Wetscale wears substantial clothing. Modest, thick, and warm - his cold-blooded nature doesn't assist him in the chilly North. Winning temple garments from the Lord in Iron's sparring contests, some may mistake him as a cleric of the war-god.