Wictor Lugaulle's page

I agree with Magdalen wholly. I like the ideas of those changes, but I think the necessity of stressed conciseness will be the most efficient fix.

I want to feel immersed in this game, and whenever I return to the thread I feel lost as to what the scenario actually is, and thus processing how Wictor would act and react under full knowledge of the scene becomes difficult at times. And this is NOT the fault of any singular person!

I want to play because I think the caliber of roleplay is very high here, and I think that being in league with you all will help me learn through experience how to become more proficient in story craft and roleplaying nuances. That being said, the reasons why I want to play are being rebuffed by the difficulties I have expressed in the previous paragraph.

I definitely need a break, however short. I really enjoy this game when I understand what is taking place, and as we progress our mechanical functions, relationships and internal character developments will certainly become more strengthened and elastic. Perhaps simply time is the answer.

I am being subdued by the real world, and will post as I can. I should be back in swing by Friday, but nothing is promised. Game on friends, sorry for the pause.

Wictor will stand by defensively, feeling generally inutile.

dead stirge best stirge

Heeding Esdras' omen in response to the coming of the malicious, Wictor first reacts as any man would- with a spark to fight. Seeing the women in their care, and the younger lads among them, Wictor then looks to himself, and curses.

"Wretched."

If I were unchained by this damned aging! I can't leave the manor unarmed again...

He considers the paltry secrets the hare had taught him, and while the books proffered him with certain rites of power, Wictor judged that if he were to even try a sleight that the many leering public eyes would try and crucify him next.

Feeling frustrated and feeble, the knuckles on his right hand begin to whiten as he grips his cane with all his frenzy.

"We should withdraw here, if we act out in any manner they'll find some way to hang us."

He walks towards Kendra and Magdalen, to block anything that might try and assault them.
Just a move I guess. Also a perception to see the stirges: are they just a strange animal, or something more supernal?

I need to master more rites... If I don't master the rabbit's riddles then these matters will come to end me soon. Damned bucolic FOOLS!

Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19

Wictor's eyes flit to the scene and its' citizens, trying to keep face as much as possible. However, the livid suspicion of the crowds was palpable.

"I concur."

He clicks his cane on the ground as if to accent his statement.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20

Certainly not, sir. I don't know how that's relevant in any manner towards what took place during his funeral. In life the man traveled far and spread only sound knowledge and the most astute care for all he met! Stern at times, but only towards ruffians and the students with whom he was most intimate...

Wictor clutches his cane a little tighter, speaking just a little more kurtly as he pieces the inspectors' narrative together in his head.
He is aware of his emotions, and while he knows that he may be more or less a subjective person, Wictor assessed that his judgment in general or specific weren't any more gullible for it.

What an insolent people we've become... All for fear of ghosts.

Wictor knows ghosts are real now, but he also understands in his limited tutelage that encounters with ghosts aren't always synonymous with death and damnation, and that they can be meddled back to - if you've read the kind of books he's reading...

THE NIGHT PRIOR

Wictor retires to his room, studying voraciously the books given to him by the hare and the late Professor. He manages to put them away at a responsible time, out of consideration for the undertaking of what may transpire the next day. His leg and his back cried out to him for rest, and their cries were heeded.
Do I heal any further points from the long rest?

THE NEXT DAY

"Well sir, in my youth I traveled oft and met with the Professor, getting into his good graces and becoming a favored student of his, for at least a fleeting time."

Wictor is sure to keep his tongue in check, lest he damn away any details to the lawman.

On the issue of the supernal baubles, Wictor speaks up at a proper turn.
"Esdras speaks wisdom. If the professor put trust in these mysterious things, I'd imagine them to have some merit... And of late, more than enough circumstances have led me to see that there is indeed more than what I once thought..."

Eyes drifting from momentary gazes and looking downwards, the fur man speaks gravely;

"But if we intend to dance with that unknown, for vengeance or for curiosity, we must go prepared for worse than what would be considered 'realistic'."

Wictor's eyes drift back to his companions, to gauge their response to his words.

For the sake of lightheartedness and merrymaking, he adds a joking end to his statement.

"That is of course, assuming we even survive our appointment at high noon on the morrow."

As the words exit his mouth he immediately realizes that that same prospect may be more dire than he remembered. He always thought of Dmitry as a man above reproach, and never for a moment thought he would be declared anything but innocent.

Is my understanding correct that we are planning on spelunking in the cursed prison, or is that idea several steps away from where the plot/discussion are currently from?

This is my next intended post;

I just want to make sure that I'm understanding everything right

"Come now, lads. Haven't we discovered enough this eve? We don't want to get caught by peering eyes needlessly..."

Wictor grumpily snaps to the spelunkers in a hush. It was more of a combination of the panacea wearing off mixed with his age's encumbrances making him a bit cranky. That aside, Wictor is more concerned with the safety of his new heirlooms staying in tact as they whisk off back to the house.

His back was certainly straining the issue, no less.

Make that this Saturday. Apologies. Bot me is necessary.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and see you all on the 30th.

The wound in his leg finally begins to sting, and Wictor feels the meat of his thigh. Blood. Too much blood for his liking. He begins to feel frantic, and doubting in Esdras' claims, he tries to flit back towards the light. He finds the task harder than he thought it should be.

"I'm bleeding profusely. I don't know if I can go forward, lads... I could use a bandage... and some ether."

His tone is not one of hysterics, but rather one of calculation and muted worry.

Wictor will move as much as he can out of the 'line of fire' back to a place where he can see. He's not bowing out of the adventure by any means, he just needs a bandage to be coerced back into the debacle. He has 3 hit points left at this juncture.

"Dolting Vermin!" The bleeding and annoyed Wictor strikes his spineless assailant with the kurt end of his cane once more before trying to distance himself from the wretch.

CANE STRIKE!: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (10) - 1 = 91d4 - 1 ⇒ (4) - 1 = 3

He is more unphased by the presence of large invertebrates than one might think of a middle aged wizened intellectual; his trade has brought him into some thick predicaments in the past. This was nothing more than an unlucky happenstance which the party would tread through with poise and ease.

Or so he thought.

As the critters jaunt into our heroes, Wictor is the first to feel their bite. As it happens, Wictor doesn't feel the strike at first, until it's already invaded the meat of his leg.

"Iom's Ass!! Something's bit me!"

Fort Save: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (14) + 1 = 15

Wictor immediately tries to wrest the alien off of his leg with his cane.
He doesn't garner that this is some supernal evil sent to eradicate his soul, but rather a large pest. These sorts of prey he has dealt with at length in the past.

Cane STRIKE: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (13) - 1 = 121d4 - 1 ⇒ (2) - 1 = 1

After his flailing, he gathers himself and tries to see what the heck it is that is upon him.

Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6

That'll do me, Scott.

Wictor follows along agreeably, a spur in his step. He held his cane firmly in his hand, but to the perceptive his reliance on it was naught but cosmetic. For a man prone to paranoia he certainly was playing his cards loosely. Perhaps he trusted that the inquisitorial among them were indeed his contemporaries, or such was his rapture that he didn't care! None the wiser one could be save those with a more cunning eye than he.

While this is contained within his subtle demeanor in the general sense, during the moments preceding the plundering of the site he was fully silent, adroit, and tense.

So he follows fitfully Esdras' lead.

I swear the Christmas jingles are invading my synapses... Soon I'll start to hear a narrator every time I have a conscious thought

just gonna cast the analgesic polypurpose Panacea off screen to cure muh old man problems for our trek, and bring along my spell components.

Coming home with the ladies, Wictor begins to settle into his natural paternal stance. His own stomach was 'agrowl, and he wondered if Kendra and Magdalen were in similar state.

"Quite a tiring day, my dears! I myself am famished. It's been several moons since I've laid my hand to the crafts pertaining to the pantry, but I could manage to whip up something for the three of us if there's any want at all. What are you in the mood for in this hour? Something savory... something sweet?"

He would love to take whatever sliver of time he could to carve out in the rabbit's tutelage, but his fatherly concern for keeping the girls contented drove him more in this moment than his obsession with mysteries.

His back was however, quite unnerving in this moment. As soon as he was able, he would employ a conjured cure he had learned to concoct from his cherished book.

Wictor is taken aback by Dmitrys' resourcefulness.

"Astonishing assessment my dear lad! That's a deft wit you carry!"

He leans in and speaks this to him in a hush to hide his enthusiasm in this doomy moment, so as to not offend anyone's current gloom.

As the fellows Esdras and Dmitry voice the cause of rationality, Wictor shows agreement by laud and gesture.
When the beloved daughter breaks down and sees herself in her true state, the furman's eyes show nothing but empathy and understanding.

It was an unforgivable sight.

"I do think it would be less than honoring of your father if we didn't get to the bottom of this... whatever the answer may be.
We should rid ourselves of the thought of violence however... Petros wouldn't want any mite of that..."

It was a depressing scene, and in his heart Wictor did indeed want justice for his friend. Tonight's dusk might be more than a perfect shroud for that cause.

In truth, he wanted to work some of the incantations the rabbit's book held inside, to good use.
He'd already begun to learn how to remedy some of the effects of his age, and the subtle twinkle of his eye reflected his newfound love of obtainable possibility.

Wictors' thoughts held no malice, but rather jaded sense of bitterness towards the folk of Ravengro.

Backwards rabble! To think I came from similar fiber! I'm certainly glad I raised the tots well-rounded... Virulent hysteric bastards...

That's a strong 2 on my end.

Sweeeeeeeeeet

Wictor speaks no words through his ruffled whiskers. His brow belies a mild sense of fright; none for himself, but for his re-acquainted friend.

He rubs a fatherly hand on Dmitry's shoulder for a short moment, to communicate encouragement and comfort.

It should sort itself out in due time... Right?

Deeper within his mind, Wictor considers for the first time in years the isolated incident responsible for his burnscars and his leg.

It'll sort itself out...

His subconscious winces as the impression of the repressed memory of his own true murder momentarily attempts to resurface into cognizance.

Wictor doesn't fully understand why, but the hairs of his burly neck begin to feel as if they're standing on end.

In preparation for their trek out, Wictor prepares a lengthy letter to send to his wife and spawn, telling them about the business which has befallen the funeral and all of its' implications on the family. The ink is dark and muddy, and the cursive lettering is full of love. Of course, there is nothing there hinting about any dealings with a devil hare.

He bears the thick envelope tightly in his non-cane hand, vexing the bitter wind and the disagreeableness of the townsfolk.

"Indeed, this is incredulous! I need to get this letter back to my wife... Kendra, you must have a courier near whom you depend on? Once the matter with our dear Sir Trestleman is finished, I'd prefer to get this sent while we're still about..."

Wictor gestures toward his cane ever so subtly.

The wind chill was doing horrid wonders on his leg and back.

About the books, Wictor will choose door #3. He is subsumed by the revelation of his new spellbook, and believes that once hes' digested that knowledge he'll be able to better approach the other tomes. The idea that perhaps the volumes won't be available to him isn't something he's considering.

Upon seeing the tomes, Wictor's covetous eyes almost dilate. Immediately thoughts of possibility flood his mind. These were indeed sacred and ancient volumes, if Petros kept them under lock and key. As the index was read, a faint sigh of impressed respect escapes the newly enlivened gimp forester. It was as if the world he once knew was not only being stepped into again, but this time it was exclusively real.

"I too know the Varisian tongue. Surely these accounts are of great importance. Whatever we do, we must treat them as baby doves."

He glances with caution as Alex moves the tome around.

Oh that my mind were expanded! The professor most certainly is trying to tell something to us... or to someone, at least. What does all of this mean!? I must consult the rabbit later... Perhaps it can show me the way.

"Master Lugaulle, what do you make of this coin?"

Ivan turns towards Wictor and a feeling of relief surges through him as he sees that the man is once again full of life and energy. However, he doesn't comment on the change.

Know. History: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (15) + 9 = 24

Wictor inspects the pence with an authority of elder edge, waggling his moustache as he begins to speak.

"Well my boy, it's true. The Van Roeyens were movers and shakers of high esteem, right up until you know who took power. I do remember the Professor keeping several mementos of dead dynasties, but nothing this old..."

Would Wictor through his studies understand anything of its' current significance in this moment?

ohhhh yaknowwww...

Will post by 5pm Eastern tomorrow. Hunting until then. If I have service while in the stand I'll try and hammer it out beforehand.

I'm having so much fun with this. I can't wait to develop all the relationships with everyones' characters as we move forward and begin to see everything blossom into the terrible tulip we all know it shall be.

This has been an emotional first day, and I must confess that being a prima donna is certainly the crux of Wictor's flaws.
As we go forward he will for the most part be more reserved, especially as the supernatural becomes less strange and alien to him.

I look forward to this campaign immensely and esteem each of you very highly.

The smell of the book in his hands caused Wictor's brain to glow. He felt the synapses in his head expanding; the blood rushing in joyous, manic riot.
His pupils widened, becoming enamored by the strange words and symbols found within the pages of this orgasmic tome.
The dialects of the scripts, the rhythm of their meters... They all were so unfamiliar, and so known, all at once.
He felt as if his whole life he had been looking into a mirror which had draped over it a sheet with a false portrait scrawled atop its fabric.

In this moment the curtain dissipated, and his true naked self was revealed in nubile bristling glory.

Slowly he retires back to his bed, fully engrossed in the paradoxes and axioms of the volume. How it called him, tempted him...

He read within allegory of youth, power, wisdom unrestrained.

He thought of his withered leg, his worn back, his anxious heart. His hungry family, his given trade...

how he wished he could be unrestrained.

At the end of its' hermetic narrative, he finds the pages upon which are found the keys to the answers to which the stories prior raised question.

For hours he pored over the successive symbols. He even began to mutter the syllables of several of the incantations.
Wictor forgot if he even slept when the morning broke, but he felt the most rested he had been in years.

As the exhausted furtrapper finally succumbs to the weight of his eyelids, he finds himself in a whimsical montage of composite scenes of memory. The first dealt with his first catch with his father; a momentous day. Also present were his first love, quarreling in the background with both his cooking mother and his wife-to-be. His mother was the age she was when he was young, alongside his first love, but his wife was the same age as she was today. This scene morphed into one of budding adolescence. Wictor was biting into a ruby red apple, in a wagon stacked with fur, reading his favorite book (at that time) while his father drove the cart into the city...

These scenes bubbled and brewed into several more twisted and alarming moods, the last of which contained today's unfortunate exposing of Petros' face. In the dream however, it was still there, but contorted; scowling at Wictor and Wictor only. The corpse's mouth began to open and speak to the crippled fur man when his burnscars gave way to flashing again, and he once more the wretched voice of the hearth.

His wild eyebrows jaunt as his pupils witness before him the assailant hare proper.
In this second he realizes that he is not drugged, but sober of mind and body. And he is mortally afraid.

He jerks adrenally, rolling his body to the edge of the bed, meaning to get the rabbit off of his person.
To his surprise the hare bears much more weight than ones he'd caught in the past.

In this moment of observation his mind reminds him of the chance encounter he had in his own wood months prior.
The aurum pelt, the black spot. 'Twas nigh deniable. The servant of Ul Gutha'ur was before him.

Taking some small liberty here, just some footnote deity of an old kingdom of yore whose kingdom and religion was lost to the centuries. Like akin to how a crow would be considered a servant of either Odin or Morrigan. If you want that reference to be something Golarion specific for reasons we can just retcon. I won't be building off of it anyways save the fact that he recognizes this rabbit as a servant of said arbitrary mythical figure of random ancient history X.

The old man gasps.
"Who are you? What do you want of me?"

Wictor shrinks into his bed, his sheets his bulwark, his pillow a shield. The man became smaller than the spirit before him.

"No, m'dear, I think I'm beginning to steel. A normal bed should be fine. Stairs won't be an issue. Thank you for your concern."

He leans forward to her as he speaks, almost as a menial bow, and pats her arm as an extension of his caring gratitude.

As she passes him however, one could witness his eye giving way to glare at the fireplace in secret terror.

Wictor thinks on the sheriff and the conversation unfolding, trying to become as invisible as possible.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (4) + 5 = 9

Wictor clings to the wall as a fly. Partly because his legs are weaker than usual, partly for his previous nervous break, and mainly because he absolutely did not want to make any more waves than he already did. Resuming his rational mind, and gingerly trying to resume his lost dignity, Wictor thought it best to just let the night proceed and bite his tongue if anything else strange happened.

He considered the fact that this might make the sheriff mildly suspicious of him, which he regretted, because he never had a mistrust for policemen or their work. Indeed, his paltry rogue youth aside, he always trusted the earnest workers of the law.

Wictor began silently brainstorming the right words to speak for when the officer would ask for his statement. Tipsy anxiety ensued.

As the mixture of harsh and comforting words unfold before him, Wictor breaks in a feverish sweat.

There's been too much pressure today. In all his years he had not gone through one day so surreal, so dreadful. He was usually the one to comfort those quavering. Wictor couldn't bear the fact of his weakness any longer.

He reaches out to him he knows most familiar and kind.

"Ivan, my boy... C-can you rescue me?"

While Wictor was usually known to hand out bear hugs most generously, the embrace he sought from his past student was out of nothing but his mortal insecurity.

The image of the burning hare was seared forever, beckoning to him in his mind.

Wictor coughs intentionally while trying to sober himself with the ardor of a businessman.

"Charcoal! I need Charcoal!"

In a manner void of any melodramatic pretense, the bald gentleman flails his arms gesturing towards his throat. In his hysterics he believed truly that he must expel the poison from his system if he 'ere were to survive the eve.

Coughing again, he pleads further, partly explaining himself.

"The bottle was TAINTED!"

His face is sickly pale, seemingly on threat of death. He ignores completely the business of the broom.

"That b-bottle.... Where did it COME from?"

He addresses his contemporaries.

Wictor is presently the most disgruntled being in the 'verse. If not for his current mistrust of the vice, he would be drowning his sullen paranoia and frustrations with its' embrace.

He felt sick to his stomach- but the true queasiness was wholly stemming from his soul. His scars felt red-hot as a forge.

Wictor, terrified, looks to the brandy, frantically scrutinizing its' vintage and claimed origin.
He can't discern if it's heritage is as trustworthy as he once thought when he picked it up.

Nevertheless, the weight of his limbs constrained his adrenal flight to moot.

It-it's just a dream, Wic. You're not proper. This will pass... It'll pass-s...

Believing this to be perhaps a drugged drunken nightmare, he portends further.

But-but if the bottle was spiked, who would mean to murder us? OH, BUT WHAT OF THE CHILDREN! I NEED TO SEE THEM GROW!

In his panic, he squirms further, unable to rise from the bed. The livid pulse in the torn flesh of his face is unbearable. He turns and faces the hearth.

"Surely, foul devil! All that and more! Just promise me I'll survive this night! CURE ME OF THIS POISON!"
The last bit of his appeal to the rabbit IS with all the strength within him, but due to his sedated state, this would be a subtle cry rather than a loud shout.

Wictor is able to knock the brandy bottle to the floor, dashing its' contents in an attempt to get the spirit to consider the befouled alchohol. He is wholly unawares of what he has just done. The figments unfolding before him MUST be that of a fever dream, and his only concern is that of the alleged vile drink and its' contents.

Sorry I haven't been quick on the draw lately, will try to keep the tempo up.

As Ivan enters into the conversation, Wictor becomes greatly relieved.

He had had several strange encounters within his treks in the woods he could never explain. He had never seen anything explicit, only heard noises indiscernible, and felt impressions nigh empirical.

Oft he had discussed matters with those less sober than the men in the room with him before, under more joyous and speculative circumstances, under a universal tone of buzzed mockery.

In this moment however, he was silent, because memories of particularly peculiar moments were summoned by Dmitry's inquisitions.

That golden rabbit... Did I really see it before today? And-and earlier?!! Was I dreaming?!

He was never the of the susceptible kind when it came to matters of fantastic worldview, but the sequencing of even this conversation proceeding linking with the sightings of that small beast prior...

...something is indeed amiss.

When Ivan does free Wictor from expressing regard of something which he might be uncomfortable, the words which come out of his mouth begin to haunt his mind, and tug on the melodies of his ambient paranoia.

Dmitry's lack of retort to Ivan's blunt confession was even more unnerving.

Wh-what manner of men are these whom I've thought I've known?

Wictor wasn't emotionally ready enough to come to terms with the potential reality of supernatural malice, or anything which might tamper with how he viewed the world. Thus, he feigned bore.

"Excuse me gentlemen, I must permit myself to the lavatory. These bowels aren't as steely as they once were! Let me know how your faerie-talk goes!"

He chuckles as he exits the room and finds his way to the booze.

Are there people gathered around the booze or are they around the smokes? I want to isolate Wic for a little while... for reasons.............

As they enter the estate, Wictor almost winces as he sees it in its current state- the manor he remembered was once so gay, so grand. Its despondent halls and creaky steps made Wictor's mind flit to his own cozy hearth so far away. He missed his humble home, and the bodies which abide within it. As Kendra hosts her guests, Wictor perks up a little bit at the mention of all the vices... the library being the biggest temptation. He was elated as Dmitry approached him and gave him an excuse to scurry over in a now sociable manner.

Should Wictor accept Dmitry's invitation, he speaks to the older man without turning from the bookshelf he is currently investigating, fingertips and eyes tracing every volume. "I would have liked to meet again under better circumstances, but fate is cruel. Tell me, how did you know Petros?

"Well my lad, we met 'oer several scores of times. The first was when I was about yea high, and as thin as a fisher's rod. It was my first time ever coming to Ravengro. Biggest and busiest place I had ever been to! You've seen the hometown... Backwoods and naught but! I was on a trader's trip. My father and I had the most mountainous haul of coonskins, weaselfurs, bear hides... And we were hitting the bazaars around town for a good fortnight! I was rambunctious before, er- before the accident happened, 'specially in my younger years, and I was always finding myself spelunking. Snooping around for, well, places like this!"

Wictor opens his hands and gestures to the glorious study before them.

"...It's actually quite funny, you see. The first time I met Professor Lorrimor was right in this room, standing right in the same position we are now. I was scrounging through his library after scrambling through that window there, looking for this story I heard a bard tell a few nights before, about a king who claimed he owned all the fire that existed in the world. One thing lead to another, and, well, he caught me! Rest is history."

The older man chuckles as he reminisces, gingerly caressing the spines of only certain volumes among the shelves.

"There are a good bit of tomes here that haven't moved an inch since that day. Pity."

He casually takes one such book down from the shelf, gently, and blows the dust off the cover before opening it, holding it in his cane hand, balancing the back of his wrist on the cane's head.

He turns to Dmitry with a warm fatherly gleam in his eye, speaking softly through the bristles of his groomed moustache.

"What about you, son? How'd you get to know that great man?"

Sense Motive!: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 5 = 10

Wictor is perturbed by this awkward experience amidst the crucial moments he is surrounded by. However, at Kendra's opening, he steps forward, wanting to make further amends for his blunders earlier.

"Petros Lorrimor was, as you all know, one of the most studied men found among these horizons. He was one of the brightest stars I had ever met, and knew of so many nuances of so many fields. One of his lesser known masteries, at least among those who only shared acquaintance with him, was his cunning sense of humor.

On one summer day, many years ago, when all was aright, and there was once fair hair upon this head..."

Wictor goes on and tells a fond memory of the Professors' dealings with a peculiar patron who came to him that was starkly reminiscent of a pirate, and how Mr. Lorrimor had deftly diverted a hilarious calamity from befalling several persons involved inside of a student's intended shenanigan. He later revealed that the student was indeed himself. As the tale continued, Wictor's face continued to brighten, his moustache continued to bloom, and his grin continued to widen. Not in a linear fashion, but one precisely quadratic. As he told the tale, it seemed as if layers of age were peeling away from the rugged fur-man, revealing riot of a young showman.

"...and in the end, (he-hee!) the privateer turned out to not be lying about the whole ordeal! But the feathers we had prepared were nary to be seen. 'Twas as if the Professor was always two steps ahead of our foolery, but he also proved to be a master of guile before even ourselves! We found the feathers, on the night of the great Ball, in front of everyone attending. By some feat of prestidigitation, the ceremonial crown of the ball (which was given astutely to yours truly), was transfigured from its' golden form into the same yellow feathers we stuffed into that sack! To an outsider it might've been seen as a cruel jest, but to those involved we couldn't help but laugh it off. And because of it, my dance of the eve ended up becoming my bride of even this day! He was a marvelous fellow in all his ways, that dastardly man..."

He smiles warmly as he wipes a singular tear from his eye, stepping down from whatever precipice he told the story from.

As the march reforms and finishes its' procession...

Wictor stewed in silence as he fumbled back to the coffin. He was so distressed. It was as if his primal instinct as a father had kicked in, and the man in the coffin were his own befouled child. Indeed, such was the weight inside of Wictor's heart.

As the trudgery approaches the grave hole, Wictor processes all which had just transpired, for the first time taking into account more objectively his actions and words. He adds to his current anguish another cutting mortification:

Petros doesn't deserve that. Rashness... What have I done? Petros, forgive me!

He gasps as the crew walks on, this one piercing, for it denoted more than just his ambient sorrows. He realized his error.

Not more than a moment after the groups' treasured burden is placed on the ground, Wictor turns to his contemporaries, hands up as if he were under arrest. His words are short and seasoned with salt.

"Gentlemen, Kendra, please pardon my misdoings earlier. I spoke out of turn, and none of you deserve to hear such words, especially at this dire hour. Please let me make recompense. I've brought many furs from my home with me on this venture. Allow me to confer some to you."

His face is naught but pleading, but hushed so as to not draw further attention away from the focal point of the ceremony.

Scott, I don't follow the situation. Is the rabbit beckoning me to speak to the group or to follow it away from the ceremony? When I am informed I will proceed in turn.

The flood once before him dispersed into trickling cowards. Wictor was in one moment amazed, and in the next infuriated.
They had the gall to disrespect that lovely man so deeply, and then the hubris to not stick it out to the end. They deserved penance.

They deserve penance...

Memories of that kind brilliant mind juxtaposed with that ugly crowd's ignorant cruel talk... and then FURTHERMORE! -Their obstinate balk...

The usually jolly fellow's rustic hairs stood on end. Emotions crossed through his mind as quickly as a hive of bees gave to swarming.
Rage, disgust, grief, lethargy, remorse, mortification...

...and it all happened so quickly, both behind and in front of his eyes. There he was left kneeling in the mud, fists on the floor, clenched powerless.

If not for this cursed leg... and this repugnant weakness... Teacher, you deserved better.

Tears brimmed his eyes. He was choking again. Vulnerable.

Easing outside of himself with a tortoises' pace, he hears the back and forth between Dmitry and his once-associate.

"Clouded by anger? Did you love Petros Lorrimor? Do you know whom you kneel beside?"

Wictor's voice trembles, half in offense, half in awe.

"How could you knowingly care of that drivel and their delusions when you hold in your hands a man so precious?"

Wictor is FULL tilt right now. The implications of this first impression are going to add a bit of complexity throughout our developing relations... I hope you will relish them. Sorry if I'm drawing out the scene as well Scott. If you want to move on I can retcon this post to be less argumentative and we can wrap it up. Also, sorry it took so long for me to get this post up. Past few days have been so long.

Wictor was never the best at brawling, and historically avoided it. This precarious event proved a pernicious precedent.

Unarmed strikes for DAYSSS: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (9) - 1 = 81d3 - 1 ⇒ (2) - 1 = 1

Fate Point Rerolls GET!: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (20) - 1 = 19

CRIT THAT DAMAGE: 1d3 - 1 ⇒ (1) - 1 = 0

Wictor lands a sluggers' punch square in the punk's face. Unfortunately, he aged like milk, and the steel of his fist was naught but rust. It still felt really therapeutic for him.

Wictor cannot abide by this. He cracks.

As the tragedy unfolds, he exhales the loud roar of something akin to a bear.
The fire in the man's eyes were irrefutable.

"BASTAAARDS! RECREANTS! YOU KNOW NOT WHOM YOU SULLY!"

Egregiously weeping, full with violent gasping and choking, he fumbles over to pick up the rock, and chucks it at the knife man with everything in him.

Throw: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6

Defeated, the rock scampers to the wayside. But Wictors' vehemence would not be trounced in this moment. Hollering, he runs at full bore into the fray, as much as his gimp leg would allow.

He was long past the point of anxiety. Calculation proved a farce.

Fierce stuff, Esdras. Well put.

Words are thrown about in Wictor's background as he calculates the possibilities in a worrisome rage. Amidst the conversing white noise a word breaks through several times- something that distracts his focus for a second; 'necromancer'. It had been a dynasty since he'd 'ere read or discussed those damned souls who practiced the dark trade. For no longer than a millisecond his synapses pondered why the word disrupted his attention. There was no answer as his focus began to give sway once again to fear and swarm...

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (8) + 5 = 13

Wictor sees a dozen malicious rabblers before him. He relays not his intention to any of his companions, and offers no words to those disrespecting his friend.
Were he in a better state of mind, he'd commit himself to diffusing the situation such that both parties would swiftly part ways.

But in Wictor's eyes lay a darker stare.

Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (11) + 1 = 12

After sizing up the situation- the weight of the coffin, the positioning of Lorrimor's daughter, the assumed ability of the men at his side, the distance between them and the townsfolk- Wictor begins to scan frantically for any heavy stone or broken shard of headstone he might arm himself with. He hoped against hope that the dreadful lot would simply disperse, by way of some divine miracle or authoritative utterance given by a mourner...

He was so jarred, yet so fixated in this moment that his conscious self didn't notice the pangs of guilt his heart incurred when it realized that the word of authority should come from him.

For the record, Wictor is not yet initiated inside of any magical traditions. At this moment in time he is naught but a well-learned story-telling fur trapper. All of his mechanical abilities which deal with supernatural effects currently don't exist. Also for Scott: my mechanics on my profile are now 100% finished.

Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (6) + 1 = 7

Wictor doesn't see what Dmitry is talking about, but his sullen demeanor abruptly sobers for a second, betraying to none but the wary his anxious inner workings. He instinctively puts his right hand beside the back pocket near his waist to find nothing.

Drat! Of COURSE this should happen when I'm most unsettled and least prepared... EVERY TIME, Wic!

Perhaps considered sinful by many an Ustalavian, Wictor attended the funeral completely unarmed.
His donkey, his furs, his supplies and all their trappings were left at the inn, along with his daggers and his father's old crossbow.

His paranoia then surged into a righteous indignation, leaping from his silent precipice of assumed enemies.

Dare they cross Lorrimor's procession without respects... I will do what need be done.

If there was one word to describe Wictor's countenance at this dreadful juncture, it would be humbled. He had several inconveniences he suffered during his journey here -more than he usually dealt with. Tears in his eyes, he is for the first time in a long while simply silent.

Many emotions flooded across his mind, swirling and tugging to several places. Seeing little Ivan up there, all grown up and authoritatively proficient in words was a warm surprise. Wictor never knew they bore a connection; the student and the late professor. Seeing Dmitry's kind face was also comforting.

Petros Lorrimor was one contemporary whose integrity was wholly unflinching, and in Wictor's youth he found that trait to be as rare and valuable as a dragon's ruby. Whilst in life Wictor never confessed it to the Professor, Wictor placed a great amount of confidence and trust in the man. Scores of seasons had passed since the vibrant time in his life when he found himself in need of the Professor's company, but in this moment Wictor found himself in that same position again: to a wanting despair.

He clutched his fur-skin cap in his wide, trembling fists. His naked crown was a rare sight amidst his unkempt tufts of surrounding hair. For sake of appearances the aging Wictor was ne'er seen without it placed atop his brow: the two were synonymous. In this moment the man was truly naked, and forgot what shame was for the mourning of his lost friend.

As the Miss makes her request, Wictor throws his worn cane to the sodden floor. He courteously gives her the grand bear-hug only a hardworking father of three could give, his face a blubbering mess.

"Of course, my dear. Anything."

He hobbles over to the coffin, laying a ham-like hand on Dmitry's back to silently greet his old friend, taking his place 'neath his beloved burden.

sorry, totally didn't see this until just now. Will get on this in about an hour or so.

Wuliev here. Wictor's crunch is finished, sans some ironing out of his equipments and the stats for his familiar. How much gold should we start out with, what our classes base give us or should we roll out the values orrr...?

I also plan on editing and adding in the new developments to his background, as well as expanding on his appearance/personality section.

That being said, everything is on the sheet currently.

@ Magdalen: I don't think we're using background skills for this game.

@ Ivan: How would you like to establish our past professional relations? Do you have any ideas? I am open to basically anything.