Gotcha. Onus would be on me to prove otherwise. Understood. I'll come up with something else.
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Just checking on my question above.
Any race? So ogren could qualify, after level adjustment?
Sounds like you've been busy. Congrats! @DM: I'm thinking of working the planar angle and running with a tiefling. Cheliax is a logical background, and so I might go with some high-level priestess in the Church of Asmodeus. I'm thinking Lawful Evil, with the strong impetus to work with the group so as to discover what happened to her younger brother, whom she was charged by some hellish contract to look after or at the very least recover his body for a proper burial.
Just checking back in, DM: this adventure seems to highly favor magic users - would you say that's a smart choice, or are all normal classes equally useful? Current idea is to play the older sibling of a previous contestant that went missing; they're not the type to attempt these contests, but their desire to learn the fate of their younger brother prompts them to leave their home and assay the challenge themselves.
Lord Perry! Great to see you again ;) That series ended up doing incredibly well, and kickstarted my career as a full time fantasy author. It's been a surreal and wonderful five years since. How have things been on your end?
Thrilled to be on board! Just got back from a camping trip, so apologies for the radio silence, but I plan to start actively brainstorming tomorrow. Quick question: this adventure seems to highly favor magic users - would you say that's a smart choice, or are all normal classes equally useful?
Cheers, GM! Appreciate the thought. Alas, I've grown too enthused by my new character concept to back out now, even if it's a little outlandish, and will submit it as I think it'd be a blast to play.
I've just realized there's a much more organic way to introduce a PC to the game: be one of the mercenaries Talib suggests Talienda hire as added security during these precarious times. So rather than attempt to shoehorn a Chelaxian cleric into the game, I'm going to create a local merc of dubious morality but exceptional talents who could be hired on short notice :)
This all sounds great - I'd love to submit a character. I'm thinking a solid, old school kind of cleric, good AC and Toughness for extra HP. I'll read some more of the gameplay to get a sense of the game, then flesh out a profile and post my entry here soon.
This is exciting. Getting my rolls in to help with brainstorming: *5 = 35
+6*5 = 40
*5 = 40 Looks like I have an unlucky, diminutive, weak, frail person of average appearance, intelligence, and education. No stand-out stats at all! I like the challenge.
I'm interested as well!
Have fun!
Hello DM! What a fascinating premise and wonderful opportunity for rp. I'm definitely going to submit a character, but thought I might test the concept with you first before fleshing out every detail. Seeing as how the nature and outlook of the PC will determine much of the game, I thought it might be wise to check in and make sure my PC would resonate with the kind of game you're looking to run. Concept: I'm shuffling through a variety of concepts right now, but the one I'm considering submitting would be a disgraced necromancer. The opportunity for conflict would be rich, the challenge of winning over the raw recruits and seasoned veterans a steep one, and the possibilities for defending the fort with necromantic magic intriguing. The character: a stern, beautiful woman of middle years, of noble birth and with all the attitudes and biases that comes with such an upbringing. Peremptory, with little patience for foolishness, she leads through sheer charisma and force of personality, delivering results and allowing those to speak for her. As a mage, she lacks first-hand experience defending forts, but would hide this fact from the Andorans, trusting in her intellect and magical prowess to tip the odds in her favor. Motivations: she is adrift. Betrayal saw her a political casualty in the Chelaxian army, and a lifetime of blind allegiance to Thrune has been shattered. Habit helps her maintain her aura of confidence, but in truth she's looking to reinvent herself, find a new cause to fight for, to discover who she is after decades spent basing her identity on Chelaxian national politics. At first she'd no doubt be disdainful of the Andorans and their plight, but I'd look forward to her changing her point of view as she fights alongside them, and perhaps even an alignment shift as she comes to value their strengths and morality over the tattered remnants of her own. Leadership style: a blend of intimidation, assertiveness, and sheer charisma. She'd use her beauty, her refinement, and her magical abilities to awe and sway the soldiers to her side, but I see her leadership style changing as she gets to know the soldiers and comes - to her complete surprise - to care for them. My goal would be for her to lead the soldiers by the game's end through honest bonds of loyalty and affection. How we'd get there I'm not sure, but that would be the pleasure of the game. So, there you have it. A neutral evil necromancer whose foundations have been so shattered that she's vulnerable to changing her very sense of self as she fights at first for survival, and then for her new companions over the course of this siege. Quick note about me: I'm based in NC, so EST time as well. I'm a full time fantasy author, so this writing business is right up my alley ;) I can commit to a post/day if not more, and would primarily be interested in RP, the evolution of my character, and all the conversations and experiences that would drive her to change. If the concept doesn't fit, no worries. I've a dozen more I could throw at you. But if it sounds like something that could be fun, I'll get to work creating the stat block, fleshing out her history, and answering all of your questions in full.
For some, that posting speed is a feature, not a bug.
DM, minor update: Yando's going to be a Rogue with the Thug/Scout archetypes. I don't envy your selection process!
Adding some meat to the bone:
It was a mixed bag, being the son of Rerodas the Red. Sure, his father's name earned him some leeway, opened some doors, got him a measure of wary respect from the old timers who'd heard of the Red Peril and its infamous escapades. But mostly, it was a pain in the ass. Young cove's looking to earn themselves some credibility would seek him out, challenging him to a duel or just pulling him into a brawl, all in the vain hopes of gaining some notoriety for being the one to kill Red's offspring. Worse were the assumptions that folks made, thinking him the same blood-maddened monster, that his father's craving for violence and murder ran in his own veins. There were few better ways to end a conversation, clear a table, or lose a prospective job than mentioning his ancestry. So for the most part Yando kept his trap shut, and did his best to allow his father's crazed legacy to sink into oblivion, like some blood-soaked sun falling behind the horizon. Far better to just be plain Yando. Built like a mountain, and just about as slow, as the people said. But he wasn't slow. He was just careful. Careful not to accidentally crush someone's hand within his own. Careful to not break a chair by sitting too heavily on it. Careful to not scare someone by looming up behind them in the dark. Until they paid him not to be careful. Till they slipped him greasy silver coins to break an arm, ram someone's head through a window, or simply show up across the street from their door and stare long enough to break their will. His father would have sneered. Dockside work, bully boy beatings, little more than hired muscle, and mocked despite all that he did. Even the men who hired him wanted to tempt him into a rage. See if they could provoke Yando into losing his temper, and brave the storm that would follow. He nearly never did. But when the moment came, when some pack of jeering fools pushed him too far or drew a knife or offered to pay him to beat a whore just for the fun of it, well. Yando could move shockingly fast when needed. But his misdeeds always came back to haunt him in the long run, reminding him why he should keep his head down, his temper in check, and never - ever- act like his father. Bad years. Bad jobs. Blood and the dry snap of breaking bones. Grog, the smell of sawdust and sweat, of salt and tar-slathered ropes. The cry and shriek of the gulls, the groaning of the ships at dock, the shouts of the street vendors and wharf rats. There had to be a way out. A way to break this chain of brutish jobs, mournful nights spent drinking alone, to escape his father's shadow without leaning on his reputation or sinking into his sins. Violence. It was all Yando knew. But perhaps. Maybe there was a ship out there with a different kind of captain. Someone who might want Yando for his measured thoughtfulness, and not for his fists or brutal heritage. Late nights, sitting in the lee of a shingle rooftop with a bottle of grog and only the moon for company, Yando would gaze out over the silvered harbor and dream. Wonder if there might not be a fine line he could walk between piracy and his past, to temper violence with fairness. A way to be his own man, to forge his own path, and claim the sea and its lanes in a manner that would make his own name pre-eminent - and allow his father's to sink forever into oblivion in his wake.
Hey DM, not 100% sure of the name yet, but Yando Cussbiter works for now. Cheers!
Hey DM! I love the energy of your initial recruitment post, and with all my current games currently languishing in the doldrums, am pretty excited to join something that'll move at a quick clip. Here's some spoilered info about myself and my submission: About me:
I'm just easing into my 40's and still have my hardback copies of AD&D in my closet. Got started rping in 8th grade and never looked back. I'm now a full time fantasy author, which means I both love writing and have the time/flexibility to post very frequently. East Coast, would prob post a little less on weekends, but otherwise good to go. Character concept:
I'm thinking of a large, genial giant of a man, bald pate gleaming in the sun, with huge slabs of muscle hidden under a generous amount of fat. A bruiser with a heart of gold, who's been working odd jobs as a bouncer, hired muscle, or whatever else he can score so as to pay for his grog and another night's roof over his head. A bit slow on the uptake, cursed with a desire to be liked that he never dares show for fear of being ridiculed. Always watched the galleons set sail for adventure with a regretful sigh, promising himself that one day he'll get out of the slums, make something of himself - but just not yet.
With the right group, however, the right crew, I could see him slowly gaining more confidence, becoming the heroic figure he's always dreamed of becoming, and if he's not the central hero, then at least he could be that hero's stern second mate, a forbidding presence that ensures orders are carried out on the double. So, human, probably fighter with maybe a subclass in Thug or the like. Some posts: Here are a few posts from the past month or so. Hope they suit!
Here's one, a nice cap to a character's personal arc that's been a long time coming.
Hey guys, GM Kevin's agreed to have me jump on board, and now I'm trying to come up with something fun and different to play. I was toying with a CN halfing Titan Mauler barbarian, but something about the character (as much as I love her icon) isn't clicking for me just yet. I'll report back in soon!
Hey folks, thanks for the invite (and thanks for vouching for me, Ingrit.) I see you're looking for someone who can deal with traps - that shouldn't be a problem. Any more guidance would be welcome, as I'm happy to play anything and would love to integrate with the party seamlessly. Cheers!
I'll go ahead and lock in on a dwarf Inquisitor Heretic/Monster Tactician. His weapon of choice will be his longbow which he calls 'Tsar Bomba'.
Hi EJC, rappan athuk still misses your Good Thomas. Hey Wabbit! I miss Good Thomas and the fun we had at the start of that game. Pity it turned to grindery for my tastes. Hope you guys are having a blast over there!
Sorry, yes: Monster Tactician.
How would you feel about a Inquisitor with the Heretic/Monster Summoner archetypes?
Level 7! Gadzooks. Anybody have any strong ideas out the gate what they want to play? How many PC's we fielding?
With everyone's focus directed up the steep slope, the hidden figure moves forward, realizing that it's been detected. It's a horrific figure, something out of a feverish nightmare. It looms nearly a dozen feet tall, its flesh seeming to have been riven from the very fabric of the mountainside. Yet its build it scrawny, long, ropy muscles draping its frame, with a leather jerkin and loincloth all by way of modesty. A large, heavy head hangs low over its chest, dominated by a vicious hook of a nose, its mouth inhumanly broad and filled with sharp teeth. Batwing ears flare back from its head, and its eyes burn piss yellow as it stares down at you. But it's clear that this being has been grievously wounded in the past; its entire left side is badly maimed by old burns, such that its left arm is withered and clutched to its side, while its left leg seems to give it pain, making it limp. Even the left side of its face is badly scorched, with holes in its cheeks revealing its blackened teeth and the flesh of its brow melted down to partially obscure its eye. Still, it clutches a sizeable rock in its right hand, which it hefts as it glares down at you. "You tread on holy ground, humans." It's voice is a raucous croak, its common thickly accented and barely intelligible. "Lamashtu's ground! None may pass that are not of the faith! Turn back, and I will not put this stone through your heads." DM Rolls:
Heyou & Vajan:
You both catch sight of a brand burned black on the creature's brow - the same brand you saw on the forehead of the doppelganger you slew at the crossroads below.
After relocating to a different campsite, an endeavor which takes over an hour and is made all the more bone wearying for the light rain that starts up again, the group settles down and the rest of the night passes without alarm. Joanna awakens everyone with freshly brewed coffee over a tiny fire, and in short order the camp is broken down and everyone finds themselves back in the saddle. The trail begins to climb sharply at this point, with some stretches so steep that everyone is forced to dismount and lead their horses on foot. Still, it's a beautiful ascent; as dawn gives way to the early morning light, occasionally the screen of trees will give way to views over the valley below, complete with the distant shimmer of Diamond Lake in the far distance. The Black Cloud mountains beetle over you, and their distant peaks appear nothing if not perilous and impossibly high. Joanna leads you with confidence along the trail, and during a quick rest in the lee of a cliff face lets you all know that you should reach Lamashtu's Courthouse by a little after lunch; thereafter the descent on the far side should take some eight hours, resulting in your reaching your destination a little after dusk. On you go, and soon you break through the treeline. The path hugs the dangerously steep slopes, and its all too easy to imagine a misstep leading to your sliding and falling down the near cliff to your doom far below. Still, your mounts are steady and you make good progress. Finally Joanna raises a hand, stopping the group. "There," she says, pointing up ahead. "See the broad gap between the slopes up ahead? The Courthouse. The trail leads through the ruins of a temple. Ready?" Once the group gives its ascent, Joanna leads you up the rest of the way to crest a final ridge and you see the Courthouse open before you. Squeezed in between two steep slopes, its a morass of broken columns, tumbled walls and shattered towers, perhaps four hundred yards deep before giving way to the far slope.
Heyou: You notice movement in the slopes above and to your right; a large shadow detaches itself from behind some trees and slinks behind a pile of rocks before you can fix your eye on it. Perhaps twenty yards up, and at a natural promontory that could easily serve as a look-out spot for someone watching for strangers entering the courthouse.
I'm interested. I've not played this AP before and would like to give it a shot. I don't have a hard idea as to what I want to play, but off the top of my head would be happy with an alchemist or a rogue. Cheers!
The bear is a colossus, a veritable wall of muscle and talons. It rises up to a tremendous height before the party, claws rising up to sweep them all away. Blood runs from too many wounds to count - clothyard longbow arrows, crossbow bolts, and then finally two wicked wounds dealt by Kalen's blades. It sways, its roar turning into a confused moan. Too much blood is drenching the fur of its chest, pooling about its feet. Then, just as it goes to launch a final, desperate attack, Heyou's Cat leaps forward to swipe at the open wound with its vicious claws. The wound is widened. The flow of blood becomes a torrent, and with a groan the grizzly collapses onto its side, causing the ground itself to shiver and then go still.
Joanna looses another arrow, face grim, knowing that this state of bliss cannot last for much longer.
This time her arrow zips just over the bear's shoulder as it throws its weight against the vines once more, its hide now perforated with bolts and arrows.
With a great ripping and popping sound, the bear tears free of Heyou's vines, and comes lumbering forward, roaring as it makes straight for the cluster of heroes standing before the fire. When it reaches them, crushing one of the tents in the process, both Cat and Heyou lash out, slicing and slamming, inflicting damage for sure and causing the bear to rear up on its hind legs and roar right in your faces as it towers over you.
The grizzly struggles mightily against the black tendrils as Kalen's arrow flies high and disappears into the night. Vajan is able to aim with greater accuracy, and his bolt disappears into the thick winter coat of the bear, seeming to almost vanish into the massive ruff that cloaks the bear's shoulders. Longbow in hand, Joanna darts across the camp, leaping over the fire and past the tents out beyond the periphery, where she wheels, lifts her bow, takes a deep breath than fires at the trapped bear.
Given the size of the bear it's not a hard shot, and the great creature roars in fury at the new pinprick in its side. Furious, it throws itself forward against the black vines.
The vines strain, come close to snapping, but hold the bear in place for a few precious seconds more.
Joanna steps up beside you all, longbow held lightly, arrow nocked, waiting for some sign of their enemy at which to fire. The darkness seethes beyond the firelight. Then, an earth shattering roar. The thunder of a charge as the night disgorges a massive form, hirsute and towering like a bull, the flash of fangs, broad as a cart and as unstoppable as an avalanche, powering out of the trees and underbrush right at the center of the group. Right into Heyou's waiting spell. Dark tendrils erupt from the soil to coil and wrap themselves around the grizzly bear's legs, seeking to trap him, arrest his charge, stop him cold but yards before you all.
And they do. The bear grinds to a halt, infuriated, straining and wrenching at the ebon tentacles that snare him and constrict him. It roars, a sound more felt in the chest than heard, but for this moment, this precious, fleeting second, it is stopped.
Kalen
Vajan: You hear the sound of something large making its way through the underbrush toward you. Still at some distance - a hundred feet? But closing in at a comfortable amble. Heavy breathing, and a snuffling as whatever it is takes the scent of the night air as it closes. Whatever it is, it's big.
Cat disappears into the night like a drop of ink into black water. Even as Heyou sets about awakening the others, he (and they) hear a snorting, snuffling grunt that could be the prelude to a roar of some kind, and a moment later Cat comes bolting back into the firelight. It's hard to ascribe emotion to Heyou's familiar, but the way it runs to hide behind the strange man, back arched, fur bristling, clearly indicates some measure of alarm. From the direction it's staring, whatever is coming is coming from the north west toward the camp.
Joanna breaks out the tents and bedrolls. It's too cold this high up in the mountains to sleep uncovered, and when the rain finally stops she lights a small fire to keep the wild animals at bay. The group shares a warm meal, and then everyone turns in. Heyou settles in for a long watch. The wind howls high overhead as it comes down off the mountain peaks, proving to be a constant, moaning companion throughout the night. The fire crackle and spits, but the old logs she pulls out from under an overhang are so dry they give off no smoke. The horses move restlessly where they're corralled against the face of a bluff, and one by one Heyou hears the sleeping of his companion deepen and grow slow. Time passes. He tosses the occasional log on the fire. The trees stir as the wind passes through the canopy. The clouds part, and the stars become visible, brilliant and scintillating this high up above the world. He'd almost fallen into a waking reverie when a sound snaps Heyou back into alertness. The snuffling of some large beast, followed by the subtle sound of undergrowth being pushed aside as it approaches. Peer as he might into the darkness, even Heyou can't yet make out what comes. It's still too far away. Yet whatever it is, it's coming for the camp.
"Kobolds?" The priest scratches at his cheek through his sodden beard. "Aye, t'was said all manner of monsters worked for her, years past. But I've not heard of kobold problems, neither here nor in the Wildhorn Pass. Nothing unusual, at any rate." With that the attention of the crowd turns toward the coffin, and the lowering of Korstan into the grave, and the filling in of the dirt. "If you'll be excusing me," says the priest. "Again, if you ever pass through our settlement - Thistlehome, it's called - you'll find yourselves a heroes welcome." With that the priest turns to give last rites to the... thing. Joanna brings the horses up. Her expression is sober, and she gives Kalen a nod of acknowledgement for his deed this night. There's a newfound respect in her eyes. "Ready to ride?" The group takes the right hand road leading up into the mountains, and for a good mile the scenery on both sides remains the same; dark forest mostly obscured by rain. Then, the nature of the trees change; gone are the oaks and underbrush, and in their place the heroes ride into a broad belt of black balsam firs, the ground beneath their spreading eves carpeted with needles, their knotty roots grabbing at the ground like hands seeking purchase as a man goes over a cliff's edge. The slopes of the Black Cloud mountains appear above and before you each time lightning flashes, and after a good twenty minutes of riding Joanna slows her mount and turns to the lot of you. "I thought we could camp here for the night," she calls above the storm, pointing at a clearing that's just visible off to the left. "Wait out the storm, continue riding come dawn. Safer. Less chance of running into monsters by light of day." She waits, clearly ready to follow your orders: stop and make camp, or press on toward the mountain pass?
The priest seems willing to forgive everything with the death of Korstan, and smiles broadly at Vajan as he bobs his head. "Forgive? You are heroes, all of you! There is nothing to forgive. I've no idea what Korstan was, but you've the right of it - he's no undead Korstan, come back from the grave. A shapeshifter sounds more like it, but naught like a werewolf I've ever heard of. Either way, your friend here has laid it to rest, and for that we're eternally grateful." He listens closely to Vajan's questions, and then tugs at his iron gray beard. "The Hell Queen, well. Was said she was perilously beautiful, and that to look upon her was enough to bewitch a man. She's supposed to have lived a hard life in Diamond Lake, an orphan it was said, and to have worked all her young years in the Perfumed Corridor of the Emporium. One night it's said she was savagely beaten by a customer, and then thrown into the streets by the proprietor for being 'ruined goods' and for having dared stabbed the man while he slept next to her. Aye, a tale to tug at your heart strings. Right until she rode off into the woods and crowned herself mistress of monsters." The other villagers press in close, obviously enjoying the tale, even despite the rain. "Her name it's said was Karlaena, and she ruled the Court for a year. Then Thangorin, bless his name, came riding in like some hero of old. He was a mighty paladin of proud dwarven stock, and led a band of heroes. Alas, after killing Karlaena, he took to doing the rounds of all the taverns and enjoying the free ale, until he had a mishap in a stable and died in the collapse." The priest strokes his beard pensively. "Very strange, how he died. Nobody ever quite had the right of it. Some suspected foul play, but... either way, he died a year after Karlaena, and his band separated to the four corners. One of them is still living about these parts: a ranger by the name of Gorsh. Said to keep a hermit's cabin up in the Black Cloud mountains, a good couple of miles that-a-ways. Reclusive fellow, but very dangerous. Would have to be, to live alone like that." The smith jumps in. "As for how the Hell Queen was slain, well, that's a ballad and a half, that is. Thangorin is said to have marched through the court yard, defeating one foe after another, until he reached her altar, and there struck her down even as she was transforming into something heinous. Her screams were heard across the mountain peaks, and some claim to have been awoken by them even in our village, though I wasn't." The priest nods. "Aye, true enough, true enough. There's a couple of variations to the ballad, with some saying Thangorin treated Karlaena with kindness, and that so disarmed the lass that she repented and allowed herself to be killed, but who knows? Thangorin himself agreed to any version that resulted in his being fed and feasted."
"Aye," says the head priest. "We've heard of Aurin's settlement, right enough. A few days ride across the pass, then down into the Wildhorn. Brave lad, that Aurin, crossing the spine of the Black Cloud mountains." The smith snorts. "Brave? Foolish more like." The priest raises a hand. "Erastil rewards those who extend the reach of civilization into the wild lands, and that Aurin was attempting to do. The Wildhorn used to be a sight more dangerous, as did all of this area before the Hell Queen was killed, some five years ago. You know the tale of it?" A moment's askance, then he continues. "Aye, well, bad years those were. Diamond Lake would only send heavily armored caravans down this road and past Lamashtu's Courthouse. Our village, a couple of miles down this road here, was spending all its coin on soldiers to defend us at night. There were those of us questioning the very wisdom in trying to hold on. The pass was held by the Hell Queen, a devil-born lass who it's said worked in Diamond Lake's very own brothel before her blood called her to the woods. She set up in the ruins of the pass, and there gathered to her a number of monstrous followers. Bugbears, ettins, all manner of nasty things. For awhile there she was a real terror, then Thangorin and his band went in and killed her and wiped the place clean." The priest rubs his chin. "That was five years back. Been quiet since then. But lately things have started up again. Aurin usually sends a monthly wagon over the pass to trade with us. Hasn't come through this month. We've heard from outlying homes that they've seen shapes skulking in the darkness, and monstrous footprints the next morn. Now this with Korstan. I'm not sure what to make of it, but it looks like dark times might be coming again."
Vajan's blessing sweeps over the area, rallying the villagers and perhaps giving Kalen the edge he needs to step in one last time. Or, given how vicious Kalen's blows have been, perhaps the Heartfinder needs no blessings at all. Once more his blows go snicker snack, opening up cruel wounds deep in the monster's body. It cries out in a cacophonous threnody of pain, arms flailing up piteously at the sky, then falls back into the very coffin from which it had leaped. For a horrific moment its body shifts through a hundred different forms - there's a brief flicker of Korstan, than an old woman, then a mighty warrior, a half orc, a fair headed youth, a stunningly beautiful woman - on and on, each blurring into the next, until finally it goes still, blood leaking from its many wounds. Silence but for the panting of the combatants and the hiss of the rain on torches, and then the villagers let out a ragged cheer, as if half disbelieving that Korstan - or whatever it had been - is finally dead. "Praise Old One Eye!" crows the head priest, moving forward, beaming at Kalen. "What bravery! What skill! Truly you came in hour of need, good sir! What is your name? How best may we thank you?" Many of the villagers crowd around the coffin, staring down in awe and disgust at the stranger creature that lies within it. "What is it?" "Was that Korstan all along?" "You sure it's dead? What if it comes back, like?" The smith places his hands on his hips. "We'll bury him now, that's for sure. Bury him deep. There'll be no coming back for that one." Vajan: Vajan sees that something has been branded into the monster's forehead, a three-eyed jackal head, the wound relatively fresh and still raw: the symbol of Lamashtu, mother of monsters. Curiously, the symbol seems to be inverted, and surrounded by a circle of thorn like cuts. At a guess, you might hazard that it is a curse of some kind, something inflicted upon the monster against its will.
Vajan stumbles back, light streaming from between his fingers along with blood as he desperately seeks to heal himself from the nearly mortal wound Korstan had dealt. In that same moment, both Heyou and his cat leap forward, clawing and swinging, but their attacks go wide. Not so with Kalen. As Korstan ducks beneath Heyou's quarterstaff, Kalen glides forward and stabs both blades into the villager, the longsword stabbing through the man's shoulder, the short sword penetrating between his ribs. For a moment Korstan simply reels, blood running down his clothing, and then he changes, his body losing all semblance of humanity as he grows taller by a foot, his hair shrinking back into scalp, nose disappearing even as his skin turns an ashen gray. With a screech of fury he lashes out at Kalen, both of his wickedly clawed hands seeking to find purchase through his assailant's armor.
His first claw skitters off Kalen's scalemail, but the second loops in under his arm and punctures through the weaker leather covering his armpit; a talon bites deep into his flesh, nearly tearing his arm off altogether before ripping free. The town's people scream and draw back. Men brandish their clubs and blades, but most refuse to come closer. The smith, however, races forward and does his level best to help.
Joanna leaps down off her horse, unslinging her bow and in one practiced pull nocking an arrow and letting fly.
Neither of them manages to land a blow.
"I - what? Hang me for crimes I didn't commit?" The man struggles with his bonds, trying to sit once more. "Disease struck our town, took a number of our people - including my own wife and child, damn it! And they blame me! They think to bury the curse with me, as if that will stop the disease from spreading! This is beyond superstition, this is criminal idiocy! You must stop them -" His words are interrupted by Vajan's sudden emanation of positive energy, which flows out from him in all directions. Heyou and Kalen both feel the warmth wash over them, a sensation akin to sunlight on a lazy afternoon, filling them with vigor and energy and strength. Korstan does not seem adversely affected by the energy; his skin doesn't blister, nor does he seem stricken with pain. Instead, he glances around the crowd, from the head priest to the hard faces observing him to the newly arrived strangers, and sees nowhere the mercy or understanding that he seeks. "So be it," he says bitterly. "Let Pharasma be my judge. However." He looks up, eyes suddenly gleaming, "I might as well take some witnesses with me!" And with that he surges up out of the coffin, the bonds snapping far too easily, and leaps for Vajan's throat as wicked claws suddenly extrude from his fingertips.
His claws tear through Vajan's stomach, opening it up as he scores a terrible wound into the man's gut, revealing intestines in a spray of gore.
"Very well," sighs the head priest. He runs both hands through his thick, graying hair, and then nods to the dozen men holding the coffin over the grave. "Let's move it to the side there, men. Hraj! Did you bring a crowbar? No? Then use your blade." The priest eyes Vajan's mace then glances at his companions and their weapons. "It seems we've no choice in the matter." The coffin is swung onto the pile of excavated earth, and by torchlight the villagers watch as Hraj, a man with the muscular frame of a smith, sets to unbuckling the belts and then prying the lid off the coffin. The air is one of anticipatory horror. Women back away from the crowd, hands over their mouths, eyes wide. Men grit their jaws and draw their weapons, as if expecting the worst. With a final wrenching crack the lid comes free, and Hraj tosses it aside and leaps back. Within a man of middle years lies, bound by coils of rope, his face strained, eyes darting from side to side before fixing on Vajan. "What - praise Sarenrae! My prayers, they're - they're - please!" He tries to sit up, but is unable to maneuver with the ropes. "Please, get me out of here! Don't let them bury me alive! By the Birth of Light and Truth, I swear to you that I'm an innocent man!" The priest grimaces in distaste. "There you have him. Begging and saying all the right words. Channel your healing energy, father, and be done with him." DM Rolls:
Kalen: The villagers don't have the typical cast of evil men or bandits to them - if anything, they seemed hardened by a hard life, with rugged frames and faces lined by pain and toil. They look frightened but determined, and are clearly gathering their strength from their priest, to whom they look often.
"Wait, good father, wait!" The priest raises both hands, his tone imploring. "You are but strangers, and until I learned of your true calling I did not want to elaborate on our curse. But please. Stay your hand, and I'll explain!" The other villagers have grown tense, casting glances from the mounted strangers to Vajan, hands lowering to clubs and short swords. Nobody draws, however, and the dozen men lowering the reinforced casket stop, grunting and straining as they watch Vajan carefully. "Korstan was lost in the woods for several days. Upon returning to us, he acted strangely. That night, he killed his family. We only discovered this days later when the truth came out. The next day he lured the baker into a backroom and killed her, then murdered three children behind the stable. He was finally caught trying to gut Elisha there, but she escaped and sounded the hue and cry. Believe you me, when we discovered the truth of it we tried to kill Korstan, but our weapons could not wound him." The priest wipes the rain from his face. "Worse, he seems to have some limited range telepathy, for he can read one's thoughts and say what he thinks will get the best reaction from you. Twice we nearly released him, but what we'd seen with our own eyes overcame his protests. So we've come to bury him here, bury him deep, and bury his curse or whatever happened out in the woods while he was lost with him!" Vajan: From the coffin you hear the man continue his pleadings, words broken by sobs. "Please. Please. The Dawnflower save me. Shine light amongst this dark superstition. Please don't do this to me. Rhanar! Rhanar, let me out! LET ME OUT!"
Heyou's Sense Motive:
The priest appears to be certain of his actions; his face is pale, and his eyes wide and rimmed with purple as if he's deeply exhausted. Some determination drives him on, however, a righteous conviction to see this burial through. While Kalen, Heyou, and Joanna watch from the back of their mounts, Vajan descends to move close to the coffin and place his hand upon its rough surface. It is, he notes, stoutly built, with broad nailheads lining each corner and four broad leather belts buckled around its girth and cinched tight. Even as he speaks his words, he hears the first muffled thump from within the coffin, and when he lays his hand upon the wood he hears something from within. Vajan:
"Please! Please don't do this. I've a wife! Children! Marja? Marja! Help me! Oh Sarenrae, please hear me now in my hour of need!" Old One Eye's priest notices Vajan's inevitable change in expression and draws himself upright. "Don't be fooled, my friend. That thing yet has the semblance of life, sure enough, and speaks sweetly, but it is a dead thing, and needs to be buried deep." Then, before Vajan can object, he gives a stiff nod to the pallbearers, who begin lowering the coffin into the ground.
Joanna's face hardens at Kalen's words, assuming the kind of impassivity that servants since time immemorial have adopted when dealing with distasteful. She simply bows her head, acknowledging his desire, and then urges her mount on down the muddy road toward the cross roads. Heyou's Perception:
The meatsacks are gathered close in this crossing of paths and they look unhappy. It's hard to make out the tears on rain streaked faces, but while some of their eyes seem to be leaking a lot many seem angry and tense. What Heyou finds interesting however is that the closed coffin is jostling even in the grip of the dozen men that hold it, and muffled, panicked cries can be heard coming from the coffin's interior. "Help! For the love of all that's holy, don't do this! Please! Let me go, you don't have to do this, please!"
The assembled villagers wheel in half terror at the sound of the horses, the rain having masked their approach till the last moment. Hands drop to clubs and short swords, but their leader, an iron haired man with an anvil of a chin and the look of a former warrior now clad in the fur robes of a priest of Erastil holds up his arms and steps forward to listen to Vajan's words. "A follower of the Dawnflower? You're welcome, then, for tonight of all nights any holy man will find a place at this crossroads. We're burying a much loved member of our community, Fallow Oaks a good two miles on south. A grim business, but it cannot wait. If you'll bless the coffin, father, and bid that Korstan Smith lie peacefully and pass on quietly to the next world, we'd be most obliged." A number of the villagers are trying not to stare at Heyou; his great spherical head - even hidden under his hat - slowly becomes more obvious to casual observation the longer he sits astride Bolthole within the light of the torches.
Joanna doesn't seem offended. She stares at Heyou a moment longer, brows lowered, then shrugs as if it's none of her business. Moving over to her own pale steed, she buckles the saddlebag then casts Kalen a hard look over her shoulder. "And the name's Joanna. Not 'woman'." Moments later she's leading them out of the stables and into the rain. The horses follow her own steed with equanimity, and they walk down the gravel driveway to the estate's gates, then circle around the outskirts of Diamond Lake along Moon's Way till they reach the broad Cart Road that spears south by south west along the steep slopes of the Black Clouds. The lights and raucous festivities of the mining town quickly fall behind them as Joanna urges her mount to a canter; Death's Dream flows smoothly beneath Kalen, while Carollan powers along beneath Vajan and Bolthole seems to hit every rock and step into each pothole, making Heyou's ride the least smooth of the lot. The sky is overcast and presses close, like a wet cloth being smothered across a sleeping man's face. The glittering peaks of the Black Cloud mountains are hidden to your right, the forested slopes rising into vague darkness, and then land falls away gradually to your left, following the curvature of the sharp valley at whose base Diamond Lake itself rests. It's a dozen miles to the Hangman's Crossroads, and Joanna alternates the pace between the rapid canter and a slower trot so as to not exhaust their mounts. The roads have become treacherously muddy in the rain, and Vajan's large plow horse is starting to visibly tire when the crossroads hove into view. A large group of people are gathered there, holding spitting torches aloft and casting an orange glow upon the intersection as a dozen men lower a casket into a dark hole. A priest of some sort stands at the grave's head, and another dozen or so people are gathered about in the feeble light, half of them casting looks over their shoulders, grief warring with fear and exhaustion. Joanna slows her horse to a complete stop while you're a good three hundred yards away and looks askance at the group. "What do you think? Cut through the woods to avoid 'em, or ride on through?"
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