So we leave the booze? I was kidding with the tavern brawl, but then thought about it some more. Critz, snowballing: we take it with. For the low-low price of a wagon and maybe some other stuff, we could shutter the doors and take the show on the road. Drinks galore. Stills >> Wheels Just something to think about.
Scram was happily shoveling the remnants of her hydra-stew into a tiny clay carrying decanter. But when Ingryd suggested leaving the booze behind everything came to a dead stand still. Ingryd. Wanted. To. Leave. Booze. Behind. "Infiltrated! I knew it. Ok, wax-Griz, nice try. You nearly had me with that very nice advertisement at the end. Indeed everyone likes to think they know what happens when you mix juniper and mint. The resulting tang is actually pretty surprising. But leaving booze behind? You got sloppy. Tch. What did you do with the real mama-bear?!" Scram nabbed a glass bottle and shatter-halved it on a rumplestool, wielding the shard dagger like an insane criminal. "Where is she?!"
Yes, we can get your Bear Scout badge. ;) You can practice sneak attacking customers with hidden fees on their bills.
Unless someone is coming in with a rogue? I'm staying Scram I think. Feel like the character needs some new goal/direction though. Hoping to develop some of that in this downtime. Posts coming this weekend, shirley. ;)
Scramsax of Barsella was splattered across the rocks. But on closer inspection, it wasn't Scram. No, it was actually Scramcrow the Beanboy, her faithful straw-duplicate body. The real thief grabbed Gunnar's hand while simultaneously jumping into Ingryd's chest.
Hmm, well shoot. No hag, no chipmunk/cheek-loot, no clerics, no castle...starting to wonder if the 'friends' we rescued were wax duplicates who are now killing everyone in Narg. Scram is going to have a hard time leaving Luthael behind...not sure how to play this. Will wait for Gunnar's in-character post I suppose.
Mid-backflip in the cacophonous waves of force rippling through space, the thief had a funny feeling. No, not her nervous system liquifying from the intense entropic death spiral...something else. The chittering chipper's oozy mouth had a familiar sheen, as if belaquered on the inside with some kind of ectoplasmic goo. A goo unseen since the incident at the Ice Hyena's cave... One thing was certain, if good chips buried their nuts for the winter, this saggy faced spitter was bad to the tiny forest bone. Watching Gunnar go stiff was also not a good sign. The thief had no time to fool around, she had to find this thing's main weakness like yesterday. The cheeks were obviously heavily defended, and may include the dreaded Self-Destruct Nut as a crazy last option. The tail was a good guess, twisted rapidly it may possibly grant the power of flight or some sort of weather control over sunny breezes. This one liked to stand on its haunches like a man, perhaps Scram could execute an ego-strike on the muscular haunches and bring it back down to eye level. But no, in the end, there was really only one option. That chittering vocal box responsible for spewing such incessant and indecipherable jeremiad. The rapidly oscillating chords which could only generate defeatism and cynicism...never jokes or love. The nattering nabobs of negativity. Yes, this was it...the weak spot, the helm command ordering the ship to shift her rudder to the jack stands! *bzzzzzzTHWACK* Scramsax smirked, having nailed it with a precision strike before disappearing back around the corner. Dice:
Grateful for my 75 year old dad building a time machine out of wood sticks and gumption to get a wooly mammoth bbq brisket for the holidays.
*Bzztt* Scram had to be careful, the muscle spasms and contractions in her fingers nearly flipping the bird to Luthael's parents. Demonstrating expert control, she was able to redirect the rigid digit to point instead at Ibrox. As she was getting zapped "*urghh* Don't look, Mrs. Invictusol. *ummf* Let not us misbehaving youth sully your afternoon...*urg*" Motor control was finally restored to the halfling's physiology, the finger standing down at last. The thief spotted it instantly, a false keyway. A heavy handed pick would slide off-center, catching the lever action of a hair trigger. But Scram was faster than the old mechanism, sliding a jamming shim to catch the lever before it could strike down. From there, it was a simple matter to set the tumblers atop the cylinder...or so it seemed...
Ah woops, missed that thanks.
I used an online web-to-text that could see spoilers. 186 pages then processed a bit with python, removing headers and paizo stuff on everypage but preserving post numbers, adding page numbers and page breaks and such. I left stat blocks in so it could be referenced, too. I'm not sure if when I share it we can see each others queries, or to what extent the video limits are shared. But here it is if you want to poke around:
Scram's normally flexible face muscles were cursed stiff and hard to respond to her emotive shock, contorting into something resembling an orcish exclamation point "Nooooo! Mr. and Mrs. Invictusol, dooooon't! Above your heads is a nasty killer, a caustic bladder...look at the fumes!" pointing to the previously disabled storage tank above Vee's cage, now spewing out a stream of acid and fart cocoa. "The cages are trapped, trapped!!! They'll kill you all if you try to..." *boOOOm .... crack* "..." Scram was stunned watching Gunnar just bamf in and out of the cage like it was nothing. "...or there's that."
Apparently this is a thing that happens.
"If Loki is in fact in my bloodline, he's certainly not being low-key about it." the rogue deadpanned. Somewhere a cat completely freaked out for no apparent reason, crashing fuzzy-forehead-first into a percussionist's cymbals.
"..." the halfling was mesmerized by the crystalline blue orbs high above a few paces, wondering if actual snowballs were about to eject forth from the heavy concealment of the cleric's black irises. Snapping herself out of it "C'mon, I don't mean it like that, just to say I feel her. It'd be like Vee if we let Rad's tower fall to that pancake thing. ...But if yer gonna press it, no. Yer not really out of 'place' the way I am, Thorsdottir, but out of 'time'. Keep lookin' at me like that, please do. Yer gonna see it aint a halfling's whimsy. You don't get that excuse here, not this time..." The thief pulled out a little charcoal diagram with some scribbles, double checking some obscure analysis with her lizard abacus "Fact is, I've thought about it, and pieced some stuff together. Sleuthed it out like that Zobecker Gumshoe whatshisname and his hellhound. What I can't figure, is why you'd hide it from us all the while...heh. Not that its my business. But if'n yer pressin'..." Stuffing some fresh leaves into the old neon fur coat she painted, the rogue appeared to settle in for a good pillow chill. Dipping a finger into the thief's weathered vest, a tiny jeweler's ocular was soon produced, balanced nimbly on a stubby digit "See, number o' gems I've admired through this lil' lens. Amber hearts of the witch's artifice. Primordial sapphire orbs. Stains of the ol' Meadowcourt hidden under mounds. A god's last slippin' grip...anger red." Scram pretended to pack a pipe with a pouch of leaf that was completely empty, just going through the motions as habit "Each of 'em has their own cut. Own reflection, if you follow. In one of 'em I saw ye's, yeah..." taking a long drag and drawing a thin diamond in the dust. "What do the scathesidhe treasure above all else? Memory? Heh, the prison breaker upstairs might like that if it were so simple...but its not quite right. They like stealin' memory. How do you take lives without really takin' it? What's more exotic than an experience felt by another? ...tch." The halfling had to sit up and really keep herself from going off on another tangent, but it was getting difficult...Mnemosyne help her. "Then here's the sickest twist: original person fergets it making it truly unique in this world and the shadowed, same. Dark elves'll pay anything for em: Memory Philters. Own yer friend's life. Eleven hells, live it, with just a taste of that cut. Look like gemstones...if it weren't for Dekatron..." the thief paused abruptly, the jeweler's loop vanishing in the moonlight. Scram had business at hand and didn't want emotions to get her metatarsels all shaky. "...meh. I'm ramblin' now. I've told ye this before, 'bout the rogues of a Million Stars. But that gear the Shadowsworn donned against the Black Prince, the ones I saw in Zove's memory...no simple elfmarked has the lifespan to master the forge like that. Not no way! I may not be the appraiser Sly Laura Smokes aspires towards, but I can tell a kobold quarter's counterfeit from a blade dropped back a millennia." Pointing to Heidur "Think everyday Adam Orc's gut-twister could snatch a dryad's psychic knot like that? Somethin' ancient in that steel, cause you put it there your damn self so long ago. That maker's mark meant somethin' to them shadow elves because their grand-elf parents studied it and marveled, didn't they? Do all the good in the entire world, aint gonna change that mark. I sees it." the definitely not-butler smirked. But the smirk evaporated quickly, Scram wasn't trying to antagonize. Fishing around in her boot, a 2 lb black meteorite was produced. "Look...whatever you might be, you've built a tradition. It's time fer that to continue, sure as you yerself are gonna." *thunk*
Most wouldn't dare think muppetry at a time like this, too scared to finger inverse lips properly. The halfling felt no fear, and couldn't let an opportunity like this just pass by. And so the gemmy-bracelet perked its head, cocked to the side curiously. Mimed a reverent bow. ~Winky the Sage sez: Always use an associated object for teleportation! A relic, fragment, or token taken from the place within the last six moons! Without that tether, you're bound to get a little mishap! Oh-no! Flesh shorn from bone, carried objects embedded in stone walls, your fate the cursed dice in a god's palm! Yikes-a-roo!~ Scram asked the puppet with genuine curiosity "What do you mean, Winky? Are you saying ONLY if we had taken something from the dragon's lair we could've gotten back more directly? I think the dragon knows how magic works, but can you tell us, for our own sake?" ~Oh, yes! Even a tiny stone would do...you didn't need any cold drake skin or anything exotic like that. But you would have had to be a nasty thief to dare to...*whispers* steal *whispers*! Not the quiche-hating nurturing egg saviors you clearly are at all!~ "Wow. Thanks, Winky. That really makes a ton of sense. No wonder we teleported somewhere 100% safe. It was the only way to protect the eggs."
...but is she going to reach bee-fore Scram? The race is on.
5-years-old-Scramsax liked to pretend he was a racoon. Pretend is the wrong word. Scram was a racoon, from either his imaginative perspective or very poor education in biology. On the streets of Barsella, certain urban management canisters were stashed periodically in the darkest alleyways...the masked thief's first home. Out behind Auntie Genosa's Big Burrito there was always opportunity for the young cad. See, Auntie G was a perfectionist, and would instantly discard any improperly folded burrito with complete disregard to profit margins. Sometimes the old girl would get crazy and go full experimental mode. What was better after all, you fold from the sides inward together, or one at a time? What about folding from the bottom, leaving the top unfolded, and twisting it up? Once you started thinking about how the top layer of cheese affected the internal convective temperature of the bake, s%$~ really started to add up and get nutty complex. Needless to say, with the patience of a future slayer, the young racoon saw many a fat burrito discarded into the trash. The quick learner thus patented the Dumpster Mid-fall to Snatch a Half-folded Burrito Technique at a very young age. If gravity was allowed to finish the job, you'd have a handful of slop and rotten crayfish shells mixed in...utterly nasty. The scavenger's ambition could instead mount a perfect pluck. Air-to-mouth was risky with the temperature unknown, so usually a precursory alley-oop from the side of the ankle or top of the knee was the go-to first dampening move. Juggling a wacked-out origami burrito with a 5 year old halfling body was just as easy as juggling literally anything with a 5 year old halfling body, so it was just a few short hops to the mouth anyways. Especially when that halfling was in every way an actual racoon. This plummeting goblin could never nourish a racoon's palette, but the inventions and innovations the corpse carried made it appear just as desirable as one of Auntie Genosa's Big Burritos. Pulling a muscle memory from 20 years prior, the thief executed a perfect Dumpster Mid-fall to Snatch a Half-folded Burrito Technique. Catching the delicate apparatus a mere foot from the ground, a little cloud of dust was kicked up and contained an astonished black beetle. "Ho, close call there, friend! That was quite the snag. I'm Dunder Muffles the Beetle! Pleased to meet such an acroba--" the introduction cut abruptly as Scram heard a weird pop underfoot, the city fiend certainly didn't speak beetle.
Trying to keep it together, Scramette calmly stated "Sir? Tone." But when the goblin began evasive manuevers, the officer had no choice but to draw her weapon and engage in hot pursuit. "Hold it! You're under arrest!" matching his speed and instantly stabbing the tinkerer without ensuring habeus corpus "Stop resisting! *stab stab* Stop resisting! *stab stab*" At the same time, the corrupt official performed a full body cavity exam looking for interesting gadgetry, being careful of needles.
Sounds like the kind of thing I fear daily breaking into my peace and quiet. Good luck and leave no vodkas behind (or drank warm).
I just noticed Raseri has Remove Curse prepped. That might be worth a crack on the eggs. Hags love curses.
MechaDraco-Scram awoke from her hyper-baryonic prison, performing a quick OS update unrelated to the earlier target acquisition issues. The resurrection was complete. Halfling DNA hidden within the remarkably well-preserved wyvern stinger surrounded by fossilized marmot dung proved an adequate compensation for the missing chromosomal pairs. The lead geneticist would never understand the serendipitous breakthrough. Deft morphology clicking along like that seemed to defy all the rules of biology, collapsing into a stable embryo almost as if by pure luck. Never understand, because the heavy *clonk* of a titanium alloy lock on the lab floor meant the clever girl had just undone her primary restraint coil. *hiss* A pneumatic surge of pressure pushed outwards upon the intentionally self-broken jaw of the slayer, pointy teeth aligning into a mesmerizing ellipse. Laser riveted suspenders shattered under the new strain of a filled thoracic cavity, now brimming to the tippy top with a volatile blend of synthetic plasma and ancestral bar food fragments. Emergency lighting flickered from cool blue to stroboscopic red. Somewhere in a remote control booth, a technician's glasses slipped off his sweat-drench nose as he whispered "She's not supposed to be awake yet..." The console erupted in a cascade of warning glyphs. MechaDraco-Scram stepped forward, her serrated talon toes gouging metal, as a monocular field array cycled across multiple spectra. In the rich purples of gamma rays, the hidden sigils etched into the lab were revealed...wards meant to contain something older than all the sciences. The thief had returned. The wyvern's reconstructed stinger still embedded in the gnobby peck of the beast suddenly dissolved into her dermal plating like a painful memory finally accepted. Outside, the sky cracked open. Birds fell silent. Satellites blinked out. When Scram's voice came it was not vocal, but broadcast on all frequencies. Wings unfurled not for flight but for a wide bandpass signal amplification. Resonant in the marrow of every living creature within 100-mile radius ~They buried a poison. They unearthed a slayer.~ The war of the gods hadn't ended, it had simply been waiting for an anti-hero.
Hopefully that takes place after ascension to the rank of Hierophant and having already unlocked all the were-chipmunk secrets they guard. ;)
All for it. Hard to see how (fighting the goblins) we can get the luxurious 5-star spa/resort down in one piece with everyone inside...as much as it will hurt Scram to see it splatter upon the plains. Perhaps a new crater ecosystem will flourish, featuring a diversity of life giving druidic circles one more reason to appreciate the Nimble Tender of Leaf and Bean. The one who walked the north as a dryad, and was birthed anew from Yggdrasil's shadow. Bringer of bountiful stalks to the arid plains. The he/she who moistened and culled the stubborn Margreve.
Raseri has Feather Fall, also, in a pinch.
Despite the overpowering emotions of seeing both the Ice Hyena and chip-assassin in the same setting, Scramsax naturally felt her focus shift to the glinting wealth at the fey's fingertips: diamond, sapphire, emerald. A triplet of rather expensive baubles, unique in form...and likely in function. Could it be the legendary Esmerelda's Emerald of Malaise, or the Eyes of One-Hundred Angels? The thief didn't take her eyes off the prizes, so they might better be found again...
After, as Ingryd demanded an immediate return "Its no use Griz, the bracelets all spent up. Guess it recharges by the light of the moon, which only happens once a day. Or not the light of the moon but some other once per day kind of thing...maybe its somehow tied to Old Man Jenkins morning feed of the cows, or the once daily dong of the Morgaunan curfew bell. Hey, knew a nun once that would bless a butter churner every day at sunup. Maybe the wrist juju's tied to that somehow. Point is, can't be helped."
Drunk bear liver muppeteers would be a force to be reckoned with.
After what seemed like an excessive amount of ventriloquism, mystical numerology, and questionable apparatus, the door appraiser posited "...hmm all right, guess the cracks are all clear. But smart hags always go for the crannies. Gotta check those crannies..." Another turn of the glass as Scram produced very erudite distinctions between 'cracks' and 'crannies', from a professional's perspective. "...for you see, 'crack' stems from the old common 'cracian' for 'an explosive noise', often confused with the southern 'craic' or 'entertaining conversation'. 'Crannies' however are rather different in quality, most believing the term to be based on the draconian 'crener', or 'fissure'. Well, *ahem* eheh...no worries, guess the coast is clear on that front as well..." The thief was red in the face, but snapped a digit in sudden realization "Ho, could it be...? Diabolical...one moment friends, I think I've outmaneuvered this precious portal once and for all: it was the crevices the entire time!" However, after a few more minutes the useless turd conceded nothing was there and finally got the hell out of the way.
Amidst the fury of battle, a gently rattling cobblestone in the patchwork of ancient masonry catches the halfling's attention. It wriggles left. It rotates right. "Ho, what's the matter little brick? Tired of lying down and need a little stretchy-stretch?" she inquired. *glOOORSH* The response was a rapid micro-fountain of pus, quenched from the solid stone like fart-cocoa from the candy hag's bath sponge. The nasty gush struck each one of Scramsax' exposed mucus membranes sequentially: left eye, right eye, left nostil, right nostril, upper lip, lower lip, right eustachian tube, left eustachian tube, throat, and finally the respiratory tract before the pattern was reborn afresh with a different color pus. Once various hues of the rainbow were cycled through, the brick had a series of certain shades and saturations also in store. "...whew, gross. Guess that's the last of it..." the vague pile of fluids remarked, checking her vest pocket for a handkerchief. Never was Scramsax so wrong. For after the all those various puses came an iteration of bile, and after various biles came congealed bloods. It was hard to identify the remaining splashes, but if the offal was any clue it was likely some wacky combo of chyme and synovial fluids. The final curse of the destructive wave was that the thief was left alive, living only to suffer beneath the multiple coatings of such bio-waste.
Of course the stinky, volatile oils had been a trap for the true faithful. The thief wanted to curse herself for not realizing it sooner, but queasy glitches rippling through tummy and tongue had her searching for the nearest wastebasket. Somehow the stuff smelled even worse in conflagration, and after seeing the farty plops boil and pop from the necro-flames (some of the gassy bubbles sounding like the screams of innocents released) the thief figured a bit of vomit might actually be an improvement, wastebasket or no. But watching the prophet consumed by his own twisted flames, a mental cry swelled in response...yet the thief's diseased voice only stuttered in mimicry "...hatred and regrets..." as her acute health condition warranted.
Snuffing the scorching embers mercifully consuming her out-of-control armpit hair, Scram couldn't help notice the 78 black onyx chains attached to the death knight's 78 creaky fighter bones, leading to 1 common hitch joint near the mysterious brains and intestines of the offal-altar. Naturally, the rogue could attempt to convert the altar in a snap, just as she had done before in the fish village under the Margreve; such divine methodology (pulling the old switcheroo on the gods) worked perfectly and there had been zero negative consequences as the scoundrel recalled. Certain practicalities came to mind which led to interesting new thoughts, however. Black Onyx was no Aqueous Hematite, but still at 4 silver per carat the material was nothing to leave lying on the table. Breaking the chain was Step One of collecting the forbidden, demonic wealth for herself. The abyssal saboteur took a beat to consider the best tool for the job: Crimp-snippers? 2-ft triangular double-cut file? 40% orthophosphoric etching acid? Crowbar+bear=crowbear? Paint a chain-link like a ripe nut, then let the chipmunks tear ass. Then she had it, an innovative contraption with only a 0.001% chance at failure as her lizard abacus calculated. First a tiny marble would drop onto a seesaw, tipping it and launching a domino onto a toy carriage. The carriage would roll forward, knocking over a row of books, which in turn would pull a string attached to an anteater's tail. The astonished anteater would scream through its nozzle-focused nostrils, blowing a paper sailboat across a small pool, triggering a lever that would release a naval standard 18-pound cannon ball rolling down a long ramp. This would then hit a rock hammer, knocked free to swing and smash a watermelon, sending juicy fruit spilling forth onto a merchant's scale. The sudden weight shift would activate a pully, lifting a bucket of water that could spill onto an awaiting candle, extinguishing it instantly. The loss of heat would shrink the Darrel-balloon, finally dropping onto a magic rune that would snap the chain asunder. But there was one flaw with the design: Darrel was no longer a balloon. Suddenly it seemed the thief was back to square f*cking one! Were it your everyday black onyx chain, the additive sum of crowbar and bear would do the trick as a good enough back-up idea. But demons were full of tricks, so the stories told. Scram had been warned of sugar being mysteriously swapped for salt in certain circumstances, heard angry proselytizers warn of possessed cats that would sit on the low notes of pianos at unfortunate moments. With the thief's luck, the onyx at the end of the day was probably something cheeky like a 'chain of command', existing on some metapsychic level instead of actual solid matter that could be traded for coin. There was really only one thing sure to work, sure to slice anything meta-real or really-real: adamantine. "Emilee, yer knives! Slash the chain! Captain Bones needs a day off!" she shakily implored, pointing to the sorcerous tether.
The thief would have to provide a distraction, something that would allow Emilee to prance across the scene relatively unnoticed. What could truly capture a demon's attention? Scramsax the Illusionist decided to summon forth a hypothetical situation... Professor Emeritus of Philosophy Maximillian von Dinglehopper took the afternoon off from his insect cataloguing efforts to stroll into the chamber for an unpaid lecture. Immediately the state of the auditorium rumpled his nose, and in an instant he was having second thoughts about wasting a day of his retirement on such lowly surrounds. But seeing the dark demon above surrounded by lightning and mosquitos, something tilted in his educator's heart: there was indeed potential there...potential perhaps no one but he had ever dreamt of before. Professor Dinglehopper saw a familiar face in the demon, recalling his work with another troubled student named Scooter. 'My name is Scooter, I'm from the wrong side of the tracks.' Scooter would always say, sending lesser teachers to throw up their arms in anguish. It took unwavering determination to set high expectations for such students while building support through scaffolding. So it was the professor made his pitch "Hey demon, I get it. You want your minion to quench its blood thirst and earn your boon. That's really nice of you to give gifts like that. But have you ever thought how that might make everyone feeeeeeel? Consider this: suppose he does indeed quench his blood thirst. As promised, you replace one of his crummy 78 bones with a brand-new, polished, offal-covered bone. Now he is 77 original bones and 1 boon-bone." The professor paces, wagging a finger until certain the demon understands. "Now consider you do the same everyday of the next demonic Season of Corpse Wrath. Every dark day, the blood thirst is quenched and a new boon-bone is given. Now at what point does the death knight cease to be the same death knight, and instead become something new? Should you replace the entirety of your servant, covered in gifts, what have you accomplished but to lose a servant? And how would that make the death knight feel, mmkay?" As the hypothetical situation was delivered upwards into the demon's dome, the rogue shuffled back to safety...
You can't deny you are intrigued. Tareth vis a vis his calm, collected waking life is one thing. Absolutely no thoughts of puppets whatsoever, as it should be. Great posts. Perfect fuel for players. Haunted by 1980s pop-puppets and Duran Duran singles, a Tareth embarked upon a dedicated, irrational quest to do justice to all things muppetry. Such is the hag's curse, beyond the level of simple dispelling magics. You thought you were going to get some kind of Þórsdrápa inspired ballad but nope. Actual puppets, and what's more a blurring of lines between muppetry and reality. Roll fortitude, mutha f*cka, cause he is comin for us all.
As was her habit, Scram quickly fished out the special tiny tarts magi used to cast hideous laughter from the There was a specially wrapped pair in every pouch. While simultaneously adorable and delicious, after an intense inner struggle the rogue ultimately tossed the miniature frosted pastries aside...visions of tainty cocoa still sending her stomach in knots. So it was the thief approached the dirty, dirty, shield maiden on an empty stomach...
A finger over her lips "Shh...they're talkin' bout the eggs..." But when the inquiry came direct, the thief had to think quick or the party was going to get made. Summoning forth an illusion of sound from her gemmy wrist, Scram went where Scram belonged: in the gutter. *wump wump wump* A steady rhythmic slapping of scaled flesh on scaled flesh. The jostling of large, dangling stethoscopes. A rattle and shattering of hot blood samples.
Offering an apologetic shrug to her mates as the raunchy spell took its course.
The thief had to think hard a moment. But no, mere brain power wouldn't suffice. Luckily, the cold-hearted businessman didn't have to rely on mental acrobatics anymore. Pulling forth her hand abacus stolen from a lizard doctor, the back-alley swindler began to calculate the odds of Raseri apologizing during an average halfling's lifetime in standard years. The painted shell sliders began to vibrate furiously under Scram's stubby fingers, their fine wire guides nearly red hot as the subatomically small odds nearly straight stack-errored the primitive calculator. "It's doing it! It's doing it!" the halfling stated dumbly as her gaze was transfixed, amazed at the resulting mantissa and characteristic actually reporting a number so infinitesimally zero. "Huh...wait a minute..." but it couldn't really be true, odds like that were impossible. Miracles. ~you probably saved that girl, saved that girl, saved that girl~ the phrase echoed in Scram's head like a poison bardsong, waiting for one final flash of insight. Mnemosyne. The protector goddess of young women had tricked Scram into it again. She knew Scram would be there ready to snatch the jewel where it jumped, knew the scoundrel would press to keepsake the thing...even despite it appearing so dangerous. The universe had positioned itself with the scrambled psyche on the cusp of salvation, just as Mnemosyne had remembered. Scramsax saw Raseri's redoubled efforts and said nothing further, simply going to the desk and pulling out a ceremonial lamp...letting its flickering oils illuminate the gemstone soul.
Scram was amazed to watch Raseri reach out her hand to the gem, about to do the exact same thing she had recently so harshly admonished Scram for as 'foolish'. The thief hoped it wasn't another dead war god. Priests were such hypocrites.
"Who knows Prophet, probably some kind of hag machine that mass produces lollipops with armpit hairs stuck in them..." the thief shrugged.
Sorry to hear it, sounds like you had a long relationship with her. In game, Scram never really intended to retreat, she was just moving back to avoid getting killed or targeted. If these farty cocoa crispies are going to chase us and/or warn the rest of this tower, then I think we should kill them all.
I can just hear Void Hammer (Ennui) bah-humbugging and not caring for the festivities at all. Then the hammers of christmas past come aknockin' and it turns out he had a heart of gold the entire time. Not.
Scramsax remembered the pixies, too. Remembered their tiny-tongue wagging raspberry warcries before a snowball fight that nearly straight-offed a sucker. Remembered also the dim-witted, elderly pixies who invaded Stalker's Retreat just before opening day, eating all the cucumbers and clogging the spa vents with sparkle dust. But especially Scramsax remembered the Pifflesneed riddling ghost-pixie that turned his fingers into voracious, blood-thirsty worms. Not to mention the freaking glitter that got stuck on everything. If she hadn't gagged herself in a pre-emptive defense against fart cocoa and other fart cocoa-esque edibles, the thief probably would have said something cold-hearted like 'They're better off dead' and pointed out the sorry looking nourishment basins in the corner of the cages which could only contain one thing...and it wasn't jolly.
"Daddy, a chocolate river!" the gum-chewing, pig-tailed little girl said with both glee and greed to a father who wasn't there. "I'll have one of those, two of those, yes, a box of the sprinkled ones, and...hmm? Where's the gum?! I'm the World Record holder in chewing gum. What are you waiting for, let me try it! I'm not afraid of anything!" A golden ticket entitling its owner to infinite free samples of Molly Holly's stash, along with a personal tour which promised to teach ethics in a fun, engaging way flashing in her pocket. Thumbing to herself arrogantly "I'm Indigo Vangeline!" Meanwhile, from the hidden perch the slayer calculated her dark trade. No, 20 deaths wouldn't be enough to sate the unflinching urge to eliminate this actual psycho-nest from the face of Midgard. Therefore she watered her flask of soil containing a bean, tossing it right under the most explosive factory station she could see: the high pressure sugar reduction chamber that turned mushroom syrup into solid canes. Hopefully, the bean would sprout something helpful in releasing enough of the toxic gas to kill as many of the little workers as possible, if not dropping 5.75 million tons of solid Southlands pyramid on top of everyone...
So, clearly this all must be completely destroyed. I think we have already established that. I propose tossing at least one bean as a quick way to do so. Veggies defeats candy like momma always wanted!
Happy holidays all! And same, I love a tilt towards the zany for any reason. ;)
Rolling her eyes at the teetotaling virgins "Right, because when a person drinks, they start to see dangerous things that turn them away from the gods, like fart cocoa! *Pssh*" the sarcastic thief deadpanned. "That's a normal thing that happens." "It's probably one of those classic hag switcheroo's, like that horse toothed girl back at the dead farmer's house. Sweet n' tasty peppermint mountain! Chocolate cream waterfalls! Oooh! But then it turns out to be aborted kitten intestines bloated with thrice-cursed demonic ichor and used carriage salesmen..."
"..." the thief's left eye twitched uncontrollably as she stood face-to-face with the candyland lair. Life would never really be the same again as some part of her childhood died, a wintry treat forever despoiled by the foul image. Here was at least one bean the Legume Whisperer would be boycotting in the future. Trying not to let confusion become overwhelming, Scram focused on the task of gathering more information. With a deft snip, she cut a sample of one of the mushrooms to bring back...
Scramsax rounded the corner white as a ghost, suddenly remembering turning into vanilla pudding a while back. Like fire and ice, chocolate and vanilla were destined to destroy each other. It was as if her physiology were returning to its vanilla pudding state in some kind of tactical posture. "Right so uh...here's the skinny, Six. There's a bunch of hot chocolate in there and some kind of sweety demon. Actually, ho! Maybe it was a witch...there was a wart on her nose after all! Now I can't be 100% certain, but here's the bad news: I think she farted in it so save your marshmallows...*nods* it was pretty frothy. Also, she was rather unshaven, probably some hairs in it too. So yeah, long story short, a bunch of impotable hairy, fart cocoa and a witch that loves it." the halfling explained with little laughter in her heart. "I think we should definitely kill her." the murderer added, wounded deeply on a psychological level from what she just saw...and seeking glory on behalf of the forces of vanilla.
"Yeah, probably some newt-water poison cauldron runoff from upstairs or somethin'...but here's hoping for a mineral hot spring." the thief crossed her eensy beensy fingers as she padded off down the eastern passage. Scramsax continued to conceal her feelings about the sand to the others. She didn't like it ...something was suspicious about it. Once around the corner, the halfling knelt and scooped up a handful, trying to understand its curious nature...
...digging a foot or so down before continuing on.
Here's the thing, I'm not saying that Scram should have known the universe would end if she filched the gem, but that maybe something was up and warranted further investigation or more caution. Why is there a statue with a priceless gem in its eye in the middle of an underground lake with no other signs of treasure nearby? What's going on with the skeletal figure before the altar? You're absolutely right. That's also what I'm saying (or trying to). Scram did think something was massively up. Not as massive as universe ending, but yes. I was ready for Scram to be retired as a character, or get the gem. That was the risk Scram saw. In my drunken post that silly, silly night, you can read indeed she thought the water's surface, when broken, would act like a spider's web that sounded the alarm for the skeleton. Like a trap. Scram (I) struggled to think of a way to get through the water without being detected. But again, since nat 20 appraisal = priceless...didn't care. Your argument that a thief shouldn't mess with a trap because it looks dangerous...not agreeing. TWTD (That's what thieves do). Even very smart, very wise thieves. DM explanation Haha, alright. :)
Yeah, Scram doesn't know how to feel about Khors' interpretation of her actions to be honest. Scram failed her will save multiple times and was under Carn's direct control. She couldn't have put it back even if she wanted to. What kind of god blames a mortal for falling under the control of another god? Did Khors expect Scramsax to be more powerful than a god? That seems foolish. Further, there was no sign saying stealing the gem would cause the end of Midgard. Scram saw a creepy skeleton with his back turned and the most expensive gem she ever appraised begging to be taken. Khors should have said something. Yes, it was a suspicious situation, but Scram's entire character is about avoiding traps and stealing jewels. Here the trap was divine and not avoided. Why didn't Khors tell Luthael to warn her beforehand if it was so important? Did Khors not see it coming? Did Scramsax sneak past a god? Scram suggests Khors rethink the situation. ;)
I get it, gods over bros. ;)
Ha, lets not get carried away. The lies he/she has got away with have shaped the party's perception of the thief as much as the lies he/she didn't get away with... I'd like to explore some other sides of Scram with Vee and Illarya and answer the question 'what would it take to betray them'. If we were to use the old school alignments, I would put him/her just north of neutral evil at true neutral in terms of what I am going for. The beans and other quick judgements (on my part when drunk irl usually) have made the character more chaotic. Scram is like a natural disaster but the impetus is the collection of wealth instead of pressure differentials. I've considered a few druid levels at some point. I think it would be hilarious after the Illarya relationship, beanstalk and lake incidents, and not to mention just how much Scram hates wandering around in nature and loves all things urban, if some druidic circle sought to punish/kill Scram. Then somehow instead, the rogue conned her way up through the complex hierarchy and convinced them such progressive methodology was for the best after all. I love the Ingryd relationship and the kind of unconditional trust and friendship she gives Scram. I miss the tight friendship Scram used to have with Luthael, I think the halfling has become too much for him. I loved how Scram, at least tongue in cheek, would believe every prophecy even to the point of proselytizing to others on Luthael's behalf. I think Jubal has maybe dialed back on the Prophet elements of the character, which is fine. Then Gunnar has always been a solid problem solving buddy. Good group all around from my perspective. :)
Scram's eyes bulged a thousand percent "Damn. Too right. You've got a real acumen for this sort of thing. Fellers gotta be real drunk to pour 'emself a glass of Skeleton Liquor...that's a fact. No steady income to be had." the halfling recalled certain half-pants'ed nights which may or may not have been pure imagination. Certain liquids were imbibed which possessed a certain alcoholic content, with no regard of their uncertain sources... When Ingryd held forth the darkened void, Scram's consciousness recoiled. Ginnungagap. She thought she had left the void behind, but here it was unmistakable...a mote of negative-Mnemosyne in the bear's grip. Her eyes crossed momentarily before snapping out of it "eh...Heh, sorry, Ennui. Noted. Ask it a question, Griz, the thing cracks me up. I wanna hear its outlook on life. Or wait, ask its favorite color. I bet its 'clear' or somethin' real weird!" Scram smiled.
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