ubertripp's page

Yes, Aard that's the plan. Neva wants to know, a) to which sects could we look for allies, and b) are there any she feels are strong enough to handle such a challenge.

Obviously, this is one of those situations that are difficult to adjudicate in RPGs. A month ago in the game world, our characters were 1st-lvl losers and had neither allies nor a claim to fame and there were many people better fit to meet the challenges we were trying to overcome. But now, we have allies and a claim to fame so we should be able to ask powerful people for favors. But it's a role-playing game and we're supposed to be the heroes who solve these problems! If we wanted NPCs to solve all the problems would could wrap this Path up in an afternoon of expository prose.

This is a difficult encounter. We're weak, he's strong, but the heroic thing is to thwart or destroy the bad guy. Is there a way to do that with allies/personages in Korvosa (that we know of)?

That 120' fall was freaking hysterical. I laughed so hard, but I remember the player not being too pleased. Then another PC jumped out to "save" him. My cleric Tanjvats had the ring of feather falling, jumped after both of them, with the first PC dead in the water and the second one in deep negatives. I saved him, I think.
The rest of the PCs were like "Why do all these people keep jumping off this ledge!?!? Is there a curse?!!?"

So funny!

Lol, Rutter, you must be a nice DM. I'd be all "Your failure leaves Korvosa prey to the evil of Urgathoa and the Queen. The few surviving citizens curse your names between hacking coughs and blows from their master's whips."

:-)

Ever get that feeling in a game like the DM sees the TPK coming and doesn't really want to roll the dice? :-)

I think survivors might need to bolt if she's not out next round.

I wish I could have seen that, too, Rutter! Lol, it might have been your best attack of the campaign.

I don't know about two, but I'm bowing out of this game, Dawnilea. I'm hanging up my PbP spurs for a few years to focus my gaming time with my kids. They're now old enough to do some proper games, but not old enough that they don't want to spend time with their Dad. :-)

Anyway, it's been a ton of fun, and I appreciate the years of work and camaraderie from everyone.

-Tripp

Neva vomitted on the floor in horror and revulsion, and then moved forward in a rage.

Entering the room, she raised a clenched fist and unleashed a string of curses against this horrid treatment of the dead.

channel to put down what undead I can: 3d6 ⇒ (6, 6, 6) = 18

Wow, she WAS pissed!

"Ha!" Agnar shouted in triumph as he dispelled the boggard's magic.

Almost instantly his eyes went wide as a wall of water approached him.

swim: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (1) + 3 = 4
swim Fang: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (5) + 7 = 12

"Gozreh's green ba.!" was all he managed to shout before he and Fang were washed backwards.

Agnar welcomed Prazil into his room and listened intently as the kobold asked his questions.

With a sympathetic smile, Agnar answered. "Yes, you are very strong Prazil, and a great warrior. And Gorum is mighty in these areas. And those who follow him can gain great strength and prowess. It is said that Gorum resides in every forged blade and hammer, and that his worshipers can unlock his blessings through practice and devotion."

Agnar paused, and chose his next words carefully.

"But Gorum is also stern and demanding. Those who worship him must worship battle, and often battle for its own sake."

"This story might be a good example.

"Long ago, in the Age of Destiny, when the mighty pyramids of Osirion were being raised and Taldor was still a distant dream, a great chief ruled a land of rich farms and strong people. He gave his devotion to Gorum and the Lord in Iron bestowed upon him amazing strength and a tireless arm in battle. The chief used his gifts to provide protection and safety for his people and for many, many years they lived in peace. The chief wed, and had children, whom he taught to fight and to worship Gorum in their turn.

"But as years of peace wore on, the chief began to feel a weakness growing in his body, a weakness far beyond the simple advancement of age. And in his weakness he began to fear that Gorum had abandoned him, and would abandon his family and his people.

"So the chief traveled far across the world to an ancient shrine of Gorum, and placed upon it his own sword, notched and stained from battle. 'Gorum' he cried. 'What have I done that you have forsaken me? Why do you abandon me to weakness, so that I cannot protect mine own?' And Gorum appeared to him as a terrible thunderstorm, his rain-gray armor covered in bloody spikes of iron, and lightening crackled around him.

'I have not abandoned you, it is you who have abandoned me. I did not give you strength so that you could build hearths and nurseries. I did not make your arm tireless so that it could chop wood for your warmth, or to gather wool to swaddle your babes. I am to be found always in the forged blades of war. In the plow, though it be made by the same hand and of the same iron, I reside not. Seek me in battle, if my strength you desire once more.'

"And with that, Gorum departed. The chief returned home to his people, and gathered from them a great party of war. All the young old enough to carry a blade, and all the old young enough to carry themselves, and everyone in between save nursing women and infants, were armed with bright iron and marched to a neighboring land. There they set upon the people of that place and made a great and terrible slaughter. But their numbers were too few and all, including the chief and each of his sons, were killed.

"Back in the chief's land, a huge thunderstorm came into the sky, crackling with lightening, and the setting sun gave it the color of bloody iron. A great rain fell and it washed the people and beasts of that place into river to drown or be dashed upon rocks. Farms were stripped bare, and the stores of grain were sodden and rotting, and so a great hunger came upon the land.

"The huddled survivors, nursing women and babes, beseeched the heavens, calling upon Gorum, asking 'Why are you displeased with us?' But Gorum replied, 'You are mistook. I am pleased. And I shall make you strong.'

Agnar paused and took a sip of water.

"I can not tell you who to worship, Prazil. But I can say that you've told me that you want to be strong for your friends and for your homeland. That is not simply physical strength. It is a special kind of strength that we call valor. And because of that, I would suggest that you also examine the rites of Iomedae. I fear you are too good and kind a person to find all you want in Gorum."

With a sigh, he rose and put a consoling hand on the kobold's shoulder.

Stabilize DC 15: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 2 = 22

Angar's hacked body lay in a pool of its own blood, but the chest continued to move up and down slightly, showing that the cleric still lived.

Enthusiastically, Larenti agreed. "Oh, it's the best. And it's what..." he stopped before saying Shensen, and had to recover quickly. "...a lot of coffee lovers drink."

Headline: 12th Level Cleric Torn Apart By Skeletons

When asked directly why he supported the return of the Silver Ravens, Larenti was overcome with a powerful vision:

He stood on the balcony of the liberated Opera House, looking boldly at the horizon in triumph. Below him, the city roared its approval. And on his arm....no...holding him tight, with one silken hand at the top of his back, fingers brushing his neck, was Shensen. And she whispered in his ear, her magical voice a breathless song of love and admiration, "Larenti! Thank you, thank you, by Gods! Thank you!"
As he turned his eyes from the sky to meet hers and leaned in to kiss, he remembered himself and the questioner.

He flushed and blinked twice, trying to gather his wits.

With what he hoped was a convincing passion, he lied, "House Thrune has gone too far. What they claim is order is just oppression, and I would see my home free once more,"

Bluff: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (14) + 7 = 21
CHA skill reroll due to Star Struck (Shensen) trait: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (14) + 7 = 21
Guess I'll take the 14!

He set his jaw to sell it.

Agnar shook his head. "Sadly, I am not trained in such mysteries. My magic flows from my faith, and I have kept my mind focused there, and not the magic itself. It makes me happier, if occasionally useless."

Hi, it's Ubertripp. I'm ready to jump in when you guys are. I see you left Agnar behind a few posts ago. Is it ok if he jumps in and tries to deal with all the pretty music?

A couple of questions:
1) Where is my animal companion, Fang?
2) What is this "kinbonded +1 composite longbow (attuned to Katerina--no soft cover (+2 Str)"? I can't find "kinbonded" in the SRD.

Lol, I was doing the same thing last night. "Necromancer? What Necromancer?" I recalled this morning the whole Cabbage head/ Jester thing. But I also recall Dr. Davalos(sp?) being in charge of the Queens Physicians. Isn't he supposed to be here or something?

And, profuse apologies to Aard. It's not you, it's us. And the format!

Perception: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (1) + 8 = 9

Larenti froze for a moment at the first sign of movement.

Dachshunds?!

Lol! No kidding. Welcome to Curse of the Crimson Dicebot.

:-)

Larenti was down to 7 of 12, so he'll spend two straight 24hrs of rest, for 4, bringing him to 11 of 12

Larenti went back to his small apartment. He gingerly took off his ripped and bloody clothing, and used the rags to stop the last seeping wounds.

He gave his final few pieces of gold to his landlady, Mrs. Doruga, a kindly old half-orc. In return she brought hot water, clean clothes and some food. Mrs. Doruga had a broken tusk and few remaining teeth, all stained by uncounted cups of tea and an ever-present tobacco pipe. More impressive was her huge bosom, which had grown with age to cover the entire area from her shoulders to her knees, and which she kept stuffed behind both a sturdy blouse and a leather apron.

With hot water and clean rags, she dabbed off the dried blood where he couldn't reach, and helped him lie down on his small bed, its wooden creak a welcoming music.

As she left, cradling a lukewarm bowl of bloody rags and fumbling with the latch, he looked up at he walls and ceiling around his bed.

Posters, handbills, playbills and flyers were lovingly glued to the crumbling plaster. Each showed the name or face of Shensen, and his eyes traveled a familiar path over the costumes, expressions or embellished lettering of the advertisements. In these he saw not only the range of her abilities as an actress. He also saw a pattern, or theme of emotion: a longing and a loneliness that he understood and shared.

Only he had looked long enough and close enough to see it. And because of this, only he really knew her secret heart, behind the facade that fame had forced upon her. One day he'd share this secret with her, and it would be by this that she would know him.

In his imagination, he played over a thousand encounters with her, each showing his heroism, each ending with her acclaim and affection: Larenti defeating some thugs and saving Shensen from danger; Larenti debating Barzillai and forcing the re-opening of the Opera House (Bardigan helped a bit with the coaching); Larenti leading a renewed Silver Ravens to free Kintargo from Thrune rule, handing the very city over to her!

But no. Not him, a half-breed. He couldn't lead. His mind scribbled out and re-wrote the plot. He would be the cunning spy-master of the campaign, managing the thousand relationships of successful rebellion with secrets, lies and a deadly rapier. Another face, probably Bardigan's, would lead, but his hand would steer events and shape the fate of the city. Few would know the full scope of his role, the power he held.

But she'd know. In the end, she'd know that it was him, and that he'd done it for her. And she'd be overcome with a passion fueled by gratitude and a sense of fate fulfilled. Her beauty, and voice, and soft skin would envelope him, soothe him, comfort him. He would be able to fall into that love completely; the striving and fighting and scheming would end. He'd curl up, surrounded in a love as warm, and as necessary, as sleep.

Neva has delayed until after the PC of a player who just went out of town. Doh.

:-)

Neva took the proffered hunk of bark and tentatively swirled it in her tea. She took the now-moist bit out again and sniffed, a smile growing on her face as she did so.
"That smells nice"
She touched the bark to her tongue, but pulled away with a grimace. "Oooh! That's bitter. Maybe just in small doses."

She stirred the bark a few more times around her cup and then set it dripping on the saucer.

"You're right of course about Rutter. I think I'm more upset about it than he is. I guess it just seemed like we were all going to die down there."

She paused for a moment and took a sip of her tea. She nodded that she liked the flavor, but her smile faded quickly and she became serious again.

"Raliscar, I've spent my whole life just trying to be a simple midwife who tended to the needs of the poor. My parents, Lady judge them gently, were always a bit disappointed I didn't make more of my gifts. And Zellara, especially, thought that I could do even greater things. She thought I SHOULD do greater things. But I wanted to see the beautiful, beginning parts of life: new marriages, new babies. I guess I didn't want to see the other stuff. I was afraid of it.
But being with you all this short time, I've realized I can do more. And this plague and the suffering it has caused..." her voice trailed off for a moment.

"Down there in the Jeggare, when it didn't look good, and Rutter's blood, and Vyhs' and yours and Felgar's too was all I could see. Well, a part of me kept thinking, 'they're going to get away with it'.. The people who did this. The ones who have murdered all the people who have died of this plague; the ones who have torn apart so many families with loss and grief." She paused again, and her face was grim.

"I want them to pay. I don't care who they are, or who they know, or what magics or powers they can call upon. I want to find them, and make them pay for their crimes."

She gave a sad little laugh. "I just don't know how." Tears welled up in her eyes and she took another sip of her tea.

"It really is good, Ral. Thank you. Thank you for everything."

Worst PC I DM'd was a martial arts psion: Monk3/Egoist5/Psionic Fist 1. I tried my best to let the guy play the character he wanted, and merge his bizarre concept into the world. There were story lines, special items, etc.
But by 9th level he had a BAB of +4 (for his this "tank" build), and took 5-6 rounds to buff himself to reasonable effectiveness. By that time the other PCs (all single-class, core PCs) had usually finished the fight.
The rules mechanics eventually became so complex that even he couldn't play the character.

The worst I've played was in a one-shot game of Mutant Future. The stats were just horrific and the combination of mutant abilities and deficiencies were comical. I could change the size of objects and could move like a simian, but I was a deaf mute.

The scenario began with the characters coming out of cryo in a dark room with an unknown force draining their life away. Unable to see, hear or otherwise interact with the other PCs, my character's first action was to try to run to find some sort of exit from the silent, painful dark. DM rolled to see which direction I ran...right into another PC...the one with the poison skin. Failed save. Dead.
He lived for exactly one action.
We all laughed so hard the game had to stop for 10 minutes or so.

I tried the exact same character when the DM ran the scenario at a con. I made it to the wall, but before I could find the door, the unknown force drained his HP. Lasted 2 rounds that time. :-)

Ripperclaws' Haberdashery: We're slashing prices, too!

My house rules:

Ability Damage: We use the 3.5 version of this rule: ability damage reduces ability modifiers accordingly. Ignore the Pathfinder rule that says “For every 2 points of damage you take to a single ability, apply a –1 penalty to skills and statistics listed with the relevant ability.”
Thus, a single point of ability damage will lower the ability modifier for a stat of say, 12, but not for one of 13. I do this to show that a 13 is better than a 12.

Trapfinding is a Feat: Any class may choose the Rogue class feature “Trapfinding” as a feat. It is a “General” feat, for purposes of those classes which gain bonus feats (e.g Fighter Combat feats or Wizard Item Creation feats). This is intended to allow parties without Rogues to still have a trap specialist. Characters will still need to put points into the Perception and Disable Device skills to take proper advantage of this feat.

[And after having read this thread, I think I'm going to try the "Combat Maneuvers only provoke AoOs on failure" option. I think that might increase the odds of the maneuvers being attempted...I want to see if it makes combats a bit more lively.]

Those Heal checks should have been at +7+2, not +4+2, but both passed anyway, and so I didn't edit the post. The nat 20 gets to 39! The power of self-loathing!
:-)

[rules on crafting intelligent items that don't include scrolls]

No other items can be intelligent.

Aww. I was looking forward to this...

Oh yeah...meant to put a skill point in spellcraft this level. Maybe next! Let's hope I don't learn this lesson the hard way.

Spellcraft untrained: 1d20 ⇒ 2

*choke*

The thought that he might be the one who succumbed to fear was too much. His hands began to shake and he ripped the parchment with his quill. As he tried to put a new piece of parchment in place, he spilled his ink. With his fingers stained once again, he went to bed filled with self-loathing at his failure. He did not sleep well.

From the next set's errata:
"The QR code for the Light Crossbow should look like 3 squares around a bunch of black stuff that kinda looks like a praying mantis, not 3 large squares and a small square in a snowstorm."

:-)

One last time, and then I'm going to go rip it's throat out with my teeth!

Tanjvats reloaded and aimed again at the goblin.

Lt. Crossbow: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (4) + 0 = 4

But there was too much confusion. He couldn't see a shot.

Yelling in anger, he began sloshing towards the goblin, his teeth bared.

"You'll taste better than this damned sewage seeping into my mouth thoughts!!"

A part of his mind tried desperately to parse or justify that sentence, but failed. It was beaten into submission by the much larger part of him overcome by anger.

Ok, I think I'm ready rumble.

Or, in the case of a cleric: Let's get ready to HUUUUMMMMMBLE!

Elrawien Lantherion wrote:

What a nice dancing brother, maybe your theme song can be dancing queen from Abba :)

Ha! Nah, you're the queen =P If anything, his song would be Can't Touch This =P

[singing]

Thanks for all the diligent work on this. I buy books, but I use the PRD all the time while gaming, so I appreciate your efforts to maintain and improve.

Didn't see this mentioned in the thread so far:

The "Whirlwind (Su)" entry in Universal Monster Rules of the first Bestiary is not correct. The 2nd and 3rd Bestiaries have the new version of the rule, see especially the 4th paragraph of each.

I'd prefer that the there was only one set of Universal Monster Rules for the whole PRD, with content linking to each book where necessary. As is, when I search for "Whirlwind" I get three results for the universal monster rules, one of which doesn't match the other two in terms of functionality.

It's gotta be bad karma to whack a Neil-Spicer-played NPC. Must...control...urge to kill....favored enemy....*grunt*