After a half-day's journey on the back of a farmer's horse cart, the crowd for the harvest festival comes into view as the sun sets behind the thatch-roofed buildings. Tents cover the town square, filled with teeming masses of people laughing, eating, and drinking. Mirella, the plump barmaid at the Glutonous Gorgon, scurries back and forth between the crowd and the pavilion set up in front of the tavern building, carrying a tray full of clay pitchers of mead. The largest tent is set up over a
As soon as you climb out of the cart and thank the farmer, a voice calls out for your attention from the ground. In front of you, barely coming up to the waist of a normal human, is a harried-looking halfling woman with a clipboard.
"Are you here for the competition?" she asks. Without waiting for an answer, she exclaims "Thank Abadar! We had some no-shows, so in half an hour we were going to run out of acts. Let me get you registered, then you can prepare. It's ten gold pieces to enter, and I need your group's name and your set list."
She looks up at you expectantly. "So what do I call you?"
"What can you call us? What can you call US?!" Rekkstuff said instantly, stepping to the front of the group in a hurry. He was indeed the blondest, blue eyed-est, swaggeriest, downright rockingist metal hunk of half-elf ever since the invention of steel. Even his piercings had piercings, or so could be assumed by the metal earring he wore that had a second metal hoop in it. He drew his guitar much as a fighter might draw an axe. He pointed it forward, over the halfling's head and towards the stage. "We're the greatest band to ever hit the stage! We're the king of the kings! The creme of the creme! The cherry of cherries, and the band of bands! The lord of lords! The alpha and the omega! Why, we're..!"
Rekkstuff paused for a moment, as a horrid realization came to him. He had forgotten what they were actually called.
He backed away to the rest of the group. "Psst. Guys." he whispered as discreetly as he could (which wasn't at all discreet). "What'd we decide our name was? Wasn't it, like, the +1's?"
Jordon speaks in response to Rekkstuff, though he directs his speech to the halfling. He stands with good posture, his eyes closed and a dignified air about him which does not suit the place nor his company at all. "We call ourselves..." He begins, rather queietly and politely. However, he suddenly hunches his back, shakes his fist out in front of him, and says in the most dramatic and intense voice he can muster: "" He keeps a grim expression on his face for a few seconds, trying to make the name sound important, before dropping the act and taking a more regular stance. He smiles at the rest of the band, and pats the pig on the head. Then he reaches into his coin pouch, pulls out a platinum, and flicks it through the air, intending for it to land atop the halfling's clipboard. It misses however, and he quickly bends down to pick it up and clean off the mud before handing it to her, looking rather embarrassed.
Jordon looks like a comedic spoof of a nobleman. He wears what would be a fine dress outfit, if not for the garish and clashing yellows on greens on black. He has mismatched and jangly silver jewellery all over, except for on his hands (needing to keep them free for playing). A black beret with a red feather protruding from it rests atop his brown shoulder-length hair. His demeanor is rather easygoing, and he sports a small grin.
The halfling woman rolls her eyes and scribbles something onto her clipboard. She glances up at the stage as the current act stops playing, then turns back to all of you. "OK, just get me the set list when you're done playing. There's one more act, then you're up, so do whatever you need to do to get ready."
Jordon quickly paints his face up white using some of the group's makeup. As soon as he is finished, his demeanor is changed, his face seeming much more serious now, and his mouth staying silent and shut. He limbers up his fingers, ready and waiting to play.
Rekkstuff VanHalen tunes his guitar carefully, playing the opening riff of a somehow nostalgic song. After a few chords, he carefully tweaks his baby, then does it again. Meanwhile, one of the fingers he's not using to chord and strum with is directing around his makeup with Mage Hand, applying the white stage makeup to his face. This was followed by black facepaint for the area around his eyes.
Satisfied with his tuning, he stops strumming the same darn chord over and over again (catchy though it may be), and uses Prestidigitation to apply a fire paint job to his guitar, as well as to clean it off and make sure it is sparkling fresh.
"I'm pretty well set." he finally announced. "So when do we get to make these losers look like losers?"
Victor quickly spit-polishes the studs on his leather - or at least on the front part that's visible beneath the open shirt of his gaudy entertainers' outfit.
"Hey guys, should I switch it so the leather's on the outside? Or is this good?" he asks his bandmates, before changing his mind and muttering, "Oh, nevermind that - no time for last minute indecision. I've got work to do..."
Perception:
Stealth:
Victor finds a nice little nook behind the stage where he is mostly hidden, but can watch the current act through the cracks between the cloths hung up to form the back of the stage.
The silent man in the back speaks now. "Save some insanity for the stage, Rekkstuff. It'll be better suited to pleasing the crowd." Roger is wearing a long, grey coat, with a face pale enough to scare a ghost. His eyes sunken, and his lips nearing a hue reserved for the dead, he is one of the more naturally frightening members of the group. His boots thud heavily as he walks, and his bass has a row of 2-3 inch spikes along its bottom edge.
His expression lightens. "Good thing we made it in time, eh? Otherwise these fine people wouldn't get the privilege of hearing in action."
Victor finds a nice little nook behind the stage where he is mostly hidden, but can watch the current act through the cracks between the cloths hung up to form the back of the stage.
When the band starts warming up, Jordon conjures a simple wooden toy piano and plays a sad little melody, saying nothing and keeping a straight face. Once that's done with, he sits silently with his eyes closed, his fingers slowly stroking the keys but playing nothing. He seems to be psyching himself up for what is his first real gig.
A smattering of applause punctuates the festival as the last act finishes playing. They quickly leave the stage and make room for you to set up your own instruments. The simple farming folk in the audience look askance at your outlandish clothing and makeup, carrying on their own conversations to fill the silence, and taking advantage of the break to buy something to eat from the various street vendors.
Jordon strides onto the stage after Tobar, his back straight and his face a mask of solemnity. He calmly strolls to stage left and, with a flick of his wrist and a spoken incantation, a toy piano appears. The piano is covered in patterns of green, yellow, and black which match Jordon's outfit, and has "Spectral Hands" written, italicized, on the back of it in bright red paint. It might be an impressive sight, if it were not so tiny. The entire piano is a bit smaller than Squealy, though it has long, stilt-like legs so that the keys come up at just the right height. He stands still, ready and waiting for the drummer to queue them to begin the first song.
Now, Roger walks in, Pointing to various members of the Audience, and asking them in a hushed voice, "Are you sure you're ready for this?" He will mix up the selected audience members until the drummer queues up the first song.
Rekkstuff VanHalen also followed the others to the stage, carrying his guitar over his shoulder as though it was some kind of axe and he was about to hit someone in the face with it.
Once he did get all the way out, he quickly shifted it into his hands. There were no tricks, partially because his band had those covered and partially because he'd sold his spell component pouch and all the spells he'd wanted to cast had some sort of material component. What he didn't have in cheap tricks he made up for, however, in sheer rock. As the music started playing, however, his furious guitar playing would speak for itself.
-- In which VanHalen has the most awesome guitar solo.
The third song was falling a little flat. Rekkstuff VanHalen could feel it. The first song had wreaked mighty havoc, and the second was decent. But the third.
Something had to be done. They had the pyrotechnics. They had the music. But they were phoning it in. Making errors. Rekkstuff VanHalen did not make mistakes.
The show needed a big finish. Without a bat available to bite the head off of, this left few options. Gods, that piano playing was grating. It was so... So.... mediocre. He need a plan. But that piano.
This piano? This piano! Piano piano plink plink plonk plunk plink THIS STUPID PIANO! I CAN'T THINK LIKE THIS!!
Letting loose a visceral scream (that fit into the song, no less!), Rekkstuff VanHalen flew into his blood rage, choking up on his guitar and spinning towards the piano, striking it at full force.
Rekkstuff VanHalen then loosed another roar. Again, in time with the music.
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As the undertaker wheels Roach's body away in his cart, the festival organizer weaves her way through the quickly-dispersing crowd.
"I'm really sorry about your friend," she says. "I never knew piano wire was under such high tension. But except for the people in the front row who got sprayed with blood, everyone loved your act. You're a shoe-in for the winner of the competition." She tosses 100 gold pieces in a bag to Victor, then turns and starts barking orders to a squad of men with mops and buckets.
The town square is mostly dark now, as the last of the tents and tables are packed away. Above the noise of deconstruction, you hear the faint grunts and cries of someone drift out of an alleyway, mixed with taunts and laughter.
"Great. Now we need a new drummer. Again." Rekkstuff VanHalen says with some annoyance. "Can we at least get one that remembers to duck this time? Seriously, this is, like, the fourth guy we've gone through."
It was then that he heard the insults, grunts, cries and laughter coming from around the corner.
This could only mean one of two things: Either someone was in a fight, or someone was getting him some. Either way, this seemed the best lead on a new drummer. Rekkstuff VanHalen began to walk towards the source of the noise.
Luckily for Jordon, he was fast enough to dodge the high-tension wires as Rekkstuff and his axe greeted them. Unlucky for him, his instrument killed Roach. He maintains a straight face even as arterial blood sprays across him, determined to stay in character . Ah well, he thinks, He knew the risks of playing in a metal band when he signed on. Poor loss though. Immediately following the performance, Jordon wipes his face clean of the makeup, and returns to his normal demeanor, smiling and joking with the rest of them.
After the performance, Jordon follows behind Rekkstuff, not sure where they're going but not caring all that much.
"Hold up there, Rekstuff!" Victor calls in an urgent half-whisper, running up to the front of the group. "Your... well, your YOU-ness is why we need a new drummer in the first place. Your stuff is great on stage, but getting a new drummer is a job for the talker, alright? Besides," he continues with a wink, "If things go south, I daresay I'd be better in a fight."
Victor begins cautiously approaching the source of the commotion, ready to either talk or duck, as appropriate.
"Tch, please." Rekkstuff VanHalen replied with folded arms and a look that screamed 'bull.' "Only thing you're better at's not getting hit. And talking. A lot."
God, sometimes that Victor just wouldn't stop taking sometimes. Still, when it came to finding bandmates, there was certainly no one better. His HIM-ness? What did that even mean? Nevertheless, he slowed down enough to let Victor take point. To be safe, he put a hand on his guitar. Most good drummers were violent, sociopathic creatures, and Rekkstuff VanHalen knew to deal with such creatures with violence.
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Roger chuckles, even with such a grave event having just happened. "Calm down Rekkstuff, you did good. This just isn't where you excel. You'll have plenty of opportunities to show where you excel, just as you did tonight. Then, they'll really see what makes you the rockingest of them all."
God, sometimes that Rekkstuff was so pushy. Still, when it came to putting on a show, there certainly was no better. To assure Rekkstuff, he put a hand on his shoulder. This guitarist was a violent, sociopathic creature, and he knew how to deal with such a creature with flattery.
In an especially dark corner of the alleyway, you all spot two human figures kicking and taunting a small dark lump curled up on the ground.
"Hey chump," one of them says, "you think you can just go walking around on our turf without paying the toll?"
They turn when they hear the five of you turn the corner. They look you over from head to toe, sneer, and say, "Why don't you girls go play dress-up somewhere else? We've got business here to take care of."
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Victor narrows his eyes and takes a step forward.
"Why don't you make me, motherf*****s? You don't diss my duds. You don't. Diss. THE DUDS!
Breathing hard, Victor raises his fists and tightens his knuckles. Talking is too good for back-alley scum like this.
"Oh. I'm sorry." Rekkstuff VanHalen says in a tone that implies he is in no way actually sorry. "I thought I just heard two nancy boys who were asking to get their candy apple arses kicked bright red for being a pair of morons."
He points his guitar at the two of them, the menacing glint in his eye the same one as when he broke things on stage, and his wide grin is more than a little unsettling. "Tell ya what. I'll give you one more chance to get that right before you wind up a red stain on my Rickenbacker 4001. What was that you just said? Punk?"
"You've made a terrible mistake. You aren't going to enjoy anyy of what's about to transpire."
The lead thug grips his quarterstaff tightly, and stutters, "L-look man, we got no quarrel with you. Just let us get what this guy owes us, and you can go wherever you want."
Roger:
Rekkstuff:
Victor:
Tobar:
Jordon:
Thugs:
EDIT: Sorry Roger, I missed your intimidate check.
Rekkstuff VanHalen charges the second they pull their weapons out, the frightening smile becoming a roar of fury in an instant. His pupils narrow to pinpricks as he brings his guitar to bear against the thug standing right in front of him.
Rekkstuff's guitar strikes a glancing blow against the thug, but it's deflected by a metal stud in his leather armor, which tears a long gash in the paint.
"No sense of tactics..." Victor sighs under his breath, shaking his head at the screaming VanHalen.
Victor advances, hoping to keep Rekkstuff from getting into too much trouble.
"This is for the clothes!" he yells.
vs FF
damage (lethal, not nonlethal)
The thug grabs at his face, and blood trickles through his fingers. "Thut thun of a bith broke muh fayth!" He sidesteps to get directly in front of Victor and a little away from Rekkstuff, and strikes out angrily with his quarterstaff.
Sense Motive:
Hit!
The other shifts around to get behind Rekkstuff, and steel flashes in the moonlight as he brandishes a dagger and thrusts it toward the brash guitarist.
Roger points at the thug that shifted around Rekkstuff and mumbles a few magic words.
The uninjured thug falls to the ground, pounding his fist on the cobblestones, laughing maniacally at some joke only he heard.