Completed [Play-by-Post] Magic World/BRP: "In Search of the Sorcerer"

[L'ennui]

"Duke Mallowheart, you say? Is he the one that took the woman? What can you tell us about him? And does he serve the Cold Prince?"

 

[Wayward Son]

Spoiler

Spoiler

If we wanna jump this bugger, ler's get to it before he starts on Solon. Much as Solon's repulsive, I can't let the bugger be et by satyrs.

Yeah, my plan is to play along until we have what we want and then renege on the deal. Sound good to everyone?

"Yes, I too am interested in this Mellowheart. And who was this female you speak of, what did she look like? What direction were they headed in?"

 

[nikolokolus]

Farthingy's head swivels back and forth at the succession of questions and groans in frustration, "Enough! Too much man-things talk!" He stamps his feet angrily causing dirt from the sod roof to rain down and pelt Urash and Mab. (There's very little room in the hut, at most one more person could squeeze in here).

He focuses his hourglass pupils on Urash and speaks through clenched teeth, "Mallowheart brother to Cold Prince, but Farthingy knows little about court intrigue of Dubh Sidhe." He then turns to Mab, "Ugh . . . flamehair look like weak man-thing. Mallowheart leaves and takes flamehair with him towards Lankshorn, or maybe Hag's Addle? He does not tell Farthingy and Farthingy not asking. Now Farthingy tired of watching wriggling worms on man-things faces dancing and writhing and Farthingy's ears ring with prattle." He makes a dismissive motion with his meaty hand and he turns his back to you momentarily as he snatches up Solon by the neck with one hand and the cleaver with the other and starts dragging him over to the butcher block ...

Borric's mind races thinking about how best to deal with the hulking goatman

Spoiler

All I will say is that Farthingy is about 2.5 meters tall (8 ft), probably weighs about 200 kilos (450 ish lbs.) he appears to have sharp canine teeth, big curling horns on his head, a big-ass club, a cleaver and a whip at his disposal, plus he's in a confined space where no more than maybe 2 or 3 people could get at him simultaneously. The cherry on top is that right now the two fellows closest to him are an unarmored sorcerer and a slightly more protected druid. Fighting him inside the hut seems like an un-fun thing to do . . .

 

[L'ennui]

Urash crosses his hands behind his back, inspecting the grim hut interior with evident disgust and listening to Farthingy's rant. His right index finger is repeatedly tracing patterns in the air behind him, and he is humming a tune very softly. When the goat thing has spoken its piece, he clears his throat and speaks, in a slow, almost musical tone following the tune he was humming earlier:

Spoiler

Casting Domination. [1d100] = 51 vs 89 Casting skill.

Resisted MPP, and after casting for 2 MP I'm left with 14 MP. Here's my roll on the Resistance Table: [1d100] = 26

"Oh, one last thing then. Release our companion and stay in this hut for a good, long while."

 

[ERYFKRAD]

Borric squeezes into the room and urges the Drune out.

 

[nikolokolus]

Urash surreptitiously invokes his spell (-20% to his casting skill, but still good enough).

Farthingy shakes his head and blinks confusedly several times before staring blankly at Urash. It nods slowly, pushes Solon forward and then sits down heavily on the earthen floor. He scratches his neck with his hind leg and busies himself with a vigorous round of "self-grooming" his nether regions with his tongue.

Solon stops crying and rises to his knees with a look of abject horror on his face.

 

[Llywelyn ap Gruffydd]

"Well, that is something new." Amon looks in disgust as the beast "cleans" himself. Amon takes quick glance around for anything of interest that was not described already, but is fairly oblivious.

Search=[1d100] = 96 vs 46 = FAIL

 

[nikolokolus]

Farthingy seems utterly oblivious to anyone's presence inside his hut and contents himself with sitting on his haunches in the middle of the one-room dwelling. Urash's spell seems to have thoroughly enthralled and pacified the creature for now. The hunched creatures in the pen behind the hut start howling and gibbering again. The racket causes your head to throb with pain and makes coherent thought difficult (Stamina Rolls for characters within earshot; i.e. everyone).

 

[Grimgravy]

Stamina(65): [1d100] = 74

 

[L'ennui]

"Solon, you fool! Come, quickly!"

Spoiler

[1d100] = 39 vs 50

 

[Llywelyn ap Gruffydd]

[1d100] = 25 vs 55 Stamina

Amon will grab the bronze helm and sheathed swords from the junk pile while the creature is busy.

 

[Wayward Son]

40 vs 50 Stamina

 

[ERYFKRAD]

[1d100] = 46

 

[ERYFKRAD]

[1d100] = 46

Spoiler

Somehow this smartphone is a bigger pain to post with than my regular phone. I believe I've succeeded my stamina roll, if that's the case, I'd like to make an attempt to assist Rhemyr/Grimgravy, maybe rush out and cover his ears, if that is acceptable.

 

[nikolokolus]

[1d100] = 46

Spoiler

Somehow this smartphone is a bigger pain to post with than my regular phone. I believe I've succeeded my stamina roll, if that's the case, I'd like to make an attempt to assist Rhemyr/Grimgravy, maybe rush out and cover his ears, if that is acceptable.

Spoiler

Sure, you succeeded and yes you can assist Rhenmyr

Rhenmyr is forced to clutch his head, the voices claw into his brain and fill him with an uncontrollable urge to gibber, drool and laugh. Fortunately everyone else seems to have retained their wits and are able to exit the hut and walk a short distance away. Borric's quick thinking allow him to grabl the disoriented ranger and drag him about 100 feet away from the pen where the hunched black-furred creatures continue their insane yowling and chattering. After about 3 or 4 minutes Rhenmyr stops giggling and howling and regains his senses. The mad voices drifting through the air no longer compel him, but he feels an intense sense of loss.

Amon snatches up the weathered conical helm and the two bronze swords. He takes a moment to examine them and when he pulls them out of their sheath, he realizes that they aren't bronze, but rather golden-hued orichalcum. One is a well-balaned leaf-shaped shortsword and the other is a fine broadsword, etched with an intricate draconic motif.

sword stats

base stats for both blades: double regular hit points, and well balanced +10% to swords skill, possibly other benefits . . .
Broadsword: +10% to sword skill, 1d8+1+db, HP: 40
Shortsword: +10% to sword skill, 1d6+1+db, HP: 40

 

[Llywelyn ap Gruffydd]

Spoiler

[1d100] = 46

Spoiler

Somehow this smartphone is a bigger pain to post with than my regular phone. I believe I've succeeded my stamina roll, if that's the case, I'd like to make an attempt to assist Rhemyr/Grimgravy, maybe rush out and cover his ears, if that is acceptable.

Spoiler

Sure, you succeeded and yes you can assist Rhenmyr

Rhenmyr is forced to clutch his head, the voices claw into his brain and fill him with an uncontrollable urge to gibber, drool and laugh. Fortunately everyone else seems to have retained their wits and are able to exit the hut and walk a short distance away. Borric's quick thinking allow him to grabl the disoriented ranger and drag him about 100 feet away from the pen where the hunched black-furred creatures continue their insane yowling and chattering. After about 3 or 4 minutes Rhenmyr stops giggling and howling and regains his senses. The mad voices drifting through the air no longer compel him, but he feels an intense sense of loss.

Amon snatches up the weathered conical helm and the two bronze swords. He takes a moment to examine them and when he pulls them out of their sheath, he realizes that they aren't bronze, but rather golden-hued orichalcum. One is a well-balaned leaf-shaped shortsword and the other is a fine broadsword, etched with an intricate draconic motif.

sword stats

base stats for both blades: double regular hit points, and well balanced +10% to swords skill, possibly other benefits . . .
Broadsword: +10% to sword skill, 1d8+1+db, HP: 40
Shortsword: +10% to sword skill, 1d6+1+db, HP: 40

Spoiler

Awesome!

 

[Grimgravy]

Rhenmyr, a sad look on his face, shakes his head. He doesn't seem to realize they have moved.

 

[L'ennui]

Urash regains his breath and looks back toward the hut, then turns "North" to survey the black clouds storming over the forest. He points that way with his hand.

"We should probably get moving soon, friends. We don't know how time is passing in this strange realm."

 

[Llywelyn ap Gruffydd]

"I wonder if the encounter we just had was with one of the most extreme creatures in this realm, or one of the least. We should be careful that we don't end up like those poor bastards in the hut."

Amon looks back at the hut, shakes his head and then goes to inspecting his new finds.

 

[nikolokolus]

Uncertain of how long Urash's spell will last, the troupe quickly starts hiking over the fells toward the ominous skyline. The ground is rocky, uneven and heavily broken, which quickly convinces you to get back on the worn track that skirts the edge of the hoary woods (in the wake of the giant footprints you saw when you first exited the woods). You walk for what feels like five or six miles along the edge of the woods with the ever-present mass of lightning-streaked clouds looming in the distance. Your legs are starting to feel tired and your clothes are heavy with the sweat of exertion and you can just sort of feel that you've put in a solid 'days' worth of travel, even though there is still no sun and the sky continues its nasty habit of shifting from putrescent green, to bruised purple, bathing the landscape in a hazy half-light. Some of you look back and scan the horizon in the direction of the goatman's hut, fortunately there doesn't appear to be any sign of pursuit, but with the dim light and the rolling hills, it's impossible to say for sure.

Without much warning the ground and the trail starts to slope downward to the 'north' and 'east.' From out of the south, a small brook tumbles and winds through the moors and gathers speed as it enters a small, narrow gorge that disappears into the forest. You walk a short distance down the hill and take in the scenery. You notice the path branches, with a trail hugging the right side of the gorge and about 100 yards under the eaves of the forest you spy a small footbridge crossing the ravine and joins a path path on the other side with an elbow bend -- One path leads deeper into the woods on along the other side of the bank, the other switches back several times before disappearing over the top of the ravine.

A simple stone cairn of stacked granite, heavily covered in moss sits on a wide stump next to the bridge.

 

[L'ennui]

"Which way?" Urash wonders, stroking his beard.

 

[nikolokolus]

The utterly miserable and morose Solon, mutters at Urash's query and then clears his throat, "Might yonder cairn hold some clue?" He waddles over to it and scrapes some of the heavy moss away from the base. On its surface are engraved three arrows with strange script next to each. One points deeper into the forest, the other points up (probably indicating the footbridge) and the other points to the moors. Solon tilts his head to the side and talks softly to himself, before straightening his bulk and bending over a bare patch of earth with a stick. He scrawls some marks that are similar to the runes on the cairn. "Hmmm . . . apparently there is someplace called 'Dregs' from the direction we came (whatever that means), across the bridge lays something called 'High Ankle', and deeper into the forest is a place that translates to 'The Clipped Legs' or perhaps 'Lake of Short Beards' it's a bit difficult to translate . . ."

 

[Wayward Son]

"Solon, two questions: First, what script in all the Hells is that? And would "High Ankle" happen to be a town?"

 

[Grimgravy]

Rhenmyr checks the paths for signs of use and danger.

 

[nikolokolus]

"Solon, two questions: First, what script in all the Hells is that? And would "High Ankle" happen to be a town?"

A 'town'? Dear sir, I have no idea what this sign is referring to. I'm merely doing my best to give you my interpretation of a dead form of script your (even more) primitive ancestors once used . . . and that's stretching it, Pictish was never this complicated. But if you think you're so clever, go ahead and see what you can make of it!" Solon seems annoyed.

Rhenmyr checks the paths for signs of use and danger.

Make a Search roll