September POTM

[Admin Dirk]

This is the place to nominate those posts in September games that rose above the humdrum and ordinary.

Go ahead. Nominate someone, it's easy. And it feels good. And it's free.

Not much in life can say all three of those things, eh?

[pianoman90]

Nominee: SonofSamWich
Game: Tyrant's Grasp
System: PF 1E
GM: Pianoman90
Post Link: Celeste's Hope and Despair

Reason for Nomination: The PCs have been trudging through a crypt hell-bent on returning to their town to right some wrongs, only to discover in shuddering detail that they are dead and their town has been destroyed. Moments after this terrible revelation, they actually discover that they themselves are not dead, they have survived in some strange way yet to be explained, but their friends, families and lovers are most certainly dead-dead. Confusing? Yes. Emotional roller-coaster? Most certainly.

Cue SonofSamWich's post. Not a word was spoken, yet the intense roiling emotions could be felt. The victories hard-fought for so far are meaningless when contemplating the void. Death feels so final, so much perhaps left unsaid. Celeste may have 5 other PCs nearby, but this post captures the cruel feelings that we can all feel so strongly and for all these reasons, this post moved me in particular. Beautifully poignant writing, short and simple, yet powerful!

 

Celeste A moment's hope. That was all she had. And now, it had been crushed. She was alive, or so it seemed, but according to the nosoi, Celeste was... alone. All the people she was terrified of leaving alone in the world, her mother, her master, her baby cousin, the pretty Sarenite priestess, all... Gone. What had before been dread and regret was now replaced by something else. A cold, hollow mass in her chest, a malignant grief that threatened to overtake her. The constant turmoil of her emotions had exhausted her, and she couldn't muster another outburst. She was too drained to manage anger or denial. All that was left was... despair. Her home was no more. She, after almost two decades, was alone again. The young aasimar took in a shaky breath and turned from the group, and slowly trudged a short distance away, turning her empty gaze to the void above them. She remembered what it was like being an orphan, unwanted and forgotten in a Korvosan bunkhouse. This wasn't the same. She never knew her birth family, had never felt their love, support, and protection. This loss was a trauma she may not overcome. Softly, she began to sob quietly, and turned away from the group, she didn't allow them to see the tears that began flowing down her cheeks, dripping onto the silvery breastplate, and wiping away the dust from the crypt, leaving subtle tracks on the metal. Celeste didn't bother wiping them away, she just folded her arms in front across her stomach and tried to maintain her breathing. So much for waiting to cry.

 

Actions

Statblock   Celeste Elbereth Vital Statistics HP: 7/9 Armor Class 20 Strength 14 Speed 40 ft Touch AC 14 Dexterity 18 Initiative +7 Flat-Footed 16 Constitution 11 Fortitude +3 BAB +1 Intelligence 12 Reflex +4 CMB +3 Wisdom 16 Will +6 CMD 17 Charisma 12 Melee Starknife at +3 1d4+2 (x3) Mace, heavy, mwk at +4 1d8+2 (x2) Ranged Starknife at +5 1d4+2 (x3) Longbow at +5 1d8 (x3) Spells Orisons (at will) Create Water Detect Magic Guidance Light Disrupt Undead   1st Level (2/3 day) Cure Light Wounds Divine Favor Shield of Faith   Miscellaneous Senses Perception +8 Languages Common, Celestial, Varisian Feats InquisitorLight Armor Proficiency, InquisitorMedium Armor Proficiency, InquisitorShield Proficiency, InquisitorSimple Weapon Proficiency, InquisitorInquisitor Weapon Proficiency (hand crossbow, longbow, repeating crossbow, shortbow, starknife), Level 1Point Plank Shot Skills Acrobatics +11, Diplomacy +5, Intimidate +7, Knowledge (Dungeoneering) +5, Knowledge (Nature) +5, Knowledge (Religion) +5, Knowledge (The Planes) +5, Perception +8, Sense Motive +8, Perform (Dance) +2, Sense Motive +8, Spellcraft +5, Stealth +7, Survival +7 Class Abilities: Exploration SubdomainDoor Sight 6/day, Studied Target, Monster Lore, Stern Gaze, Cunning Initiative, Detect Alignment, Track Status Effects: None Consumables: Prayer bead of bless (CL1, 0/1 day); Potion of cure light wounds (CL1); Wand of Create Water (28 charges) Ammunition 15/20 arrows, common; 5 broken arrows

[MoldyNolds]

Nominee: cottontailwind
Game: Niyaga's Silver Marches
System: D&D 5e
GM: Niyaga
Post Link: Varley-of-Tuesday

Context: The PC's are nearing the end of a battle. Nothing incredibly world-shattering is happening, just another day in the life of our adventurers. Varley the introspective-if-not-terribly-bright half-elf barbarian has been unconscious for several rounds of combat.

Reason: It's all too often that unconscious PC's get skipped over, both at the real-life table and in pbp games. Cottontailwind proves that there is perhaps more to be considered... much more... when it comes to experiencing the unconscious state that comes from getting beaten to a bloody pulp. The surface post is deceivingly basic, just one simple sentence, but mousing over the tooltip reveals a wealth of insight into the barbarian's mind! This was hands-down the best interpretation of being unconscious I have ever witnessed in 6 years of gaming. Bravo!

 

Originally Posted by cottontailwind

[ekidnu]

Nominee: PIG
Game: Legacy of Fire
System: PF 1E
GM: PIG
Link to Post

Reason for Nomination: This is a nomination on behalf of someone else who said:

Originally Posted by Anonymous nominator

I, for one, thought it was a wonderful piece of prose. I mean, I've studied Shakespeare and Proust, and this makes both look like cheeto dust on a yellow sticky note. And not even a 3M sticky note, but one of the cheap, generic knock-off ones. It might have been the best piece of writing I have ever encountered in my life, and I have read the Dead Sea Scrolls, in their original Aramaic. It made me cry, actually, big manly tears, it was that good.

Damn near shorted out my keyboard.

 

Kelmarane Fandrik’s Home A shrill and long scream snaps Fandrik out of his sleep. It’s full of terror and anxiety. Eyes wide open but blurry, he expertly (with a long time of being on the move over the years) reaches for his sword by his cot at his sword arm's side. He’s up in a flash, running as fast as his furry feet can carry him. Another scream draws him into the shadows. Bright eyed Fandrik chooses a good location right behind the Battlemarket (#11) down next to Dullen’s temple (#12) where the palm of Irori still stands. Around the building you find that you are at the edge of a major drop to the north, the colorful flowers of pesh fields stretching to the hills in the distance. It was mentioned to him, in passing by an accompanying guard, that it was once a rug shop back before the cult of Rovagug tore the town apart thirty years ago. Now, the land reclaimed by Lady Almah as a blessing from the Pactmasters, it’s just an empty building occupied by squatters since the inn is at full capacity. The guard clears out the visiting merchants, thieves, and travelers inside and quickly leaves for Fandrik to take over the place for himself. It’s a disaster. Cracked vases were used to empty extrements or piss and moldy rugs from a previous inhabitants were used for the squatters to sleep on. Tahir gets back to Drusilla and Fandik that he used his connections to Katapesh city to track the families of the elves. Most of them are still in Kyonin (home of most elves) but a couple are from other nations and have nothing to do with other elves. The Baron says it will take a while to get anyone to come retrieve their long lost and kidnapped loved one, but they’re in no shape to travel on their own. Hopefully the people in their past lives will come to Kelmarane to bring them back but some of the people they once knew were human and are likely long dead over decades. Fandrik offers the elves to stay with him. They arrive as he’s carrying out the old piles of rugs. They help him clean up quickly, piling them outside for a street hire to clean them up at a later date. Quick work is made out of it with all the extra hands. A few of the locals come and stare as these exotic creatures come to do laborious work and Fandirk is more than thrilled to be apart of it. Cleared out, there is one beautiful orange rug that fills the living quarters of this space. It’s enormous and in good shape, rolled and forgotten in a corner. Fan and the elves unroll it and sweep off the dust. It’s his first furniture. Crimson diamonds crown it’s sides and yellow patterns work their way from the center. It makes the dull place both warm and inviting... well.. as much as it can anyhow. Apart from the living quarters (where a family, long dead and murdered by the evil cult, once displayed their proud work) there are two rooms. The elves take the largest. Fan takes the smallest, a storage room with a window facing north for ventilation and overlooking the pesh fields. Fandrik never knows that it’s that very pesh field that Drusilla escaped through from gnolls that took over this town some years ago. A lot of pain has bled into the beautiful land. A lot of fear. But none of that! Fandrik and the elves clean this place and make it livable very quickly. Curious minds pass by but soon even they are eventually distracted by the many strange visitors passing through the Battlemarket for the most part. It’s great at first. The elves prove to be not only pretty but they carry with them a great amount of experiences before Brazen Peaks. They favor Fandrik and his brightness. He cares for them and protects them with his ease of confidence, letting them know that everything is now okay. For the most part, they even believe him. It will take some time to build back up to the people they once were. But then the tension begins to show. The elves are on the most part, on edge. They weigh on Dru and Fan to protect them. The escaped slaves are always asking questions. How safe is it outside in the street? How safe are the borders of town? They heard from Drusilla that the gnolls were attacking a local city. Will they come here? It never really ends. Fandirk’s brightness really helps them but there is always the outside darkness fighting in. After a day Fandrik goes out shopping at the Battlemarket for his new equipment and he quickly finds that the freedom from their darkness (a haunt that was not their fault) is a freedom in of itself. He breathes easier without them. But they care for him in their own way so it’s not all that easy. Peace, with those with terror, can see peace as a manipulation. They will alway seek terror, because according to them, at least fear seems familiar and honest. Peace can hide hidden fear, which can be all the more worse. Peace, for some, can be all too true. Fandrik battles through the shadows and into the source of the screaming. After another day he has a few more spare furniture, a few chairs and tables, but they prove distractions to action. “HaHA!” He’s ready to kill anything proven a threat. He finds the elves huddled over Phandralhnih Zun as she stares into the dark with wide eyes at nothing. Her red hair is plastered to her thin face with sweat as she jerks, pupils dilated and body shivering. “I was there, in the Maggot Throne. Still there. At the foot the decaying death. The worm. The worm and the King. The Carrion King. The King.” She sobbs these words in elven, still thinking she is collared to the platform of the Carrion King, who dominated their minds as master for so very long. The Elder looks over to Fandrik that has entered. “Get us some water for her.” It’s mostly a request but there is also, nay, a command in her tone. Fandrik notices that they have legs of their own... but he goes to fetch it anyhow from the bowl they filled from Pale River. The white bits of soil from Pale Mountain swirl in the cup. After some talking and soothing, Phandralhnih calms down finally now that she knows that she’s not in the House of the Beast. She sips from the cup Fandrik offers to her and seeing him, someone different from her horrible past, she begins to feel the present world begin to return. Fandrik calms down the guards after they raced down from the watchtower (#09) from across the street. Quickly, without a loss of charm, Fan explains to them that the screams were from a nightmare. Everything is okay. The guards barely check in before returning to their station. The patrons, seeing there’s no action to witness (and therefore spread rumors about) go back to their trading, gambling, and pesh smoking. Walking back into his new home, the bard whistles a tune. A song to calm everyone down. There is a touch of magic (Fan knows from his past that elves are immune to any sleep charms anyhow) to his bardic music but Fandric adds his natural charm to it and it only helps calms things down just a bit. He wiggles his mustache and gets a bit more sleep before dawn. The monastery is waiting for him in the morning and he wants to sleep before the short trip.

[bananabadger]

Nominee: The Rat Queen
Game: Contagion!
System: D&D 5e
GM: Fromthe1980s
Link: This is a closed game, so link only open to admins; original post included at end in spoiler button

Background: Contagion is a race against time and obstacles to bring a cure to a village struck by plague. In this adventure, The Rat Queen plays exiled wizard Najiba bint Farid—a slightly supercilious and vain scholar who is also a master strategist. The perfumed wizard has strangely enough befriended a party of comparatively low-brow locals (rangers, a druid and a monk) and often chides them for their crude songs or their unscientific approach to religion, which she sees as endless supplications for "handouts." These past observations come into play late into the game when we find Najiba bint Farid struggling with wounds from an attack and her life hanging in the balance.

Reason for Nomination: Not another death scene! I know, I know. Death scenes are overdone and oft-overblown. But The Rat Queen takes our expectations as readers, her character's personality, the colorization of text, and the pendulumlike results of her three-step saving roll to upend the tired tropes of a death scene and create a pull-no-punches epitaph of a post. It's short, sudden and sharp—just like death.

 

Originally Posted by The Rat Queen

[Yuul]

Nominee: Squeak
Game: PIG's Legacy of Fire
System: Pathfinder 1e
GM: The Ginormous HOG himself, PIG!
Link to Post

Reason for Nomination: Squeak by this point has a vast number of truly great posts for his Gnoll character Grak, mainly because almost every post as Grak could be considered a great and magnificent post in its own right. Admittedly, some more so. While I cannot say I have read all of them, he never fails to deliver Grak's starkly different worldview, in comparison to those around him, through to the reader. Whether it's in a gnoll's hideous, to us at least, standards of beauty, unacommodating definitions of loyalty, or absolute devotion to Lamashtu, Mother of Monsters, Grak is Grak. Even when, or in all honesty, especially when the unpleasant emotions inspired in my character are strong enough to leak over into me out of character.

Moreover, Grak is full of all sorts of cunning that those just looking at him would never be able to pick up on. He is a surprisingly adept plotter and schemer when it comes to furthering the goals he sets from himself on behalf of his 'Grandmother Nightmare'. In this post, from PIG's LOF's Stories of Past and Present, we see these traits on full display. And even when plans do not go entirely how they are intended, Grak just uses it as an opportunity to springboard his agenda forward in spite of it. So when he is only able to get the less influential of two individuals he seeks to reincarnate brought back to life, he takes advantage of the changes brought on by this method of cheating death to hide the fact he has pulled a veritable 'shell game' con and has the mentioned less influential but entirely more faithful Bloblog take the place of Dullen, whose own unflinching faith refuses to allow himself to serve Lamashtu in any fashion.

 

Raising the FaithFul   He had once been part of the pack, which is why Grak’Ark had come to him asking for aid. It was frustrating when Tahir had put finances ahead of true need. Tahir’s response was frustrating, but not nearly as frustrating as it was when the devoted of Lamashtu had truly tested him. Grak’Ark had brought a pair of bloodied cloths, claiming that that they held the remains of both Bloblog and Dullen, asking Tahir that he raised them both. It did not matter that his efforts would have failed had he tried, since the true remains of the pair remained secreted in Grak’Ark’s pack. What mattered was that Tahir had been giving a chance to save his Dullen and he refused. His packmate. His littermate. His brother. Such blatant disregard for family was a the biggest weakness of these pafe. People like a Tahir spent so much time counting his coin he did not see that true riches came from his pack. I know my value and the value of those I trust. And I would put those riches above anything these perfumed fops could possibly understand. he says to himself as he makes plan for the next day. Grak’Ark had woken from his reverie refreshed and ready. There was much to be done before the sun set again, so he quickly made his way back to the stench filled town. He made his way directly to the merchant’s quarter, where he easily found an alchemists shop. He knew this would be the best chance to find the reagents for his spell. "Hello and welcome to my shop. I am Hermes Trismegistus, alchemist and pureveyor of..."the wiry man began, stopping short when he say the hulking gnoll stand before him. "And you are... him. I mean, the one they call the beast. Is it true that you -" "Shut up. I have neither the time nor the desire to hear you drone on." the gnoll growls, cutting him off before he can continue with his rambling babble. "I need ingredients, Bring as much as you can find, spare no expense. The gum from the turpentine tree. Cedar oil. Aloe. Sap of myrrh. White yarrow, roots of the orris iris and ginger. Honey and cinnamon." he says, pausing only long enough for Hermès to grab an quill, inkpot and parchment. "These ingredients. Did someone die? Most of these are for funer--." the alchemist asks, stopping mid question, the color draining from his face as he remembers who his question was directed to. "My business is my own. You have two hours to get these for me and I will give you one thousand gold for your efforts and your discretion." he replies, remembering the quote that Tahir had given him the day before. "I will also buy those." he adds, pointing motioning towards a pair of gold-adorned bottles he had noticed when he walked in. "And you will tell no one of what I have asked for. Betray me and I will be quite... displeased" he leers, his fetid breath washing over Hermes as he awaits his response The alchemist stands still for a few moments, torn between the abject fear he had of the glaring gnoll and the greed he felt over such a large purchase. The profit he would make from this one transaction would be more than he had made in an entire month. It was that greed that got Hermès moving again. "Yes, yes, of course. The customer is always right." the alchemist responds as he quickly scurries about his shop. "No one." the gnoll growls as he departs. There was no doubt in Grak’s mind that Tahir’s spies were looking for him. That was the way of this place, with constant intrigue and scheming. It was one of the things the gnoll liked about this Kelmarane, for these foolish pafe were no match for a gnoll when it came to the way of subterfuge. His knowledge of such tactics was important, for no pafe could never be allowed to watch an unholy ritual of the true goddess. That is why he had flown away under the cover of darkness. The cliff face of sandstone stood tall. a relic from ages gone by. It was riddled with caves and caverns, relics of a great river that once ran here in ages long past. He flew through several of the caves before settling on the correct one, large enough for him to move, much small enough to conceal his movements. But he took an extra step to avoid prying eyes, sealing off the dark cave with his magic before the spies could find him. Satisfied he had done enough to throw off prying eyes, the gnoll carefully removes the twin pieces of cloth he had and sets them onto the ground, each containing the only remnants of his former companions. He retrieves a dagger and pricks his finger, refusing to wince as his blood begins to slowly ooze out. His hand slowly moves over the pair of cloths, blood dripping on the limited remains of his former companions, before he pours the ewers filled with the tinture of oil over them. As he mixes the components together, he prays. Prayer to Lamashtu The Mark of Lamashtu "Mother of Beasts, Demons and Monsters, I ask that you hear the call of your true and loyal servant. The prayer is not for me, but instead your blessings of the fallen. Those of my pack that died while following your commands. One was a devoted follower, weak but undeniably effective in his own way. The other served another god, but was easily manipulated to your cause. They were like your twin blades Redlust and Chillheart, Distinctly different, but both useful tools responsible for the death of your enemies. Your belly is swollen and heavy with child, Your teats swell with nourishing milk. You are the Mother of the Races, Your womb holds the power of creation. I ask for you to return their souls Grant them another turn on the wheel, Pervert their souls and like a potters clay, Form them into a shape that pleases you. Only you can give them the power of life anew, To rebirth them in an image of your liking. Their tasks in this life remain unfinished, And death does not excuse them from your service."

Bloblog the gnome " I call on you, Bloblog, servant of the Dark Mistress, to come forth and rejoice. For you have found favor in Grandmother Nightmare's eyes." Grak'Ark intones, the words shooting from his mouth like thunder. As he speaks, a mist begins to form, which slowly solidifies as Grak'Ark continues to speak. "The goddess has chosen a new form for you. You will be a goblin no more, now a long-lived gnome. Lamashtu has remade you a bitch, so that the power of creation lies within your loins. She has marked you as her servant, but none but you and those you chose will see the mark. Your new life is that of deception, misdirection and treachery." he continues as the mist continues to solidify, turning into the form of a twisted caricature of a gnome, compete with top hat and crooked grin. "You will live among them. You will rut with them. You will have many offspring and with each birth, you will create a powerful new servant of the one true goddess." he says, his words rising with each syllable, smiling as he sees the eyes of the gnome open wide with excitement. "Cherish your gift of life anew and use the time that you have been gifted to continue your service to Lamashtu." Grak'Ark says, his hands finally lowering as the spell reaches it's conclusion. The gnome formerly known as Bloblog stands still for a few moments as she ponders the implications of what has happened. As the reality of the situation comes down on the former goblin, there is only one thing that made sense for her to say. "HahahaHAHa!!! " she cackles.

Dullen the Dwarf "I call on you, Dullen, priest of Irori and servant to Lamashtu, to come forth and rejoice. For you have found favor in Grandmother Nightmare's eyes." Grak'Ark intones in a deep voice, watching closely as a mist begins to flow and form into a stout creature. "I am no servant of Lamashtu and I never will be." a gravelly voice says from the mist, the words becoming louder as the mist begins to firm up, until the form of a stout dwarf stands within the dissipating mist. "Lamashtu knows those she has chosen and seeks no salt from you. She understands that you would never give her worship or even thank her for giving you another turn on the wheel of life. It does not matter, for such useless platitudes are beneath her. Lamashtu cares for nothing more than results, which you have provided many times over by killing her enemies." the gnoll explains, doing his best to hide his smile. "No... I refuse. I will not take another life then, for I will never aid one such as your vile goddess." the dwarf named Dullen responds. "There is nothing to refuse, you already carry her mark. She is a potter and you are the clay. She does not ask for your help, she will use you in this life just as she did in your last life, whether you wish it or not. She does not require your willingness nor your worship - she will find usefulness in you regardless of your desire." Grak'Ark replies as he pulls out a ceremonial dagger from his waist and throws it on the floor before the newly raised dwarf. "But the choice is yours. Lamashtu merely offers you the option of taking another turn on the wheel of life if you wish. Whether or not you accept life anew or to remain in the realm of death is decision only you can make." he says as he motions towards the knife, his meaning clear. The dwarf slowly bends down and picks up the knife, staring at it for a long moment as he contemplates the alternatives. The choice was clear, life in which he would unwittingly aid the evil goddess Lamashtu or a return to the emptiness of death. For the priest of Irori, it was not so hard of a decision to make. "I fought with you, side by side. I healed your wounds, I protected your back. I saved your life. And while I never considered you a friend, neither did I name you an enemy. Until now. Damn you, Grak'Ark, for forcing me to chose between my life and my soul. Damn you to all the hells." Dullen spats, his gaze locked on Grak'Ark as he pulls the knife across his own throat. Grak'Ark stares dispassionately as he watches the dwarf fall to the ground, lifeblood spilling from his slashed windpipe. "For all of your piety and wisdom, you are a fool Dullen. Your body will once again pass from the mortal realm, but your name and influence will live on. Death does not excuse you from Lamashtu's service. " he says as turns to the right, where a silent form of a female gnome steps forth from the shadows. "Wouldn't you agree, Dullen the twice lived, Priest of Irori?" Grak'Ark asks as he proffers her a necklace with a blue hand printed on it. A wicked smile crosses the gnome's face as she accepts the holy symbol of Irori, responding with a simple phrase that fills the dying form of Dullen with pure dread. "HahahaHAHa"

 

Grak is flying to a cave high up on a cliff face. He will cast Hide Campsite, with the area of effect just inside the cave area (basically only using 10x10 area).

Since Hide Campsite says “Creatures outside the area cannot sense any activity going on inside the area... they cannot hear conversation, loud noises, or spells being cast” — it will also prevent scrying. As a backup, all of this is being done in the dark.

He is then casting Reincarnate on Bloblog -- then on Dullen. The rules state that a soul must be willing to return -- and Dullen is unwilling to return because he fears that he will become a 'tool' of Lamashtu. Bloblog is successfully reincarnated as a gnome.

To leave the cave he was in, he'll simply fly away, carrying Dullen/Bloblog back.