[Game Thread] A Question for the Dead

[Fillyjonk]

You Meet in a Tavern. Probably. You, my friend, have a question. You need the answer badly enough to risk, well---everything. You learned about Malveen from a passing traveler, perhaps, or an overheard bardsong, or a campfire tale, or from a mystic from among your own people: She is a diviner who can see through time, who can peer into the realm of the dead. Twelve times a year, on the night of the new moon, she will answer a single question for each pilgrim who comes bringing a gift. The new moon rises tonight, and so you have made your way to a town called Everlee. Rumor has it a druid will be waiting at a tavern called the Thirsty Turtle until noon. For a fee, he’ll take you. 100 gold. Not cheap. Oh, and the diviner’s a banshee. Not safe. But you have to know. So you came. And here you are, converging on this charming town as the sun makes its warm way up toward zenith. Everlee stands on the edge of The Blight, a cursed dark blotch of land. Good King Bryce has declared it a Wild---meaning you leave the protections of the kingdom if you choose to go... Baly, is it weird being back on this side of the world? Or has enough time passed that you no longer care, assuming you cared to begin with. Because you’re close. Go north around the Blight and you stay in Kivalia all the way to the mountains. But if you follow the river east and south, you’ll come to those familiar marshes full of goblins and gnolls... Everlee is not the closest human settlement to the plateau, but it’s close enough for the specific smell of the river water to give you déjà vu. As you approach, the road becomes clotted with wagons full of farmers and families, a few wood-elves walking or riding deer, and a family of gnomes dressed up as zombies all piled onto an enormous Shire horse. Groups of young people, some wearing paper angel wings, or devil horns, or vine-snake-wigs, or papier-mâché minotaur heads swirl past you, laughing and chattering. About half of the inbound folks are human, but Hin and half-elves abound, and some dwarves, the occasional exotic. Is that a goblin? Yes, grinning and cringing, his orange eyes all lamplit as he hawks a tray of raggedy black pinwheels: Plain or meat-rot-smell, only five copper. You want? Quite a few of the half-elves are blue-tinged, pale, which makes sense, considering the location, and others look to have wood-elf ancestry. Here’s the weird part: Every other half-elf that you see has High Elf blood. The golden, elongated, nose-up kind. In town, you are met by hurdy-gurdy music, children hooting and shrieking, song, the smell of fried food. Oh, ****. It’s Long Night, the Winter Solstice, and here in the temperate Southlands, the weather is mild enough for and outdoor carnival. Bright side? Maybe some local gentry with fat pockets... Lacey, local gentry aside, these are not your kind of marks. Working folk, farmers, fishers, miners. Their purses jangle with silver and copper, not gold, and they likely have three uses for each coin. Not to mention, heading into a town at all is a reason to feel nervous, considering. Do you eye the face painters, grease-painting skeleton and zombie and ghost masks over the Hin and human faces presented them? It’s meant to trick Long Night evil spirits into thinking these folks are dead already and pass by, but they’d also do to trick a guildsman, now wouldn’t it. Country Fair, Jan van Goyen, 1653 Do you need a disguise, or is it just nerves? After all, what thieves guild shanker from Vallos would be caught dead pinching pennies at this country fair... Anyway, there are a lot of Hin---the good barefoot kind, who haven’t taken up human customs and culture like your ridiculous swoony, gossipy sisters. Real Hin are community oriented, unromantic, mercifully unsentimental, cheerful, well-liked, and usually well-padded. You can blend here. Nukky, are you getting side-eye? You are absolutely getting side-eye. Do you notice? Maybe you are used to this whenever you get near human and humanoid settlements. There are many reasons you stick to the wild. The carnival is a little bit of a WTH for you. This is not a kobold joint. Kobold festivals tend toward a goat roast and a beer barrel, end scene. You do see some other kobolds from afar only to realize they are human children, dressed as kobolds, as you get close. They boggle at you. Marmee! I want a costume good as that! Good luck, kid. Laisren, you left Righ almost two weeks ago, traveling north. Your little brothers can handle the winter-work. You look like what you are, a simple country guy, with an open face and an awkward-but-friendly head-duck, and more than one wagon stopped to let you hop on the back. This is your first time in the world, Laisren, and the world is ... weird and busy and beautiful. Fainweyn told you this. He is educated and has traveled, a few times anyway, away from Righ. Just last month, he went to Vallos with his father to ask for the King’s aid with your Formorian problem. The King sent weapons, has promised some troops---but those troops will fail if the champion and his consort do not lead them. So here you are. But. The most intriguing, impossible thing Fain has always told you? About the wider world? It’s true. Righ is a dangerous border town right on the edges of the swamps where rifts into the Feywild have been known to open. It's populated exclusively by humans and a few Hin, all of whom are buttoned up and cautious and steeped in traditions meant to hold that border safe from fey nonsense and depravity. There are no people who love like you love, and your culture tells you without telling you that you are wrong and bad, but Fainweyn says that in literature and Kivalia at large, the way you love is...normal. Home from Vallos, he whispered that the King, single at forty, the King himself, has a huge blue muscular charismatic Tiefling as his chief advisor. And the two of them--- A tiefling! Fainweyn says---surely not. But as you thread your way through the carnival, you see a pair of human women holding hands, clearly a couple. Not an uncommon sight, once you were away from the borderlands. Look, here are a pair of ancient Hin. Brothers? You watch them for a moment. Nope. Not brothers. Not at all. A-ru. Oh no. OH. NO. What is a carnival but a sea of sticky handed children, all wanting to pat-pat-pat both you and Sneech, as if you were the same d*mn thing. A slew of pointing fingers and reaching hands and rude remarks seethe and bubble around you as you trot through the carnival. Marmee, look a otter! A otter on a dog. Can I have it? Baby that’s a dog on a dog, just really whiskery. It must be for the show. How cute. Isn’t that cute, Lavinia? I wonder what all tricks it can do. That’s a costume, like a pantomime dog. With a puppet dog on it. Has to be! Where is the owner? Hey! HEY, are you the owner? Is that thing friendly or a biter? A-ru? Are you a a biter? Hlin, no one asks if you are a pantomime centaur, but you are exotic enough to get a lot of side-eye. Curious, bright side-eye though, for the most part. Everyone knows centaurs are noble sorts, wild and amazing. As a diplomat, you are used to being odd-one-out, but have you ever been to a human carnival? This one has quite a bit of Elven influence---perhaps that is more familiar. The hurdy-gurdy reminds you of a tale you know about a goblin musician---ah but you are a bard. You know a lot of tales. You see street vendors selling hard cider, turkey legs, corn dipped in butter, apples dipped in caramel, and rat on a stick (this is a fried dough with sugar situation, not actual vermin.) Wooden booths sell candies, crafts, toys, bright yarns, masks and costumes. There’s a fortune teller’s tent and a dunking booth with a rowdy dwarf hollering insults, even more booths offering axe-throwing or darts or ribbon pulls and many other silly games for prizes. You all have directions to the tavern. Straight through town to the far east bank of the river. If you go in, you will see the tavern is close to empty, just a human male in his fifties behind the bar and a young Hin, barefoot as Yondala intends, wearing leather armor, sitting alone at a long wooden table against the back wall, drinking a dark beer and eating winter-pears. OOC You are up!. Player posting window ends SUNDAY 6 pm EST. It is not yet noon---you probably have time to do one or two things at the carnival if you like. If any of you want to meet at the carnival, awesome. Talk it out in OOC. Otherwise you do not see each other until you enter the tavern. Going into the tavern may may not happen for some or all this round, and that is fine, but I wanted you to have the option. Whoever posts that they go in first is actually the one who goes in first. The second person to say they go in will see the bartender, the Hin, and the first party member who went in, and so on.

[BestTeaMaker]

Nukky A hooded Kobold ambles down the dirt road, turning his head in awe. His steps are guided by a gnarled, immolated stick, practically taller than the creature itself. He skitters quite excitedly, going from stall to stall in wide-eyed wonder. For as wise as Nukky is in the way of the forests, he doesn't really seem to notice all the stares pointed at his direction. He himself is much more preoccupied with staring at all the people around him. The sight of so many people enraptures Nukky. The most people he'd seen were small groups of travelers around campfires, where he would go to greet them. Here, the kobold quickly realizes he doesn't have enough fingers to count all the people here, a prospect the kobold never figured he would ever run into. He watches the costumed children all run past him and ogle him. Strange looking kobolds, he thought to himself. But his attention was immediately taken by the scent of something....sweet? Absurdly sweet. Sweeter than the ripened fruits he picked on his wanderings in his forests. Nukky sniffs at the air, blindly following the tempting wafts as he dodges and weaves through the crowd. Suddenly, his movement is stopped as he bumps into a stall, snapping the kobold out of his reverie. He looks up and sees possibly the most heavenly food he has ever seen in his life. Warm fried dough slathered in honey and sugar. Nukky's eyes grow wide and a smile slowly creeps up his face. The sign besides him reads "Hot Rat-on-a-Stick", a sign that Nukky promptly ignores for he has no need to pay attention to paintings and markings on sheets of wood. He was truly enraptured. Character Nukky   Character Class HP AC Wildfire Druid 3 27/27 15 Senses P.Per P.Inv P.Ins Other 16 11 14 Darkvision (60ft.) Spell Slots 1st Level O O O O 2nd Level O O Spell Mod Save DC +4 14 Saving Throws STR DEX CON INT WIS CHA +0 +2 +3 +3 +6 +1   Rolls - Saving Throws - Move - Action - Bonus Action - Reaction - Free Action - Conditions - Concentrating - OOC -

[Drachenspirit]

Baly-Ho! He had paused at the edge of this town, considering tying a peaceknot on his blades, but didn't see a sign saying anything about it so he left them simply sheathed. He did pause to unstring one end of his elven longbow and put it in the simple leather sleeve affixed to the quiver full of arrows on his back. He had a visible Rapier on his left him, a belt pouch on his right hip, and a shortword strapped to the pack on his back for easy over the shoulder access. As if this wasn't armed enough, there was a visible dagger sheath tooled into the bracer on his right arm, and another dagger sheath tooled into his left boot. The bracer on his left arm was clearly an archer's bracer with elven leather-etched filigree on it. He moved with groups with his dark clothes and hood over his features, Stealth = 19not standing out for a bit, until he saw something that caught his eye. The roasted corn smelled heavenly, and he noted others looking at them and then slipped off, seeming to not be interested. A few stalls away, he produced an ear of corn Sleight of hand = 17seemingly out of nowhere and scowled a bit. It wasn't because he was surprised to see the ear of corn pop out, it was because of the butter dripping from it. He seemed to not be watching where he was going and bumped into a person whom he thought was a well to do looking sort of citizen. "I am so sorry", he apologized and moved on while holding out his ear of corn as it dripped off the butter slowly. With but a casual glance over his shoulder to see if the person he'd bumped into had moved on, he 2nd Sleight of hand roll = 17produced a fine looking silk handkerchief seemingly out of thin air and used it to wiped down the ear of corn to remove as much of the butter as he could. He spotted a Kobold by a stall seeming to admire the treat called "Rat on a stick" and noted not only that there weren't many others of his kind about, but that he also had a Scimitar and a shield on his person. This made it almost certain that he was a traveler as well since a local would likely leave these items at home on such a festive day. The kobolds he had crossed paths with under civil circumstances during his life thus far tended to be more rogue-minded that other races, so he usually got along well with them when he needed to. He Nukkystrode up beside him, and while looking out over the scene before them said, "You look about as out of place here as I do. I take it you're not from around here, same as me? Lot's of distractions here abouts, that's for sure. You gonna get one of those?" He really meant that the distractions made it easier for him to pick pockets and such if he wanted to. Sure he had coin, but if he didn't have to part with it, why do so? Plus, it was still a bit of a thrill to see if he could get away with it. He then took a bite of his ear of corn, and as he chewed, he nodded as if it was acceptable, waiting for the Kobold to answer or tell him to frak off.   BALY ACTIONS & STATS Balyarus Farfate<------ Character Sheet ROLLS : Saving throws: Move: Action: Rolled for Stealth, Sleight of hand x 2 in Dice thread for flavor. If he failed vs whomever, he'd feign ignorance and pay for the corn, but shrug at the handkerchief being missing and move on. Bonus Action: Reaction: Conditions: Concentrating: OOC info: AC: 16 || HP: 21/21 || Saves: St +0, Dx+6, Cn+2, In+5, Ws+2, Ch+3 Left Hand: - || Right Hand: Rapier || Back: Pack, Short Bow, Quiver || Belt: Rapier +5, Short sword +5, Dagger +5, Longbow +5, Pouch Longbow: +5 to hit, 1d8+3 dmg || Rapier: +5 to hit, 1d8+3 dmg || Shortsword: +5, 1d6+3dmg || Dagger: +5, 1d4+3 dmg Skills: Stealth +7 || Investigation +6 || Acrobatics, Sleight of Hand, Thieves' Tools +5 || Deception, Intimidation +4 || Perception +3 || Arcana, History, Nature, Performance Persuasion +2 || Animal Handling, Insight, Medicine, Survival +1 || Athletics -1 Special Abilities: Bonus action of Dash, Disengage, or HideCunning Action 60’Darkvision One skill or tool prof extra a day after short or long restWhispers of the Dead After successful sneak attack, apply to any other target within 30' of one hit, Roll half # of sneak attack dice and target takes necrotic dmg as wails surround them Wails from the Grave have advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can’t put to sleep.Fey Ancestry Elves don’t need to sleep. Instead, they meditate deeply, remaining semiconscious, for 4 hours a day. (The Common word for such meditation is “trance.”) While meditating, you can dream after a fashion; such dreams are actually mental exercises that have become reflexive through years o f practice. After resting in this way, you gain the same benefit that a human does from 8 hours o f sleep.Trance +1d6 to attack if ADV. If another enemy of target is 5' of it, no ADV neededSneak Attack Spells: Cantrip: Chill Touch Spell Save DC: 12 | Spell Attack Bonus: +3

[Wynamoinen]

Laisren Pronounced LASS-renLaisren hops off the literal turnip wagon at the edge of town and unhitches his mule from it. The pale red-haired traveler waves a thanks to the kindly turnip farmer who agreed to show him the way on this last leg of his long journey. Laisren knew the world was big. He had failed to infer from that fact that it's really easy to get lost, even when you're really close to your destination. Getting lost wasn't a consieration in his life, having never left home before. Laisren is tall, but it's deceptive. He looks like he should be taller. Partly he droops his head and slopes his shoulders as he walks. Partly, it's his back. His overlarge unadorned undyed woolen tunic appears to hide either an incredibly poor posture, or a hunch. It makes him look massive, but bent. His back issues do not appear to hinder his mobility. With long strides, he guides his mule (bearing camp gear, a long pitchfork, and other travelling equipment) into town. The newcomer looks around in wonder. The town is like some mirror-world Righ. It too is fairly small. It too sits at the edge of a wilderness and a blight. It too is filled with humble folk. He can't help greeting anyone who walks past, as he would at home: nodding or touching a knuckle to his eyebrow saying "Ev'nin" or "a pleasure" or 'Stay warm now" or "Good Solstice". Mindless pleasantries, like a good farm boy. But on the other hand, it offers so much possibility that never seemed within reach back home. The sea beckons beyond... what can stop you from just GOING, with that on your doorstep? The folk walk around hand-in-hand. Laisren can not help staring slack-jawed at the first pair of ladies he walks past, holding hands. He means nothing unkind. Just the opposite! But he can forgive them for not understanding that, as he forgets to greet them, pondering the implications. The possibility! Everlee seems to offer endless possibility. But seeing a fried-something-on-a-stick vendor reminds Laisren of the only possibility he's here for. For now, at least. His gold coins clink in a pouch against his leg. It's his family's entire fortune, save what they need to survive the winter. Most of it will go to this druid. What remains can't be spent frivolously. His mouth waters at the food vendors, but his rations will suffice. He looks longingly at a mask of some sort of elegant toothy demon with a multicolor fan of feathers cresting the top of the head like a crown. Three gold! A fortune, but right now he could afford it! But if he survives the next few weeks, that money could also seed the Spring fields. He sighs, turns away, and tugs at the mule's reins. "Come, Ahern." As he trudges, he unfolds the information he has written down about this Druid. He frowns and looks around. "Ah, erhm. Pardon? Thirsty Turtle? Could you.... please ma'am... no, sorry, sorry. Sir, sir? Thirsty Turtle? I just need to know how to get to... Drat." Waving his slip of parchment as if it's a talisman, he struggles (and fails more than once) to catch the attention of someone who might give him directions to his destination.

OOC Happy to have one of the PCs "find" me and give me guidance . But failing that, I'm sure some passer-by will take pity and place me in the tavern in time for the next round of posts.   Action block Laisren's stat block (full sheet link) HP: 32/32 | Armor Class: With a very high probability in combat of also having an additional 1d8 added on.14 | Saves: Str +5 ; Dex +2; Con +4; Int -1; Wis +0; Chr +1 Senses: Passive Perception 12 (+2); Passive investigation 9 (-1) | Move: 30' | Conditions: (None) Default melee: +6 to hit, 1d10+4 piercing (1d10+6 while Raging)The Family pichfork | Default ranged attack: +5 to hit, 1d6+3 slashing, 20/60 rangeHandaxe Expendables: . . . As a bonus action, activate Rage. +2 damage to STR-based melee attacks. Resistance to nonmagical BPS damage. Advantage on STR checks and saves. Ends if I don't either attack or take damage. Cannot cast spells.Rage 3/3 LR | Make a ranged spell attack against the target (+3, with CHA as casting stat). On a hit, the target takes 2d8 poison damage and must make a Constitution saving throw (DC 11). On a failed save, it is also poisoned until the end of your next turn. Acquired via Magic Initiate (Sorceror)Ray of Sickness 1/1 LR Passive: . . . When I enter a Rage, I can use my tail both offensively and defensively. As a reaction when hit by a creature I can see within 10', I can add 1d8 to my AC. I can also use the attack action to attack with my tail with 10' reach, +5 to hit, and 1d8+3 damage.Form of the Beast: Tail Ie, my cantrips acquired through Magic Initiate (Sorceror)Tail Utility: A creature within 10' must succeed on a Constitution saving throw (DC 11) or take 1d12 poison damage.Poison Spray | Until the end of your next turn, you have resistance against bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing damage dealt by weapon attacks.Blade Ward ----- Turn Summary Move: Action: Reaction: Additional (bonus action, object interact, etc):

[Yoshimi]

A-ru The marda ranger hunches forward over the well-worn leather saddle horn trying to avoid notice, as Sneech wends among the revelers on the midway. The primal Snow Mastiff's snout wuffles the air in an attempt to tease the scents of a tavern from the kaleidoscope of festival odors. Rotten meat, fried rat, corn...and there it was: the nasal cocktail of alcohol fumes, pipe smoke, dishwater, and humanoid mating pheromones that meant drinking establishment every time. The mastiff trots confidently along the trail. But A-ru is repeatedly noticed. He bares his pointy teeth in a grimace, his beady left eye twitching irritably at a rate that increases the more shouts are directed his way. He mutters in dour reply, audibly to anyone close, but not loudly enough to invite a conversation. Marmee, look a otter! A otter on a dog. Can I have it? "I otter let you have it." Baby that’s a dog on a dog, just really whiskery. "So's yer face." Isn’t that cute, Lavinia? I wonder what all tricks it can do. "Eh? C'mere and I'll show yez." He spits out an oath in Sylvan when Sneech stops suddenly, nearly pitching him into a nose dive. Looking up, A-ru finds himself face to butt with a mule that his riding dog is unable to get around due to a temporary press of people on either side. Looking further up, he sees a human male atop the mule, shouting about not being able to find the Thirsty Turtle. A-ru rolls his eyes. Then he calls out, "You up there! Shut yer noise and move yer beast, and we'll show yez the way."

 

Name: A-Ru
Class: Beastmaster Ranger Level: 3 HP: 28 AC: 17
Attack bonus: Melee: +1, Ranged: +4
Passive Perception: 15 Passive Investigation: 9 Passive Insight: 15
Spells Known: Cantrips: Shillelagh, Produce Flame; Level 1: Speak With Animals (Primal Awareness bonus), Absorb Elements, Entangle, Longstrider
Spell Slots: Level 1: 3
Spell Save DC: 13 Spell Attack Bonus: 5
Saves: STR: 1 DEX: 4 CON: 2 INT: -1 WIS: 3 CHA: 1
Special Abilities: Favored Foe, Primal Companion (Beast of the Land)

 

ROLLS:
Saving throws:
Move:
Action:
Bonus Action:
Reaction:
Conditions:
Concentrating:
OOC info:

[bananabadger]

One thing about spending most all of your gold, it made for lighter saddlebags. And it did seem to Hlin that the road was easier, lighter once he had left behind the old farming couple and their pack of mules that he had freed. It was, he could clearly hear the voice of his mentor Melova telling him in his head, a difficult situation that could have been approached diplomatically, but Hlin was tired of diplomacy after the past week. And who could blame him? You spend seven days with a pack of aggressive gnolls, always trotting the small pathway between the rocky precipices of alpha-pup posturing and miserable fur-petting that seemed to be their constant two extremes of life. And though the mission was a success—the gnolls had promised not to wipe out the nearby village of plump hins until harvest season when their targets would be even plumper (and the hins, unbeknownst to the gnolls, would be hosting a small troupe of elven mercenary archers--just enough to repulse and humiliate the gnolls, but not to wipe them out and leave a vacuum of power in the land)—it was nonetheless exhausting and called upon every last snort of Hlin's patience. So, would you still blame him for beating the old farmer and the old farmer partner when he came upon the pair drunk, debauched, and beating their mules? Ok, you might if you were the King's law. But Hlin didn't see any king's law. So he beat the pair, ground them into the dirt with his hooves, a move which he felt awakened a rebellious spirit in the mules. Disgusted with himself, but still more by the abuse, he tossed two ridiculously heavy pouches of gold on the farmers' chests and told them that he had just bought the mules, who were now free to roam. It was possible, Hlin knew, that the mules would be caught again and owned and abused by another. It was also possible, Hlin hoped, that they would escape into the nearby feyland ... and a mule in a fey is always more interesting than a mule in a barn (or so the song goes, but no mule would disagree, not the ones that Hlin knew, at least). It was also possible—and this gave Hlin great satisfaction—that nobody would believe the farmers if they told anyone that they were beaten by a horse-elf who then gave them two sacks of gold. The hoofs might prove something, but most likely the suspicion that the farmers got drunk and stampeded by their own mules. The King's law is long. The King's law is sometimes just. The King's law, in Hlin's experience, knows squat about hoofprint bruises. It was even possible, Hlin thought, that he might file a complaint against two drunk farmers who robbed him of his gold. He could have, of course, fought them off, but he trusted and relied upon the King's law when in the King's land. He thought over these possibilities as he traveled, surprising himself by how quickly he came into the town. And though he knew it would be the winter solstice, how could he have forgotten how this region of humans and their allies celebrates with gaudy mummery, songs, and food. Good songs, he notes for the most part. Familiar tried and true--but, hey, you can't blame a performer for giving people what they want. And these people, by the looks of them, deserved a little want in their lives. There were shouts in the crowd, and only after a few seconds did Hlin realize they were directed at him. A dwarf going for the most obvious innuendoes about Hlin's kinotavrian anatomy. "As long as we are talking about heads," he responds--quite diplomatically, thank you, Melova—"I know a culture in the north where their favorite game is chasing down jackrabbits and tossing dwarf heads. I've heard the only reason you still have yours is because all the teams rejected it as too soft, lumpy, and ugly." He tries to say it with good humor; but he knows the 50 pieces of gold he lays down as a bet will be the most significant factor in the dwarf's reaction. "My gold if I miss. You pay me my wager plus half if I sink you into the booth with my bow," he proposes. And if the dwarf nods, he'll let an arrow fly at the target. Lighter or heavier his saddlebag, Hlin will be sure to depart the booth as friends—or at least not enemies—with the dwarf. Nobody needs a dwarf with a grudge remembering them. Particularly not if that dwarf makes a living traveling from town to town shouting insults for a living. He'll offer to buy the dwarf a drink at The Thirsty Turtle, if that bar does exist and this whole mission isn't another colossal mispeak by their whimsical Oracle. But he hopes not, because dwarfs, though they talk long--maybe because they talk long--always have some sort of good story at the bottom of their begats begats and hewn and forged-es and slew and perished-es. And though he did intend to head immediately to the Thirsty Turtle, he couldn't help himself when he saw a fortune teller—a fake and charlatan, no doubt. But following such was the reason he had come here in the first place. So why not seek more counsel. He approaches the tent, waits, if necessary, and will deposit his gold if he has enough. "Wise and seeing one," he will ask deferentially, "what should I know about the druid I seek?" He thinks about what he heard from this fortune-teller as he exits the booth and stumbles upon a small parade of a man, a mule, a dog, and a ... holy hooves of the thunder raiders, is that a Marda?! Of course Hlin had heard of these creatures and knew a few songs that were, reportedly...perhaps, from their kind ... but to see one? Never! And here it was, asking for directions to the Thirsty Turtle! Hlin nods to the marda as it passes by, and follows in step. In order not to seem to curious, he allows his long strides to pass by the marda and pull even with the man and the mule. "That mule?" he asks casually. "Wonderful, noble specimen. What stock is it? Did you breed it, or happen to purchase it on the road?" he asks, looking over the mule as much as the man who might answer.

 

Name: Hlin
Class: (Lore) Bard
Level: 3
Race: Centaur (Willow Herd)
HP: 18 AC: 13
Passive Perception: 16 Passive Investigation: 11 Passive Insight: 14
Spells Known:

• Cantrips: Mage Hand, Vicious Mockery
• Level 1: Cure Wounds, Silvery Barb
• Level 2: Animal Messenger, Cloud of Daggers, Cure Wounds (upcast), Hold Person, Nathair's Mischief

Spell Slots:

• Four Level 1: {} {} {} {}
• Two Level 2: {} {}

Spell Save DC: Wis 12 Spell Attack Bonus: 4
Saves: STR: +2 DEX: +4 CON: 0 INT: -1 WIS: +2 CHA: +4
Bardic Inspiration: {} {}
Attack modifier: +4 melee / +4 ranged
Weapons: Longsword, daggers and short bow
Special Abilities: Bardic Inspiration, Jack of All Trades, Song of Rest, Cutting Words, Charge, Hooves, Equine Build

 

Rolls:
Saving throws:
Move:
Action: fires arrow at dunk-tank target (15) to hit / wagers 50 gold for 75 in payout if he wins
if he misses, he will use his mage hand to slap the target, sink the dwarf, pay his losses, and give a ceremonial bow to the drippy dwarf (along with a smile)
pays fortune-teller fee (if he has it, at this point he will have either 54 gold or 129 gold)
Bonus Action:
Reaction:
Condition:
Concentrating:
OOC info:

[BestTeaMaker]

Nukky Nukky snapped out of his reverie as he felt being suddenly approached from behind. "Gyaaak! No sneaky on Nukky!" He jumps around to see a tall man behind him, chewing on a buttered piece of corn. Nukky looks up in a bit of annoyance, holding out his burnt staff. "Why tall elf scare Nukky? Nukky just looking at sweet-smell stick." Character Nukky   Character Class HP AC Wildfire Druid 3 27/27 15 Senses P.Per P.Inv P.Ins Other 16 11 14 Darkvision (60ft.) Spell Slots 1st Level O O O O 2nd Level O O Spell Mod Save DC +4 14 Saving Throws STR DEX CON INT WIS CHA +0 +2 +3 +3 +6 +1   Rolls - Saving Throws - Move - Action - Bonus Action - Reaction - Free Action - Conditions - Concentrating - OOC -

[Drachenspirit]

Baly-Ho! The swear word in Sylvan caught his ear and he turned to see some kind of small folk speaking to a young human male with a pitchfork and a mule adorned with some gear. The latter was asking directions to the Inn that Baly was actually here to visit as well, so this added to his interest. Then a Centaur asked the young man about the mule. His interest was even more heightened since he'd never spoken to a Centaur, and the only time he'd seen one was on a passing ship years and years ago. This brought to mind a joke he'd heard some time back wherein he could replace the characters in said joke with those who seemed more interesting here than the locals. A Centaur, A Kobold, A small Fae person and a farmer walk into a... At least he thought the one who'd spoken Sylvan was Fae. It certainly fit the bill. He took another few bites of his ear of corn. In reply to Nukky he said, "Sorry friend, Nukky. Didn't mean to startle you there. I'm Balyarus Farfate, but you can call me Baly. That does look tasty. You should try it. Pardon me a moment." He moved the few short paces to the trio of the Fae folk, the Centaur and the man he had dubbed a farmer, eating along the way, and replied, "Excuse me there, but I couldn't help but overhear that word you spoke in Sylvan. That turned my attention to you speaking of showing the way to the Inn. Mind if I tag along? I'm looking for the same place. And that's not a common tongue, I used to hear it a lot in my youth, but it's been a while, a long while actually. Where did you pick it up, if I may ask?" He gestured a bit with his now almost fully eaten up ear of corn as he spoke.   BALY ACTIONS & STATS Balyarus Farfate<------ Character Sheet ROLLS : Saving throws: Move: Action: Bonus Action: Reaction: Conditions: Concentrating: OOC info: AC: 16 || HP: 21/21 || Saves: St +0, Dx+6, Cn+2, In+5, Ws+2, Ch+3 Left Hand: - || Right Hand: Rapier || Back: Pack, Short Bow, Quiver || Belt: Rapier +5, Short sword +5, Dagger +5, Longbow +5, Pouch Longbow: +5 to hit, 1d8+3 dmg || Rapier: +5 to hit, 1d8+3 dmg || Shortsword: +5, 1d6+3dmg || Dagger: +5, 1d4+3 dmg Skills: Stealth +7 || Investigation +6 || Acrobatics, Sleight of Hand, Thieves' Tools +5 || Deception, Intimidation +4 || Perception +3 || Arcana, History, Nature, Performance Persuasion +2 || Animal Handling, Insight, Medicine, Survival +1 || Athletics -1 Special Abilities: Bonus action of Dash, Disengage, or HideCunning Action 60’Darkvision One skill or tool prof extra a day after short or long restWhispers of the Dead After successful sneak attack, apply to any other target within 30' of one hit, Roll half # of sneak attack dice and target takes necrotic dmg as wails surround them Wails from the Grave have advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can’t put to sleep.Fey Ancestry Elves don’t need to sleep. Instead, they meditate deeply, remaining semiconscious, for 4 hours a day. (The Common word for such meditation is “trance.”) While meditating, you can dream after a fashion; such dreams are actually mental exercises that have become reflexive through years o f practice. After resting in this way, you gain the same benefit that a human does from 8 hours o f sleep.Trance +1d6 to attack if ADV. If another enemy of target is 5' of it, no ADV neededSneak Attack Spells: Cantrip: Chill Touch Spell Save DC: 12 | Spell Attack Bonus: +3

[Gatarojas]

Lacey was footsore, a bit grubby and weary, but the lights, noise and happy laughter of the festival gave her spirits a boost. The smells were incredible and the atmosphere was joyous. To be here at last! As if in response to her lightened mood, the magical cat's-eye gem thrummed on the chain at her neck. Her hand started rising involuntarily to clasp it, but - no. It would not do to touch the wretched thing. It would be gone soon. Her hand fell back.

Sobered again, she looked above the children in their costumes to the adults, but narrowed her eyes at the masks many wore. She regained wariness. Were any of the guild here? Those masks would hide them and they liked to work festivals such as this. And yet, it is so far from anywhere. She looked again at the adults with an appraising eye. They were too poor, few pickings here. Anyway, she thought, i've got enough gold for the question, and a bit to spare.

Plus, she reminded herself, my hood is up. The elven cloak would hide her if she kept to herself.

There were still several hours for the cloaking spell to run. She wandered aimlessly for a long while, yet still keeping herself apart among the crowd. Were those Hin? Yes. Stout Hin, settled in here amid the townsfolk. A little wave of homesickness washed over her and she edged nearer. Their accents were ever-so-slightly odd but it calmed her nervousness to listen as they chatted lightly amongst themselves. It had been so long since she'd even seen a fellow Hin, and such a long walk to get herself here to Everlee.

Not only Hin and humans, she realised suddenly. All the world's creatures seemed to be in town tonight. There was a noisy cluster of large -- and small -- beings over there. A couple of big men were there, one of them looking very rich and bristling with weapons. The other holding a pitchfork and the reins of a mule. And a centaur! And a couple of small people. One was a kobold but she had no idea about the other. It looked like a perky little dog riding a larger, woolly dog. She bit her lip not to laugh and mentally kicked herself. Be polite, Lacey!

She sidled nearer to the group for a closer look and heard one mention the Thirsty Turtle. Oh. They must be going to ask the druid a question themselves. She stood near to the group waiting for them to go to the tavern. She kept herself apart and studied them, silently.

---

stats & actions   laceflower undercliff character class hp ac druid 2, rogue 1 18/18 13 senses p.per p.inv p.ins other 14 14 12 natural recovery (long rest) o spell slots 1st level o o o 2nd level n/a spell mod save dc +2 12 saving throws str dex con int wis cha -1 +2 +0 +2 +2 +2   rolls - saving throws - move - action - bonus action - reaction - free action - conditions - concentrating - ooc -

[/quote][/quote]

[Yoshimi]

A-ru A-ru recoils when directly addressed about speaking Sylvan. He snaps, "What's it to yez, nosy-britches?" But when he turns his head and beholds Baly's elven features, he swallows his next retort. Especially as he considers that the elf's query was courteously stated. In a gruff but contrite tone the marda says, "Beg pardon, ser. My nerves are fraggled." He clears his throat and continues, "Phe emen unshast. I am of the forest. Sylvan was my first tongue. But I ain't fae, mind yeh." He glares at Baly stonily, daring him to disagree.

 

Name: A-Ru
Class: Beastmaster Ranger Level: 3 HP: 28 AC: 17
Attack bonus: Melee: +1, Ranged: +4
Passive Perception: 15 Passive Investigation: 9 Passive Insight: 15
Spells Known: Cantrips: Shillelagh, Produce Flame; Level 1: Speak With Animals (Primal Awareness bonus), Absorb Elements, Entangle, Longstrider
Spell Slots: Level 1: 3
Spell Save DC: 13 Spell Attack Bonus: 5
Saves: STR: 1 DEX: 4 CON: 2 INT: -1 WIS: 3 CHA: 1
Special Abilities: Favored Foe, Primal Companion (Beast of the Land)

 

ROLLS:
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Conditions:
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OOC info:

[Fillyjonk]

Carnival! Hlin, Did you expect the mules to follow you? Because the mules follow you. As for the farmers, a beating and a bag of gold each dissuades them from interfering. You are a twelve hoof parade entering Everlee. You and your mule retinue catch the attention of the dwarf in the dunk tank at the Knotty Pine Tavern, and he hollers, Which one's yer MOM, eh? EH? HAR! When you slap down your gold, he boggles and declines. This is more money than a working class tavern owner like him makes in a three-month! He calls Why did the tourist bet a money-pile? Because he wanted to be the CENTAUR of attention, HAR! There is no rancor, just dunking booth patter, but he genuinely panics when you pull the bow. No, no, man, why, yergun booger the whole works. Throw the BEANBAGS! The BEANBAGS. Ah yes, now that you are close, you see the booth is a venerable structure. Three silver, three tosses---ah there now, Sally's paid her coin---out of the way, yer great daft booth-murderin', mule-totin' billionaire! Off you go. The fortune teller is a human farm girl in a flowered headscarf who asks you to cross her palm with a silver piece, state your question, and pick a card. She glances at it and says, Ah, the four of humping! The druid you seek is SUPER into you! She makes mystical woo woo fingers. The mules crowd their big heads into the tent, seeking you. She pushes at them and laughs, What do you expect for a silver, get your mules out before they--- Too late, the table tips, and in the ensuing chaos, a single card flies out of the pack and lands, improbably, on your hoof. It is not the four of humping. It's Major Arcana. The Horseman for a Horse Man. What do you know about this card? She reaches, and for the brief second that the card links your hands, her eyes roll back, wild and white, and she speaks in raspy Sylvan: Which druid, for you seek three: the one who lives, the one who lies, and the one who isn't a druid at all...and then she pulls the card away and her eyes are regular and she has no idea what you mean if you ask her about it. She shoos you and the mules out, where you see the young farm hand, poor in mules (comparatively) but rich in slouching and anxious questions. Over you go, trailed by your double portion, to compare notes on Equus mulus. Lacey, you come in like the fog on furry Hin feet, small and lithe. You aren't invisible, and you certainly aren't stealthing, but everyone's attention is pulled by song and food smells and fair barkers calling folks to this game or that---it's easy to pass through. You drift over to an interesting and exotic group and listen, unobserved. Oh hey, Observant Hin, look at this game! It's a silver piece toss. You take as many tries as you have silver coins (And the smiling half-elf girl running the booth will happily hand you 10 for a gold), tossing coins toward the various shapes and sizes of pretty glassware, all full of sparkling cider. Get a coin in, you win the cup and the drink. You see three bottles with narrow but open tops nestled down among the ciders. The big prizes---potions of healing! Lacey, are you tempted? You are a deft and dextrous creature... Laisren, the turnip wagon stopped at the outskirts for a reason. The small town is thronged with happy locals, tourists from neighboring villages, and an influx of all the farm folks within a day or two's travel. It's very easy for you to pick out the rurals, the girls in starched aprons and tight braids, the boys in brim-up hats and patched homespun. The town folk have more color to their clothes, looser walks and looser purses, better shoes. You can't get anyone to give you directions, and the attention you call is not the good kind. Young feller! Git that mule outter the road! a dwarf hollers from a dunk tank. Unless she's your date, HAR, in which case, pay yer coin, dunk me, and win her a doll! The pretty half-elf with long blue hair running a coin toss grins at you and calls, Take it to the stables -- ahead by by the bridge. No room for big old equine butts in the road toda---oh. Oh dear! I stand corrected. This as three more big old equine butts make their way to you. A centaur! Living near the swamp, the rifts, you have seen his kind before. Wild ones. Fey. Cantering past with ululations and lofted spears and ribbons in their tails. They don't speak common or come into town. This fellow seems thoroughly civilized and Prime-comfortable---likely from a herd that immigrated generations back. He comes right over, wanting to talk Mules with you... rat on a stick vendol Nukky, you bang into the Rat-on-a-Stick booth and a young Hin with brown hair and a kind face steadies you. She's not much taller than you are, and built slighter. She says, You okay, bud? For all you are enraptured by the crowds of people and wide-eyed at the town-world around you, when a tall elf speaks to you, you are startled enough to snap at him. You are used to people coming to your forest, and you go to them, greet them on your terms. As soon as you flash annoyance, he politely leaves to join a dog riding a dog (?!), a centaur, and a regular human person, and some livestock who are blocking the roadway ahead. It's just you and the vendor, who smiles and asks lightly, You gonna bite my head off, too? It's down lower where you can get to it. Anyway, I see why he startled to you. Armed to the teeth! Betcha he is one of the jousters in the tourney later. Her eyes flick from you to the group he joined. We don't see a lot of kobolds, much less centaurs, or--whatevers that isses, even on feast days. Bet you a dollars to donuts? DMs don't have to roll for dad jokes...silver-to-stickrat I can guess why you're here... Nukky, are you a betting kobold? If not the sign and the Hin will say the treat costs 1 silver. Baly, you drift through the fair, plucking this and that, and crit fail and a 4 on the opposed perception rolls HA.it's candies from babies all the way. The kobold startles and barks at you in his growly little voice, anxious, but he also doesn't try to get a scaly little claw into your pocket; maybe he isn't your kind. Look at that staff, and the way he reacts to every little town-sound. Druid vibe? Something wild, anyway. And perhaps because of this, your answer is mild and kind. Anyway, never mind, never mind. Here's an interesting bunch of Exotics. An ...otter (?) that rides a dog and speaks Sylvan? Filthy Sylvan. You don't speak the tongue, of course, but you are fluent in filth in 27 languages, and filthy Sylvan is a bit of a specialty. What this ...otter (?) says would make anyone's nice mother blush. Luckily, you are not anyone's nice mother, not by long shot! So it only piques your interest, and you go on over to be snapped at by your second short personage in a two minute span. This one is perched up high on a mastiff, so he can meet your eyes, and he quickly softens when he clocks your friendly demeanor---or maybe just your Elven ears. A-ru one farm boy and one mule is one thing. But now you are surrounded by multiple mules and their attendant beings. Ah well, at least no one is trying to scratch you behind the ear or put a leash on you---and the farm boy shares your destination. The moon elf who is stuck with you behind the sixteen-hoof road jam seems to take the whole thing in good humor, addressing you like the sentient being you are. Well, hrmf, FINE then. You are a creature of15 passive insight a good facility for picking up on non-verbal cues, and you would guess the centaur who is blocking the roadway having some sort of impromptu mule-appreciation club meeting also understood your oath---even more strangely, so did the farm boy. This strikes you as unusual---are all these odd ducks heading to your destination? You believe you could get there easily in five minutes, but you do have just shy of half an hour until the appointed meeting with this Hin Druid.

OOC EVERYONE: The traffic jam you are in is beside alchemist's coin toss. Nukky is ten feet back at the rat on a stick vendor, which is just past the fortune teller and the dwarf-dunk. The Thirsty Turtle is three or four minutes walk ahead, by a bridge. It has an attached stable. please include a skill check in your next post. You could, for example, do sleight of hand, stealth, insight, try perception on any aspect of the fair, or specific insight on any NPC you see around, or you head into the tavern and use a skill there---whatever you like. Only caveat is, please aim the skill at the world; don't roll insight or sleight of hand etc on a fellow PC. Lacey or anyone can try to win a potion. Throw your own silver, d20 rolls, no mods, 18+ wins a cup of cider in a pretty bit of glassware, crit takes a health potion. If you win a health pot you have to stop. One per player, and there are only 3. Badger, take a silver piece out of your inventory for the fortune teller. You can roll HISTORY to see what if anything Hlin knows about the card, but other than that, your three earlier scenes are closed. If you want more interaction with either the dwarf or the fortune teller, excuse Hlin from the current scene and travel him back the way he came, which should be be played as a return to a place, not a continuation of a closed scene. Everyone, If you start a scene with different possible outcomes, stop where you need the world to give a result. If you leave and begin a new scene, I will usually ignore that and hold you in the first scene to protect your agency at decision cusps, but if what you do next pulls in other PCs, I may choose instead to definitively resolve and close the earlier scene to protect the timeline---we have a BIG group! I love that you guys are interacting and trying to forge connections! I promise you are going to need each other before its over...ner herrr herrr herrr DRACHENSPIRIT take DM inspiration for your stellar PC outreach!

[Wynamoinen]

Laisren A dwarf in a box begins hurling insults at Laisren. He blushes beet red, and balls up his fists, turning to the voice as if he's been dealt a challenge to his family's honor. He stops with a start as the realizes that the dwarf is sopping wet in a strange box with an odd mechanism attached. Before he can wash away the anger or make some retort, another woman yells at him to get his mule out of the thoroughfare. Laisren sputters and looks around frantically as the woman turns her calls to another mule-herder. Laisren is approached by a centaur. He's familiar enough with their kind not to make a fool of himself, but he's still caught off guard. The centaur appraises his mule with appreciation. Warily, he answers, "Oh, you mean his name? It's a joke. I think. He's my family's. He's nothing special. Breed-wise I mean." He rubs Ahearn's head. "But he is a good mule. You've a good eye there. And yours look like fine specimens, too." Lairen eyes get wide as he panics that he's made his First being hauling a pack animal through the festivalsecond breach of ettiquette. Centaurs are human-horses. Mules are donkey-horses.... could the centaur and the herd of mules (cent-ules? mule-taurs?) be related? Did Laisren just besmirch the centaur's honor? "No.... no offense intended sir... I just meant... I like mules... oh, but I mean not if they're your...." He's almost relieved to be interrupted by a stanger cursing at them in the wood-tongue. A... dog? Riding a dog? And then an elf approaches as well. They're all going to The Turtle. Lairen's head spins now. What unpredictable ways can he offend all these people? Why are there so many people shouting at him? How could he be so foolish as to clog the street with his mule and every passer-by who might know how to get to what might be the only tavern in town? He needs to move, or the whole scene will overwhelm him. He takes a deep breath. "Right. All you are going to the Thirsty Turtle. Well met, and let's move. This is no place to lollygag." Laisren steps forward, puffs out his chest, cups his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice, and shouts: "Oi, move! Clear a path! Coming through, make way." Rolled a 7 to come off as a tough guy and clear a path for the PCs through the press of the crowd.His voice cracks on the word 'through', and the crowd does not appear the least impressed in his efforts to barrel his way though the press. He turns even redder, his cheeks almost now matching his hair. He slouches even further. "Heh heh well...." he sighs meekly. "To the stable?" What he really wants is a quiet corner with something warm and mulled to sip.

OOC   Action block Laisren's stat block (full sheet link) HP: 32/32 | Armor Class: With a very high probability in combat of also having an additional 1d8 added on.14 | Saves: Str +5 ; Dex +2; Con +4; Int -1; Wis +0; Chr +1 Senses: Passive Perception 12 (+2); Passive investigation 9 (-1) | Move: 30' | Conditions: (None) Default melee: +6 to hit, 1d10+4 piercing (1d10+6 while Raging)The Family pichfork | Default ranged attack: +5 to hit, 1d6+3 slashing, 20/60 rangeHandaxe Expendables: . . . As a bonus action, activate Rage. +2 damage to STR-based melee attacks. Resistance to nonmagical BPS damage. Advantage on STR checks and saves. Ends if I don't either attack or take damage. Cannot cast spells.Rage 3/3 LR | Make a ranged spell attack against the target (+3, with CHA as casting stat). On a hit, the target takes 2d8 poison damage and must make a Constitution saving throw (DC 11). On a failed save, it is also poisoned until the end of your next turn. Acquired via Magic Initiate (Sorceror)Ray of Sickness 1/1 LR Passive: . . . When I enter a Rage, I can use my tail both offensively and defensively. As a reaction when hit by a creature I can see within 10', I can add 1d8 to my AC. I can also use the attack action to attack with my tail with 10' reach, +5 to hit, and 1d8+3 damage.Form of the Beast: Tail Ie, my cantrips acquired through Magic Initiate (Sorceror)Tail Utility: A creature within 10' must succeed on a Constitution saving throw (DC 11) or take 1d12 poison damage.Poison Spray | Until the end of your next turn, you have resistance against bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing damage dealt by weapon attacks.Blade Ward ----- Turn Summary Move: Action: Charisma check (either Deception or Intimidation as you interpret/please) to badger the crowd to make way. Rolled a 7, which I feel confident in ruling on my own is a fail. Reaction: Additional (bonus action, object interact, etc):

[Drachenspirit]

Baly-Ho! Baly took in the scene again, noting the dunking booth, the coin toss and the fortune teller. None of these appealed to him really. The Coin toss was a long shot at best and near impossible to get one of those potions. He wasn't about to part with any more - well, any coin today if he didn't have to. The Dunking Booth, well, who would waste breath trying to our insult a dwarf? Plus, it had to be just a way to waste coin since what dwarf wanted to take several dozen baths a day? To anyone within earshot, but the dwarf, he said, "He's gotta owe a huge debt. What dwarf likes to take a bath more than once a month, much less many in a day." He took the last bite of his corn, threw the remainder in the closest trash cart of pile and chuckled at the Farmer's attempt to clear the road. Hands free, he pulls out his rapier and shortsword and clanged them together once as he slid blade down blade and yelled out, "Weary Warriors of Renowned making their way to the Inn! Clear the Way!" rolled "23" for intimidationThat got a response and with both blades held high like he was some gladiator who just won a match he nodded appreciation and said, "That's how it's done. I should have my own booth." Once a path was clear, he'd sheath both blades and walk with those headed to the Inn.   BALY ACTIONS & STATS Balyarus Farfate<------ Character Sheet ROLLS : Rolled a "23" in dice threadIntimidation Saving throws: Move: Action: Bonus Action: Reaction: Conditions: Concentrating: OOC info: AC: 16 || HP: 21/21 || Saves: St +0, Dx+6, Cn+2, In+5, Ws+2, Ch+3 Left Hand: - || Right Hand: Rapier || Back: Pack, Short Bow, Quiver || Belt: Rapier +5, Short sword +5, Dagger +5, Longbow +5, Pouch Longbow: +5 to hit, 1d8+3 dmg || Rapier: +5 to hit, 1d8+3 dmg || Shortsword: +5, 1d6+3dmg || Dagger: +5, 1d4+3 dmg Skills: Stealth +7 || Investigation +6 || Acrobatics, Sleight of Hand, Thieves' Tools +5 || Deception, Intimidation +4 || Perception +3 || Arcana, History, Nature, Performance Persuasion +2 || Animal Handling, Insight, Medicine, Survival +1 || Athletics -1 Special Abilities: Bonus action of Dash, Disengage, or HideCunning Action 60’Darkvision One skill or tool prof extra a day after short or long restWhispers of the Dead After successful sneak attack, apply to any other target within 30' of one hit, Roll half # of sneak attack dice and target takes necrotic dmg as wails surround them Wails from the Grave have advantage on saving throws against being charmed, and magic can’t put to sleep.Fey Ancestry Elves don’t need to sleep. Instead, they meditate deeply, remaining semiconscious, for 4 hours a day. (The Common word for such meditation is “trance.”) While meditating, you can dream after a fashion; such dreams are actually mental exercises that have become reflexive through years o f practice. After resting in this way, you gain the same benefit that a human does from 8 hours o f sleep.Trance +1d6 to attack if ADV. If another enemy of target is 5' of it, no ADV neededSneak Attack Spells: Cantrip: Chill Touch Spell Save DC: 12 | Spell Attack Bonus: +3

[bananabadger]

As Hlin trotted through the crowd at a slow-mule's pace, he studied the card that had fallen before him. Had he stolen it? A pertinent question for a stranger in a strange land to consider. No, he didn't think he had. Or if he had, he didn't know from whom, because the sprite and somewhat vapid fortuneteller didn't seem to even know of the card--when she was speaking in her own voice and not that of what Hlin could only assume was a channeled spirit, either wiser or more evil. The problem about studying various cultures, was that he came to know too many possibilities for the meaning of things. A horseman, in human societies it was often a symbol of purpose. A noble quest. A mission. That could be, he thought, one interpretation. But ask the goblins, and a horseman was a symbol of pestilence, nasty marauders who swooped into the village, killed young kits and then bragged about it to long-haired ladies whose skin had never seen a decent mudbath. And, of course, Hlin didn't dismiss the possibility that the fortune teller was possibly a really good actor who has pulling his leg. A horseman card. Horse. Man. His very own calling card. Ha (for the horse). Ha (for the man). Hlin could have thought more about this, until suddenly he looked up and saw the pathway miraculously opened before him. He wasn's sure how this had occurred. There had been some type of croaking noise, and then the flinty sound of steel and a booming, certain voice projecting forward. But whatever the tool, the work was done. And Hlin and his friendly hoofed delegation could advance. Or perform? Oh, yes, perform. Hlin had already noticed that he, and some of the others around him, were being regarded as oddities. Well, oddities by day can sometimes become the persecuted by night. He had been to enough little tramontane carnivals, particularly the human types, to know that good-natured ribbing and curiousity by day can easily turn--give or take a few drinks--to violent hazing by night. It was best if the people could ... make sense of his presence. A word or memory that would explain to their minds, even if drunk, that this horse-man had his place. Hlin picked up his pipes and began playing a long, high note ... he trilled it and held it, his cheeks turning red, his eyebrows raising and his eyeballs comically seeming to burst from his head. And then he held it some more until even the most disinterested had to turn, had to see if this man-horse would not explode. After all, that would be something to talk about come the long winter nights. And then when his note had given up its last breath in a frenzied exhale of reserve wind from he knew not where, Hlin yanked the pipe from hisinni mouth, reared upon his hind legs and whinnied out a burst of words. "Well met, fair citizens of Everlee! The Willow Herd of the ancient kitovarians greets you! I have been sent to your carnival to pay my respects and offer you--yes, I am speaking to one of those among those who hear my voice--a gift." He switches from his pipe to his hand drums and begins beating in a three step count. One. Left front hoof. Two. Right front hoof. Three. Both hind legs. One. Left front hoof ... And he circles around, clearing out a small space, herding the two mules in his wake so that they, even if they can't match the exact steps, at least follow his path and rhythm. "Now, good, kindly Everlees. And gentle guests like myself, I need you to look among you and tell me ... who can dance with the mules?" He continues the beat of the drum, the circle, not making eye contact with the crowd so that they can make eye contact with one another. "But before you tell me that. Tell me, who can dance with the mules ... and the draconic?" And here, he gestures to a kobold with a fiery stick, inviting the kobold to come in. "They can see us as freaks, or as something they know ... performers. This is my solution," he whispers to the kobold if the kobold steps within range. Hlin waits. Though he knows how this will go. There will be a few bold volunteers. Either bold by nature, bold by drink or bold by vanity. These are not his dancers. Oh, he will entertain them. And he will use them to entertain. He will invite them into the ring and speed the drum to have them dance in a frenzy as he and the mules circle round. He will stop just short of the dancer's exhaustion. He will bring them to uncertainty and acute awareness, but not humiliate them. He will ask the crowd to applaud and praise them. And he will wait. He will wait until he sees the selected. And the selected will be the stout little halfling being urged on by a gaggle of others. Or it might be an elf, even one with the upturned nose, whose friends--more urbane and nuanced in all things--won't be eagerly pressing them on, but will be giving significant glances in their direction. These might not be mule dancers, but they will be the ones who are truly admired and respected by their peers. They will be the ones who, 9 times out of 10, are loved because they have a good heart and good nature. When Hlin has his targets, he will dance them toward the mules, have the mules press in on them and he will speak to the mules ... brother/sister ... do you see this one as kind? Would they groom you with a soft brush, feed you from the garden as equals, and shelter you inside by their stove during the winter? And if the mules neigh "yes," Hlin will stop the dance with a raining of molasses from the sky, allowing young kids to rush in and hold out their tongues to the air to capture the sweet drizzling ... and then he will declare that he, the minister of the Willow Tribe, has arrived and found these people worthy. And found them good. And so he is allowed to gift them the friendship and companionship of these two mules whose names they, together, shall propose, calling out varieties until each mule signals affirmation. If the kobold has joined in the dance, Hlin grants the draconic creature the honor of handing over the reins on the mule to the new home-partner. He will ask only of the new owners that they write to him, in care of the Willow Tribe, when they can and if they can find a literate scribe, to tell them of the mules' new lives. And then, kobold or none, he will shout. "Thank you, kind citizens and guests of Everlee! If you come tonight to the Thirsty Turtle, I will be sharing ballads from far lands ... and would love to hear you sing me your own!" With a bow to the mules, and a bow to the crowd, he heads to the tavern. And though it breaks all rules of dignity and pride, it is certainly something in the realm of performance--and for that reason, if the kobold wishes, it may ride his back through the parted carnival-goers.

 

Name: Hlin
Class: (Lore) Bard
Level: 3
Race: Centaur (Willow Herd)
HP: 18 AC: 13
Passive Perception: 16 Passive Investigation: 11 Passive Insight: 14
Spells Known:

• Cantrips: Mage Hand, Vicious Mockery
• Level 1: Cure Wounds, Silvery Barbis
• Level 2: Messenger, Cloud of Daggers, Cure Wounds (upcast), Hold Person, Nathair's Mischief

Spell Slots:

• Four Level 1: {} {} {} {}
• Two Level 2: {} {}

Spell Save DC: Wis 12 Spell Attack Bonus: 4
Saves: STR: +2 DEX: +4 CON: 0 INT: -1 WIS: +2 CHA: +4
Bardic Inspiration: {} {}
Attack modifier: +4 melee / +4 ranged
Weapons: Longsword, daggers and short bow
Special Abilities: Bardic Inspiration, Jack of All Trades, Song of Rest, Cutting Words, Charge, Hooves, Equine Build

 

Rolls:
Saving throws:
Move:
Action:
History to study card=10
Performance of music and dance=20
Animal handling for the mules to dance and interact=19
Persuasion for the new owners to find a scribe and send a letter when they can=10
Nathair's Mischief cast with affect = a rain of molasses making the dancing circle difficult terrain for movement
Reaction:
Condition:
Concentrating:
OOC info:

[Yoshimi]

A-ru A-ru Hrmms in thoughtful surprise when the rube on the mule reacts in recognition to his Sylvan phrase, but the dashing elf does not. He starts to confide grudgingly to Sneech, "Maybe I got the wrong end of the stick here..." But then the rube on the mule yells in falsetto and sits there grinning like a pixie, and the dashing elf threatens the festival crowd with violence then strides down the widening corridor all kinglike, and the centaur starts tootling on a set of pipes for no apparent reason. The marda nods knowingly. "They're cracked, every man-jack of 'em." Still, he can't stop his foot from tapping to the rhythm when the centaur switches to his drums. He's about to compliment the musician, when the entire crowd appears to lose its mind, several otherwise normal-looking folk dancing their way over to the mules and gyrating around the animals in some sort of bizarre seduction. The ranger's bushy eyebrows raise in astonishment. "What is this, the Mule-on Rouge?" He'd been to the legendary night spot on the Star Coast during a port of call. A bunch of willowy human men and women showing too much skin for people with too little fur, riding around bareback on white horses or swinging on trapezes whilst singing tawdry love ballads. Pure debauchery is what it was, and he wasn't about to be party to it here. "Sneech! Full ahead!" The primal Mastiff springs past Laisren into the gap created by Baly and gallops swiftly toward the sanctuary of the Thirsty Turtle. The sights and sounds of the festival blur past A-ru as he sits hunched forward on his steed, and in a matter of minutes his desperate escape is over, as Sneech pulls up beside the inn's stable. The ranger dismounts lightly and leads the dog inside, his eyes shining in the gloom as he searches for a comfortable-looking corner. He pats the mastiff down and carefully teases out a burr that must have been acquired on the road. Then he says kindly, "Set yerself down and rest. They probably don't allow dogs in the tavern." Crossing the threshold of a public house. Never a great moment in the marda's life. He stands before the tavern's door for a while, staring at it. A couple of knotholes and a thin crack form a sort of lopsided face in the wood grain, which looks to be a serviceable sounding board. "Getcher fingers off my chin if yez want to keep 'em." "If I do lift my leg, it'll be to put a knee in yer fork." "I don't have fleas. I do have this longbow..." The face in the door appears suitably chastened. But still, A'ru looks over his shoulder at the stable, wondering if he shouldn't just wait there for a half hour until the appointed time. But at last he berates himself, "Yer mother didn't raise a day-lily, A'ru, now did she." He tries to push the door open quietly and slip into the tavern, intending to stick to the shadows as best as possible until the druid arrived.

 

Name: A-Ru
Class: Beastmaster Ranger Level: 3 HP: 28 AC: 17
Attack bonus: Melee: +1, Ranged: +4
Passive Perception: 15 Passive Investigation: 9 Passive Insight: 15
Spells Known: Cantrips: Shillelagh, Produce Flame; Level 1: Speak With Animals (Primal Awareness bonus), Absorb Elements, Entangle, Longstrider
Spell Slots: Level 1: 3
Spell Save DC: 13 Spell Attack Bonus: 5
Saves: STR: 1 DEX: 4 CON: 2 INT: -1 WIS: 3 CHA: 1
Special Abilities: Favored Foe, Primal Companion (Beast of the Land)

 

ROLLS: Stealth 7
Saving throws:
Move:
Action:
Bonus Action:
Reaction:
Conditions:
Concentrating:
OOC info: Trying to enter the Thirsty Turtle as inconspicuously as possible.