PotM October

[Admin Choc]

The first of October has passed, and the bills are already brutal. Not sure if this is an international thing, but all of our bills are dated the first of each Month, which can be sometimes a bit of a hassle.
But, if you do not want to think about this real-life negativity :

--> Use our RPG-crossing escape pod and start reading this Month's nominated posts as a distraction!!!! <---

The posts in this thread are nominated for a reason, motivated by the one nominating these posts. Maybe the reasons can be different; maybe it's written in character in a way that you almost feel like that character, maybe it shows a thinking process, a character upgrade, a vivid memory. OR, the words used, the layout, everything in the post is awesome!

And, last but not least, you may nominate your post! No shame in doing that, we even encourage you to share that you are proud and want everyone to read and enjoy.

The Rules:

• only nominate one post
• declare your admiration, why do you think this post is so cool
• refrain from posts written by previous 2023 winners
• refrain from nominating a post already nominated in this thread (no +1's ;-)
• please pass us the link of the post, and/or copy/paste the post

[lostcheerio]

Nomination Post: Fillyjonk Game: Fey Ghosts of Saltmarsh System: D&D 5e GM: Fillyjonk Post: Two Down Two to Go Context: Our party tried to infiltrate a ship of monsters, and it didn't go well. The ship was stolen from one of our PCs, before the game began, and we've spent nearly two and a half years with this storyline on the backburner, slowly working on getting it back. We finally found the ship, assessed the situation, made an elaborate plan which went belly up within a few rounds, and now are in combat with a gelatinous cube, an ettin, a cloaker, an entire crew of Duergar sailors, and... it's really bad. Did I mention we're in the Underdark? Reason for Nomination: This combat was never supposed to be combat. Spying and infiltrating and manipulating was the goal. But you know how plans go, right? Fillyjonk has handled this extremely complex and dangerous combat masterfully, with a horde of combatants on the deck. She's danced between letting us feel how very horribly real this is and smashing us to paste immediately. We're scared, but we're not despairing. And that's not an easy balance to maintain! In this post, the enemies put down two of the PCs in the same round. Always, in every post, there are reverberations to our histories and connections outside the present moment, but these scenes are particularly elegant, as each PC going unconscious experiences it in a different, personal way. And then there's the mechanics -- spells flying, missiles flying, multi-level terrain, just wow. As a player, I so appreciate all the work and care that goes into writing a post like this, both creatively and technically. Applause from under the fallen paladin's shield!   BAD BOAT BATTLE Falco, have any of these things ever seen the stars? Likely not, so do they know what they are seeing now? She-Who-Swabs is so bedazzled that the swipe she takes misses by a metaphorical mile as you dance down and away from her. Adding literal injury to insult, your starry arrow nearly ends her. However, this boat is full of unseen enemies. You jostle into Duergar bodies as you dash, and their bulk pushes you in the path of various enemies. You feel the air of a missed blow, and then two unkind strikes of opportunity lay you open as you pass. The attacks reveal three invisible Duergar who have come up on the deck. The old canny Mindflayer blinks his orange eyes at you. He does not strike as you go by, but he says, Oh, you will get yours. Um, that's not what you said? You make the stairs, though, and get halfway down to the familiar war room. It is has a musty fungal smell now, but the table is the same. How many times have your bare feet been propped up on that very table as you and Garrick loaded your pipes and Captain Kieran unfurled this map or that one... Now, the door to Kieran's room is hung with faintly glowing sinister-silver chains. To the north, similar chains shut Garrick's room, and these rattle and rustle. Moaning and banging beyond. FALCO! FALCO! Tempest, fish faces are hard to read. No eyebrows. But you are better at it than most for obvious reasons. You can see Loog Loog is afraid. What you can't know is what he fears. You? Or failing to end you? The water restores and refreshes, and you shoot up and clamber back aboard before you can see which it is. You call upon your beautiful god and feel her send a sea-breeze of healing power through you and across the deck to the paladin. Oh, look, an Ettin. Still here. One head is loyal to the Captain, one to Jiven, and the head that seems to have current control of the body chose to strike at a Duergar, not you. Alas, both rather like Cube, as it happens. You call forth a clang of pain that hurts Cube, deeply. It farts out a slobbery sad sound through its sphincter-y mouth-hole. Both huge Ettin heads swivel toward you in rage and find brief agreement. You turn and run for the prow, and as you go, the morningstar comes crashing down to bludgeon cruelly at your shoulder. The pain and the force combines almost drive you to your knees, but you are your mother's daughter. Who is pain, to ask that you should kneel? You steel yourself and muscle forward to the prow. Bingle, you are okay and Fela and here is Tempest, dripping and okay, mostly, and Falco is okay enough to go running across the deck and down some stairs. ALL OKAY! You blast the cube with sulfurous hell, and it is NOT OKAY. It wibbles, all its bones and melting hats and armors sloch around in a collapsing internal jumble. It blats panicky frat-sounds. GOOD! You send your dear little bird winging off into the black, out over the sea, out of the harbor, to see who is coming, be it friend or foe or some random happener-alonger who hates cubes. Fela, you don't need a hand on Bingle. She clings to you like a gnome-shaped limpet. You can get your sword out, and here, in the darkest dark you've yet known, you call the righteous smiting power of Saliber down upon this gelid abomination. Once. Twice. The blows land in the same spot. The rubbery body is near cloven, and some internal integrity is overcome. The insides of it pump out in a gooey wash. Foul acidic innards, now too devoid of life and energy to burn you, slosh across your feet and the deck, carrying chunks of all its suspended prizes into the dark waters. You hear derisive laughter and a high, wild cheer from the deck of the other ship. The drow are enjoying the spectacle, it seems, and you have a fan---the woman in the leathers. Captain Cloaker is not your fan, however. CUUUUUUUUUUUUBE, he screams, KILL HER! SHE HAS DESTROYED OUR CUBE! As you muscle Bingle toward the prow, he lashes at you with his long, vile tail. Your shield deflects it easily, and you hurry away. He is following. Huge. Hot breath. Claws on wood. He bites at you, trying to engulf your head, but again he misses. He screams in impotent rage. The tail again, and this time, the blow lands. He keens in triumph. What happens next is a wild confusion or dwarves and violence. Jiven, coming onto the deck, calls, Never a better time. STRIKE NOW! She-Who-Swabs kicks the head off her mop to reveal a spear. She hurls it at you, but you swat it easily away. Another invisible Duergar appears as he hurls a javelin. All the dark dwarves--- seven! ---are running your way, hurling weaponry. Some aim at you, because the captain ordered it. Some aim at the captain, because Jiven ordered it. You can't tell who is what, but it matters not at all. The shield pulls them all, all, all to you. Most clatter harmlessly to the deck. But two find their way to you. Mere stings. Then. The drow pushes back his fancy hat and takes aim at the Cloaker, and your shield pulls the bullet to you. It punches a hole in your armor, right beside your heart, and --- You stare down at Bingle, and see the gnome beside you is stone. Not a warm live girl you can protect and save. A statue. Snow piles on her still head, dusts her shoulders. Her frozen arms offer you a tray full of canapes, and you hear the scree-scraw of those crazy violins. You go down the dance. Not with Slurry or Sally. Not with warm, steady Briony or a fever-bright Innovation. A stranger. Beautiful and avid and elegant in your arms, her lovely, strange face tilting as she regards you. Seven dwarves, and now? Here is Snow White. Power in firsts, she says. Power in mortal blood. Power in lasts. Dear gods, but she is cold. Tempest, the Ettin follows, and both sides lash at you, furious; the huge club misses, but the hated Morningstar lands again. On your head this time. How...how did you get back into the sea? Blue and bubbles and no pain. Tail. Gills. A floating bliss. Nithe is there? Nithe? Sure, if Nithe was pink. Your father is riding him. Baby, he says. You okay? You suspect that you are not. Bingle You can't see Falco. Tempest is not okay. Fela is not okay. It is bad to stand up in a boat. It is bad to be abandoned. Here you are, so many monsters, facing you. So many awful fangs and faces and bristling spines and weapons and wings and hats. You are going to crumple next and fade. What other outcome can there be? Three motes of fire zing out of the black and one sizzles into the Cloaker's ugly face. He wheels to look. Halran bursts into your head, showing you a close-up of what you can now see with your own eyes from afar. It is a small boat, entering the lights of the harbor. It is a gnome boy on some crazy little speed boat with a spinning whizzee something on the back. ZOOOOOOOOM. His evil robes billow out black, and a small gray mouse clings to his green hair. He has one hand on a rudder-like thing, and his eyes are so wide you see whites all the way around. His teeth are bared and clamped down on a big-bellied ivory pipe like some kind of ding-dang Hin, his other hand lifted to make somatic motions. He looks---nuts. NUTS. He is aimed right at the ship of monsters and he screams, COME AT ME, YA GREASY ****S! Well, he can't save you. You are going to die here and go to Hell, for sure, for sure, to be tossed into some horrid slag-pit. But. You will not go alone. Falco! that familiar voice calls, anguished. I feel your blood sinking into the deck. I feel it. Are you dying? I cannot bear it, lad. I cannot bear to be powerless again, and to again lose you. The door rattles, the ghost thunders, the frame shakes. The chains hold. Party. With all of this going on, no one notices the old mind flayer step quietly to She-Who-Swabs to snag her by the head with his tentacles, his arms snaking around her filthy body as his powerful mind attacks hers. She slumps in his grasp, dead, blood leaking out her ear holes. OOC LINK TO VERY SIMPLE UNRELIABLE PROBABLY NOT THERE MAP. VAMPIRE = Cloaker (because it has a cloak). Owl = Harlan A screen shot is up in DISCORD Plaid, No map features on the deck are providing cover in this fight for anyone on either team. Also, you can't get that far after climbing ten feet, which took twenty feet of movement. I put you where you could get. Ptwids, your reaction cannot apply to Falco as it was used last turn, he took damage from reactions, also last turn, and now he is across the boat. Plaid and Ptwids, I need a death save from each of you at the end of this next round. Pwtids, Jivens CRIT. That IS halved. OOF. Name Health AC Damage Conditions Concentrating Bingle 28/39 13 -6 -11 -12 -11 +28   Haste Harlan 1 11       Tempest 0/45 17 -13 -3 -12 +16 -7 -15 +17 -15 -17 Unconcious   Falco 25/45 12 -8 -12   Fela 0/52 16/18/20 -11 -5 -10 +11 -8 -24 -5 -4 Hasted, Unconscious   CLOAKER Quite Hurt 14 -7 -12 -8 -13 -6   CUBE DEAD 6 -22 -8 -13 -10 -3 -36   SheWhoSwabs DEAD 11 -9 -8   LOOG LOOG HEALTHY 13   Overboard DUERGAR 1 HEALTHY 16   DUERGAR 2 HEALTHY 16   DUERGAR 3 HEALTHY 16   DUERGAR 4 DEAD 16 -16 -13   DUERGAR 5 HEALTHY 16   DUERGAR 6 HEALTHY 16   DUERGAR 7 HEALTHY 16   DUERGAR 8 HEALTHY 16   ETTIN HEALTHY 12   SQUIGGLES HEALTHY 15   JIVEN STARKSCREAM HEALTHY 16

[zevonian]

The Artist- Strangemund
The Game- Old Gods of Appalachia
The System- Cypher System (Old Gods of Appalachia)
The GM- Strangemund
The Link- Post

The Reasoning- Y'all know about the significance of family, yeah. You go to parties, weddings, bail bonds persons, and courts for 'em. You watch vroom vroom car movies where noted RPG enthusiast Vin Diesel stress the importance of it. Maybe not all blood related, but somehow they're your kinfolk.

Strangemund would have you looking in on such a family, in a time nearly a century ago, where some scattered but now have to go back home for a most important visit. A funeral.


The Post-

Intro Post She Never Liked Goodbyes ~~ Ambient Autumn Sounds ~~ Fall has come to our dear mountains. No longer are the leaves on the towering sentinels we call trees bare that healthy glow of green. Now they are cast in the color of fire. Burning reds and baleful oranges. Yellows as soft as a dandelion kiss on your nose, and browns so warm that they leave you yearning for the days those crinkled leaves would fall and crunch beneath your shoes, singing a sound which always elicited laughter and a kind of joy that you’d forgotten in your days of old. A chill prickles the air. Just enough to warrant a thicker layer of clothes on your outings out into a world that you know and you live but may not always love, may not always appreciate. It is the start of the hurdle that is unpacking all them winter goodies that kept you nice and toasty throughout the colder parts of the year. Heavy wool blankets stitched by hand. Jam jars that were set to marinate throughout summer needed to be hauled out and stocked in your cabinets. Stashes of that liquid gold herald as a sin in the time of Prohibition no longer tucked away for just a rainy day but for those extra chilly nights by a well-stoked fire. It is a changing of seasons. Where the days grow shorter in Appalachia, the nights longer, so frighteningly longer. But we won’t talk about that just yet, Family; no, them shades and shadows can wait. Instead we look upon Passelbranch, Tennessee, during a time of harvest. Aplenty is how one would describe the farm lands that dot the stretch of valley that laid cradled in the mountains like a newborn babe. Lucky is the farmer who settles in these lands. Their homestead is of a rich, fertile soil that knows only to give birth to the sweetest and ripest of fruit. To give and give and give and give and give and… well, you get the point, Family. Only a truly cursed fool couldn’t plant a seed and watch it bloom here. Joseph Cleary, who lived on a plot of land south of the Good Shepherd Church, past the newlyweds, April and Cletus, who were expecting their first come Christmas day– well, Mr. Cleary already had his hands full with plump, round pumpkins this season. They were every which color you could imagine. Purple. Yeller. Green. But orange engulfed his field the most, like a wildfire set loose. Those were especially popular ‘round this time. Kids and their folks eager to pick out a sturdy squash from his patch so they could get set to working the traditional jack-o-lantern. It’d be only a matter of time before a slew of scary faces were propped up on windowsills and front porches, with the smell of roasted pumpkin seeds drifting through every home in town. Mr. Briggs and Mr. Bristol-- who folks say are brothers although they don’t look a spick alike-- got themselves a sea of sweet corn on their land, just north west of the railroad outta town. You could barely catch a glimpse of their scarecrow, the corn stalks so tall that it’s become just a regular hideout for the local teenagers looking for a place to get away and get cozy beneath the stars. And of course, we can’t forget Mr. Lamb. Everyone in Passelbranch knew Mr. Lamb. He owned all the pig farms ‘round these parts. Bought them all up some decades back despite originally being a city boy himself. His pigs were infamous for how tender and delicious they were. Ooh boy, any cut off them was guaranteed to melt in your mouth and fill your heart with a song! All the grocers and families with a lot mouths to feed were ready to get them a hog or two for the holidays to come. Some of them saved up for the occasion just so that dinner table was brimming with pork chops, bacon, glazed ham, and oh Family, I am gonna have to stop before I find myself salivating like a dog at the idea. In all your time here, though, it ain’t the corn, the pumpkins, them fat bellied pigs that remind you of home– that remind you of The Stray House. Its apples. Or more specifically, sweet, buttery apple pie. You always thought how lucky ya’ll were for the holler to have apple trees. Not just one but dozens that grew tucked away in the woods you grew up in. Them shiny green apples hanging from the branches like little treasures. Ready to be plucked from their twigs and carried back to Granny Innes’ kitchen, where she’d start her work on the best apple pies you’ve ever tasted. She always joked the secret ingredient was worms, just to make you young’uns laugh, and you older ones, who showed up late, she did it to make that facade you wore slip, just a little. Give you a chance to really be yourself. You never knew how she did make those apple pies. Never thought to ask for the recipe. Those of you stuck ‘round these parts, well, you just knew she’d have Kermit sent off with a pie or two once the leaves started to fall. Those of you who left, maybe you thought to yourself you’d ask for it down the road. When you were a little wiser, a little smarter, a little more together. It’d be a momentous occasion when you showed back up and told her just how well you’d be doing. It never occurred to a single one of you that you could lose that chance. ~~~ Granny Innes stood on her front porch, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of ginseng root. Eyes older than the years on her wrinkled face stared long and hard into the woods just outside her protection lines, beyond anything us normal folk could glean. Head cocked to the side, she rested her gnarled, calloused hands on a walking stick she’d come to use for more than just sorting out snakes from the bushes, and listened to the sounds of the Green. The laughing wind that spun itself through the branches and leaves that shaded the brush below, its joy contagious in its simplicity. She listened to the babbling creek that spoke in hushed whispers, and yet carried itself to far and out of reach places, its secrets not always plain. She listened for something she knew she should not be there. Something that smelled of rot. The hundreds of wind chimes she set to every door, window, and low hanging purchase jingled all ‘round Granny Innes in a cacophony that blotted out all other noise. And Granny Innes, the Bear of Passelbranch, who stood in the center of such chaos, simply snorted, and said, "Well then. Best I get to work." ~~ Outro Music: Build Momma a Coffin by Blood on the Harp ~~ OOC   Welcome, Family, to Old Gods of Appalachia, and the start of our story! It is the year 1927, at the start of autumn, and smacked dab in the middle of Prohibition. Our story will mainly take place in sweet Passelbranch, Tennessee, but for now, I am going to divert attention elsewhere-- to you fine folks! What I'd love to have for your first posts are introductions to your characters, during a time and place before you even know Granny Innes is gone. Please write a scene of what your life is currently like. Something that gives us a peak into how you've been living since you said farewell to The Stray House. As well, I'd love for you to include how exactly you came across that special little letter that bid you to come on home. 'cuz it will find you exactly at the right time for you to show up alongside each other-- although we won't cover that reunion just yet. With that, I let you go to write to your heart's content! Have fun, folks! And if you need me for anything, well, you know how to find me~!

[PlaidPeregrine]

Player: LostCheerio
Game: Fey Ghosts of Saltmarsh
System: D&D 5E
DM: Fillyjonk
Post Link:Click Here for the Post

Context: Bingle Curiosa Wildwander, Forest Gnome Wizard and rather new Warlock in the service of the infernally evil Glasya has found herself in the Underdark having just survived a very bloody fight onboard a docked ship next to mushroom-farming island of free (freer than most it seems) male Drow. Being a Good Gnome, she is doing her very best to be EVIL and serve Glasya in a most opportunistic way - to bring fresh water to this horrible tiny island where mushrooms are tapped for the impoverished Drow's nourishment and um..tasty water supply. Fresh water is very valuable to the Drow here. Her plan is to convert the poor souls to follow, if not to worship Glasya if she could provide such a kind luxury of clean, fresh water, giving the Evil Entity a foothold in the Underdark (ie, the Nuderdark as the Gonmes say).

The Reasoning: This is simply a beautiful, lively and such a brilliantly executed idea. Seeing a good and kind Forest Gnome serve Evil by providing something so wondrous and valuable as fresh water is so on point. Cheerio is selling such a good and pure thing, the bringing of a spring of water, to her evil patron as a way into her graces. Adding in a bulletpointed presentation was very humorous as well to anyone who understands the infernal mechanisms of such organization.

 

Bingle Curiosa Wildwander, Forest Gnome Wizard/Warlock SIHT! I don't think it's really Glasya! But I think Bingle might.IT'S GLASYA. SIHT CARP SIHT! SIHT SIHT CARP CARP CARPY CARP SIHT! Bingles breath goes backwards for a second and she forgets which is nose and which is lung and desires to peel off her head and put it in a safe, safe sack. But! No! NO! Bingle may not poop herself or cry out or run or hide or even go rigid or react or scuttle backward to throw up silently and secretly under a neighboring bedroll. No. Get it together! Warlock up! Bingle sinks into a deep courtly bow, and when she rises up again she is darker, wilder, the evilest version of herself she can muster with the gifts that Glasya gave her. The visitor is very very beautiful and wearing a high collar which is more than Bingle could have ever expected or hoped for. Glasya looks as gorgeous as Griselda Erevyn but merciless and somewhat straved and grey and so calm. Glasya requires only one minute of persuasive rhetoric! Surely she can do this! Surely! It can be done! Bingle feels a rush of gratitude to Mr. Perpetu, close on the heels of her spark of irritation at being ignored. He didn't ignore her -- HE PUSHED HER MESSAGE UP THE CHAIN. Up the dark, clanking, blood-soaked, smoking chain to the sleek, unemotional top. Glasya here in a portrait frame. Holy feraking carp. She takes charge of the viola sound that's coming out of Banx, pushing him into an ominous little song. "My lady, I come to you in reverent malevolence, with my humble thanks for your vile attention. I hope you are eternally well, and all your unholy family prospers. With your own word, you have struck to the heart of why I propose this place as the first temple of Glasya. A toe-hold it will be exactly. Yes, here in Charwall Parish we will plant our toe. And this mushroom clotted chain of islands shall become the future heart of the Diocese of the Underdark. Here, in the shadow, where the ships come and go to make dark trades, we will burrow into the dominion of Lolth. And I have chosen this spot for the following reasons:" Bingle shakes her hand and Minor-Illusions a scroll falling open, showing some clearly organized bullet points, and then shakes it again, switching to the first of her three slides. The title appears in a very fancy but of course readable script: DESPERATION. She nudges Banx with her toe and the music turns into a more intense, urgent melody. "Number one: Desperation. These starving, unhappy people are looked over by their world, scraping the undersides of mushrooms for a little sustenance. When I ask for a simple water fountain, understand this is life-changing magic for these wretched souls. Number two: Degradation. Lolth has her priestesses and prodigies. All female. The drow way is to discard the males, as little more than beasts, so this population, and others in these islands, is nothing to her. The males of the species, what god answers their prayers? They are many, they are ignored, and will their souls not spend as well as any other coin?" The sand is running thin. "Number three: Desolation. Will Lolth and her haughty acolytes even come to this poor harbor, let alone notice or investigate our impositions, until our toe has become a foot, then a boot and heel? I propose we launch our mission here, far from the cities, far from the eye of Lolth, far from the riches and suspicions, where one clear water fountain will spring forth the loyalty of legions!" Yes, Bingle's voice squeaks a little at the end. Yes, when she shakes the illusory scroll again to change the slide to a small, dark little temple, with a pale portrait hung, and a bubbling fountain flowing from a black rock, it accidentally shows a jar of pickles for half a second. Yes, Banx's music doesn't resolve quite as dramatically as she would have liked. But she makes her eyes blaze orange. And she speaks with the added authority of believing she is right.

ۜ\(סּںסּَ` )/ۜ   OOC: Initiative: Saving Throw: Move: Action: Mask of Many Faces into Evil Bingle. Minor Illusion a scroll to show a Power Point. Roll to understand the person in the portrait: Dice * Insight: d20+4 (14)+4 Total = 18 Roll to persuade the person in the portrait this is a good idea: Dice * Persuasion: d20+1 (8)+1 Total = 9 Bonus Action: Reaction: Free Action: Conditions: Concentrating: Harlan's Action:

ۜ\(ಠ_ಠ)/ۜ   Bingle Wildwander Forest Gnome Wizard 5, School of Transmutation. Warlock 1, Pact of the Fiend. Folk Hero Att Mod Save Str 11 +0 +0 Dex 11 +0 +0 Con 14 +2 +2 Int 18 +4 +7 Wis 12 +1 +4 Cha 12 +1 +1 Adv vs. Magic for INT, WIS, CHA Sheet Passive Per. 11 Passive Inv. 17 Passive Ins. 14 HP 28/39 AC (13 MA) 10 Inspiration No Heal Potions 1 Initiative +0 Pro Bonus +3 Walking Speed 25 Defenses None Wiz DC/Att 15/+7 War DC/Att 12/+4 Spell Slots 1st:1/4 Pact 0/1 2nd:3/3 3rd:1/2 Cantrips Create Bonfire Dancing Lights Mage Hand Message Minor Illusion Eldritch Blast Prestidigitation Spells: 1 Find Familiar (Rit) 1 Identify (Rit) 1 Mage Armor 1 Magic Missile 1 T's Floating D (Rit) 1 Hex (BA) 1 Hellish Rebuke (Rea) 2 Alter Self 2 Invisibility 2 Misty Step 2 Max's Earthen Grasp 2 Magic Mouth (Rit) 3 Animate Dead 3 Haste 3 Fly 3 Tiny Hut (Rit) 3 Water Breathe (Rit) Key Skills ⦿Animal Handling +4 Arcana +4 Deception +1 History +4 ⦿Insight +4 Intimidation +1 ⦿Investigation +7 Medicine +1 Nature +4 Perception +1 Performance +1 Persuasion +1 Religion +4 ⦿Survival +4 Wizard Features [ ] Arcane Recovery Minor Alchemy Warlock Features Pact Patron: Glasya When you reduce a hostile creature to 0 HP, you gain 2 temp HP.Dark One's Blessing Mask of Many Faces Gnome Features Darkvision You have advantage on all Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma saving throws against magic.Gnome Cunning You can communicate simple ideas with Small or smaller beasts.Speak with Small Beasts Languages Common Gnomish Money 6 copper 12 silver 461 gold 13 plat 3 mixed coin Carrying Gas Bomb 1 Oil of Slipperiness Vorn's Cigarette Case Attuned Ring of Wild Fey Magic

[Wynamoinen]

Nomination Nominee: Elanir Game: Shadows of the City System: Urban Shadows (PbtA) GM: Wynamoinen Post (w/ link): Anne lives life for a day Context: Anne is a specter. She was alive when Washington DC was a literal swamp with a few government buildings. Now she's dead, and she's gotten used to being a ghost. Ghosts don't need to pay attention to a lot of things, and they don't need to care about how human society changes. There were no cars or phones or electricty in her day, and now as a ghost she can't interact with any of that, so why should any of it matter to her? It can sometimes be hard to read game posts from Anne's perspective, because she is so disjoint from lived life and mortal time. This is a clever and challenging stylistic choice that Elanir has made in this game. But in this post, Anne has posessed a person and finds herself in a terrifying cituation: living in regular human society with a regular human body! All the minor things that we don't think about (tying shoes, pedestrian traffic law, eating), Anne has to deal with for the first time in over a hundred years. The Reasoning: it's a clever fish out-of-water story, that doubles as body horror, that triples as character advancement and worldbuilding. Also, it's Halloween season, and here a specter is telling us the spoopiest story of all: Mere Human Existence!   The Spectre Vasili Initial exhilaration had turned into a nightmare before long. Most spirits could possess the living, both human beings and mere animals, but they rarely did so and almost always only for a very short amount of time. Now Anne had found out why. It wasn’t because the ones possessed constantly fought to regain their freedom. In Vasili’s case he most certainly did and he fought as fiercely as a fox cornered by hunting hounds, but there was something almost tragic about the ease with which a Spectre like Anne could control a weak-willed man like him. No, it was the fact that spirits, especially those who had last experienced true life a very long time ago, found their borrowed bodies incredibly restraining. And taxing. To exist in the shadows was no true life, certainly, but it was -for lack of a better word- comfortable. It resembled a dream, often foggy and confused, but one making no demands on the spirits condemned to remain in such a state. There were no needs to satisfy other than the obsessions that accompanied the spectres in their cursed afterlife: no hunger or thirst, no cold or heat, no exhaustion, no sickness, no fear of death. Time too was irrelevant, neither a means to grow and evolve, nor a constant threat to decline and decay. A spirit was nothing more than a misty presence in a world of varying shades of gray. It could choose to simply fade into the background. Not so when possessing a living being. Anne had hoped that it would have been similar to riding a horse, but she was severely disappointed by the comparison. A mount exceeded its rider in strength, speed, and stamina, it gave the one controlling it a sense of freedom they would not have tasted otherwise. There was no freedom in controlling Vasili. This prison of flesh was worse than fetters and chains of iron, restricting Anne in everything she did, enforcing upon her the weaknesses of the Missionary. The cuts and bruises hurt in a manner that drove the Spectre mad, her mouth felt dry and her lips parched, her stomach rumbled, her skin itched and she smelled worse than one of her father’s stablehands, the stench of her own sweat and dried blood almost suffocating her. Even the bright colors she had so enjoyed initially, appeared blinding in her eyes, and she tried to avert her gaze every chance she got. She walked and walked and walked through crowded squares, noisy streets, and empty alleys, beneath the artificial light of street lamps, blinking neon signs or the vast grayness of the overcast sky, often having to retrace her steps when walls and fences would not allow her hunk of flesh to pass through. Hundreds and thousands of automobiles passed next to her with the speed of a flying hawk, adding to her confusion with the sound of their engines and their powerful lights. People too were all around her, strangers, some looking at her with curiosity or disgust, a few exchanging words and making offensive gestures, most ignoring her, pressing instead their fingertips on small mirror-like objects that responded with a cacophony of sounds. A nightmare. Anne wanted to escape, to hide somewhere far away from the light and the noise and the indifferent throng of incessantly moving bodies. So many people lived in her city, so many that she was not certain that she could truly call the city hers any more. George Town. Washington, D.C. Hell. But she didn’t escape. She didn’t hide. She couldn’t accept that all this effort, this torture, had been for nothing. She had promised Andre that she would find out more about the Missionaries and she would keep her promise. The two of them had a bond, the Wolf and the Spectre. She could feel his presence in the city, moving with a speed she couldn’t hope to match with Vasili’s aching legs. She ignored the laughter of children and the derisive names insolent youths called her when she relieved herself next to a tree and kept on walking. This body did not belong to her, she reminded herself. It belonged to him, the Godless Missionary, the man in the black suit, Vasili, follower of Vox populi, her beast of burden. And finally, after what seemed to her like an eternity, she reached her destination. An eyesore of a building, cracked bricks, dirty windows, and paint on the walls forming words Anne didn’t understand and pictures that offended her so deeply she didn’t even register them. Approaching one of the entrances, Anne headed directly towards one of the servants standing in front of it, a man she normally wouldn’t have even graced with her gaze. Despite the revulsion that she felt she spoke to him, realizing that it was solely within his power to admit her inside or turn her away, but her mouth and tongue would not cooperate and form the words in her mind. She didn’t know when Vasili had last drunk anything, but it must have been before the incident at the bridge. Perhaps she should have watered him, she thought, but it was now too late. "Andre… The Wolf…", she croaked and reached inside the inner pocket of her black suit, her fingers wrapping themselves around a lump inside. Vasili’s wallet, she knew instinctively, taking it out and handing it over to the servant. He could keep it and everything inside for all she cared. All she wanted was to find Andre.   Persuade an NPC (5 - failure), if necessary. Roll.   The Spectre Anne Charlotte Beall (born Varney), The Spectre Advancement Advancements Mortality [X] Night [X] Power [X] Wild [ ] Vintage, confused, changing (elegant or neglected), nostalgic, tortured, mercurial Basics Hold 1 Ongoing 0 Stats Blood Heart Mind Spirit 2 0 -1 1 Factions Mortality Night Power Wild 0 1 0 1 Harm Armor=0 Faint [ ] ________________ Grievous [ ] [ ] ________________ Critical [ ] [ ] ________________ Scars [ ] -1 BloodShattered [ ] -1 HeartDisfigured [ ] -1 MindFractured [ ] -1 SpiritBroken Moves Corruption [X] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] Corruption Moves text- text- text- text- Drama Moves Corruption Move: When you witness a scene of victimization and do nothing, mark corruption. Intimacy Move: When you share a moment of intimacy -physical or emotional- with another person, you hold 1. Whenever they get into trouble, you can spend your hold to be there. Archetype Moves Manifest: Regular people can’t sense or interact with you unless you manifest. You manifest by spending a few quiet moments concentrating and choosing 2: • You can be heard • You can be seen • You can touch and be touched by the physical world You may mark corruption to instead choose 1 or all 3. Won’t Be Ignored: When you get in the way of someone, treat your roll as a 10+ without rolling. If you distract an NPC, roll with Spirit instead of Mind. ”Wall? What Wall?”: You always have an opening to escape a situation. You can choose an additional option off the list to bring someone with you. On a miss, you attract the attention of dangerous spirits and ghosts in the area. Gear Gear Handkerchief Locket with portraits of her children Bottle of laudanum Wedding ring Diary   Weapon (specs): Letter opener (pocket knife) Debts Debts: Victor owes Anne 1 debt(s) for threatening to reveal her past to Annie Hayes Anne owes Farhad 2 debt(s) for reclaiming (= stealing) from him her “serpent’s eye” wedding ring Cole owes Anne 1 debt(s) for being the (distant) descendant of her killer, Thomas Beall Anne owes Brassavola 2 debt(s) for protecting Annie Hayes Anne owes Celia Hershfeld-Reyes 1 debt(s) for the newspaper journalist investigating what happened to Thomas Beall after leaving George Town Celia Hershfeld-Reyes owes Anne 1 debt(s) for for helping her with investigating the supernatural origin of some of the City’s corruption