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  1. - Top - End - #31
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Selissa nodded; she didn't recognise the name, but the tribe, at least, was familiar.
    "<I am told our peoples were closer in the past, but it was not while I was among them. Some grudge or injury some time previous. >"
    She paused for a second. 'Some time' for elves, was of course far different than other, short lived races, from a few days to hundreds of years.
    " <I do not know of it, >" she finished, before she changed the subject, regretting her comment. She did not want to bring up old grudges and spoil any potential atmosphere between them, if they were here to do the same task. Neither did she want to reveal her age: 76 was still seen as a child by many elves.
    "<Your tattoos. They seem familiar, but I do not place them. They are not tribe marks, I think. >"
    And the far stars cried, and the planets yearned;
    But no man may know, for she'll ne'er return.

  2. - Top - End - #32
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Set Al-Sayyid
    Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
    AC: 16 HP: 27
    PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    Set's eyes bore into the half-orc opposite him, nodding sympathetically as he extols the virtue of sacrificing one's self for one's people. "Speaking of hard paths," he says quietly, trailing off for a moment. "You have it right, Vargath. Few things indeed are more worthy," Set exclaims, his voice dropping an octave as he finishes the thought, "or more costly. But how would you put a price on kin and kingdom? Or clan, as it were," Set says, gesturing across the table.

    "Still. Such a worthy sacrifice should lead to a clean death and passage to the land of our fathers. I've heard," Set says, taking the conversation a step further before thinking about it, "of some sacrifices extracting a cost far worse." Staring into his empty tankard for a few heartbeats, Set's eyes flick back up to Vargath, "of course, we can only hope for the courage to do what is necessary when our people have a need."

    That small, tight smile threatens to reappear as Vargath asks for a tale. A distraction would certainly help pass the time and keep his mind occupied on safer subjects. He holds up a finger, returning to the bar. "I've a free beer I'm owed, I believe," he says keeping his voice light, setting down his empty tankard and waiting for it to be refilled. As he sits back down, Set takes a long pull before passing it to Vargath. "The local brew improves considerably if you just keep drinking," he says, gesturing for him to take a drink before passing it back.

    "A tale, yes. Have any of your clan heard tell of the scorpion? Terrible creatures, built like armored spiders with two large pincers in front and a venemous tail that arches over top of the full length of their bodies. Most are small enough to hide in your boot and those are fearsome enough. Shortly after my 13th name day, my older brother was teaching me how to survive the deep desert when we came upon a great brood mother, large as a horse..." Set says, animatedly telling the tale. He embellishes a few details and neglects to mention the scorpion mother being slowed by her unborn offspring, but he doesn't have to exaggerate how close he came to losing his spear to a scorpion's stinger wedged in the sand between his legs. Bragging about his brother Sirus comes naturally as well, though it's been so long he stumbles over the name the first time he says it.

  3. - Top - End - #33
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    "When it comes to kith and kin, they're priceless." Vargath replies. Sappy, perhaps, but true. He'd put his life on the line for any Bloodwolf, and they for him. It was only natural. Or, it should be. "Thoughts of what comes after do trouble me at times - whether the whispers mean I won't join the ancestors in death. I...try not think about it too much."

    When Set returns with a new drink, Vargath agreeably takes a sip before passing it back and listens with interest to the tale, giving hearty chuckles at the more humorous moments. Once Set concludes it he claps, not loudly but sincerely. "A good story. And one I think that deserves another drink." Grabbing both their cups, he approaches the bar once more. "Another." He says, placing both cups onto the bar to be filled. Once done he returns, chair still squeaking loudly, and slides Set's cup back to him.

    "My turn then. I doubt any tales of my time at university would thrill, so something when I was younger then...ah!" It comes to him in a moment. "You're familiar with bloodsuckers - vampires? In the dead of winter, maybe fifteen years ago, my sister and I killed one." He beamed with a bit of pride. It was a drier tale than Set's had been, more somber. They'd been accompanying their Father to a nearby town for trading supplies, but on their way back to camp a monstrous blizzard had picked up around them. They were left wandering for hours, unable to find a path. As night came closer they started searching for a viable shelter, chill winds still buffeting them, when out of the darkness the vampire had appeared and instantly struck their Father down. Unconscious, bleeding, the Hubrecht patriarch was instantly taken out of the fight leaving only Vargath, still a child, and his younger sister Shura to fight off the nocturnal menace. And so they did, for hours with axe and flame and stick, they held the monster at bay. In truth, and he didn't exclude this from the story, it hadn't been Vargath or Shura who killed the vampire, but its own arrogance. So intent on its prey that it neglected the time, and when the sun rose and broke through the winter clouds was instantly slain by the radiant light.

    "My Father survived, of course. Still living to this day. Though he had some issues leaving camp during snowfall for a few years after that." He finishes with a short laugh. Easy to laugh about it now, of course, with the space of years between then and now.
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  4. - Top - End - #34
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Set Al-Sayyid
    Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
    AC: 16 HP: 27
    PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    Set listens intently as Vargath describes his fear that the voices might prohibit his passing to the afterlife of his ancestors. Set can't completely shake the feeling that Vargath might be beholden to another being as well, albeit one that's a stranger to his own Patron. He would have to press the half-orc for more information, but carefully, and perhaps when they weren't surrounded by a tavern of strangers. This could take some time. Perhaps their paths would converge after leaving this tavern, at least for a while.

    What was the source of Vargath's voices? What power did they hold? Set dared not allow his mind to get carried away, but he couldn't feel the Shadowkeeper's presence at the moment. Was there another power in the world equal to that of his Patron? Could it be used to...Set flinches visibly, squeezing his eyes shut and staring at the darkness inside his own eyelids, thinking nothing for a moment. He'd made a deal. Thoughts like that were beyond dangerous. His focus completely returns to the telling of stories as he hopes his momentary lapse went unnoticed.

    Now well into his cups and feeling far more comfortable, Set hangs on every word as Vargath describes the blood-sucking fiend he'd held at bay as a child with no other but his kid sister for aid. His face had gone somber after the half-orc details the first blows, hand squeezing the tankard of ale as the elder Hubrecht fell. But as the tale wound to a close, Set's face broke into a real grin, banging his half-full tankard onto the table a few times in rapid succession and sloshing a bit of ale onto the floor. "And good riddance, abn eahira!" Set exclaims, lapsing back into the actual language now rarely used by his people.

    "A good story," Set concludes, a smile still playing on his lips as he thinks on the triumph and elation of victory against long odds. No doubt Vargath's clan still told the same story to this day. Shura might be retelling it even now, whether among strangers like her brother or as a well-worn tale among kith and kin.

    "Where is she now? Your sister Shura, I mean. I assume your father is still with the rest of your clan, but is your sister still there as well or does she walk the land like her brother?"

  5. - Top - End - #35
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Jemriah Cleater
    Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

    Jemriah's face droops a bit at Birel's comment, but someone here must know about this kind of stuff. Waiting for the Chief seemed like the best option. He heads to the bar, depositing his dishes at the end of the counter near the kitchen door before moving down to Horace's position to pay for a refill of his mug and returning to the table. His eyes drop to his pack which he left on the floor... an unusually careless move for him. Did it speak to his comfort here among so many scarred individuals?

    Out of the cacophony of muted conversations, a single sentence in a language he had never heard outside his own mind and dreams stood out as though it had been yelled. His head whips around artlessly to find its source, settling on the dark-skinned man sitting with the half-orc. He was bundled so tightly it was hard to say if a similar affliction plagued him. Suddenly this journey seemed more fruitful.

    Jemriah returns to the table with Birel, sitting slowly, thoughtfully. "I'm sure an expert will turn up eventually," he replies to continue the conversation, his attention now partially invested at the goings on of the other table. "You mentioned ruins before. Are you interested in anything ancient and long-buried? I've heard in some places the very land seems to be alive, rocky veins pulsing as they run deeper than any man can dig. Think about the depth of a tree's roots. If a mountain were alive, how deep would its roots go? As far as <The Dripping Dim> I suppose," he speculates, enunciating what he understood as his symbiote's name in its native Deep Speech tongue as though it were a physical place, making sure his comment was loud enough for Set to hear. Should the foreigner look over, Jemriah's eyes are trained on him gauging the response.
    Last edited by miinstrel; 2020-06-20 at 09:36 AM.

  6. - Top - End - #36
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Birel Amastacia
    High Elf Wizard
    AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
    PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    "Don't know that language. But apparently the boy does. Curious and curiouser." Birel thinks to herself, noting Jemriah's react to Set's words.

    "I suppose in theory I would be. That certainly does sound very interesting. But my focus had been on a specific place for the whole of my two hundred and so years." She replies, knowing the two other elves will likely overhear that detail and curious to see if they'll respond in kind. Though she's really only curious about the age of the newcomer. She knows Selissa still hasn't seen a full century.
    "More narrow a focus than that really. I have been researching the arcane signature and markings of a black obelisk that I believe originates somewhere up there with the stars above. I refer to it as <The Black>, as there's no record of what the people who built the ruins around it called it." she continues, stating it's simple but evocative name in Celestial, since apparently they're all playing with rare languages now.

    "What language was that you and the over-dressed fellow at the other table just used?" Birel bluntly asks, being sure to be loud about for Set to overhear the question clearly. She waits for Jemriah to reply, expecting him to lie. Because she knows it's not something as mundane as Dwarven or Draconic. She may not speak those languages, but she's heard them spoken enough to know that this language certainly was neither of those. She suspects Infernal or Abyssal. Maybe Undercommon, but she thinks that's unlikely.

  7. - Top - End - #37
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    In the Oaken Larder

    Horace is happy to keep the drinks flowing, and now they all come from the good cask. He seems a little more at ease now that most of the locals have left, but surreptitiously looks out the window at the square as time goes on, obviously worried about them coming back. No matter how the confrontation between Birel and the good ol' boys goes he will probably be out customers. One can almost see him weighing the drinking habits of the four poor men against the prodigious thirst that Birel brings to the tavern. Each time someone comes up for a drink he scoops up their coin and deposits it in a small metal lock box that he keeps under the bar. Even the free drinks are given with a warm smile that only grows warmer as the lock box grows fatter with coin. Alephandro keeps peeking out of the kitchen, particularly when people begin speaking in unusual tongues, and his father, having partially given up on forcing the boy to stay away, occasionally hands him a drink and asks him to bring it to one of you. "Quickly, Alephandro." "Come back fast, Alephandro." "Don't forget to call them "master", Alephandro." When he is not serving, the boy can be seen scribbling on a piece of slate with a stub of chalk, his tongue sticking out between his lips and his eyes flicking back and forth between the interesting patrons.
    The Bear is Back.

  8. - Top - End - #38
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    The massive sigh of relief that Fanlomen was hiding only presented itself as a slightly forceful puff of air from his nostrils. Good that he wouldn't need to explain himself. However, the comment about his tattoos was a similarly sore subject. ">N-no, they are not. They are personal.<" His eyes unfocus slightly as he remembered when they were applied. The process had been long and painful, and his face had felt numb for almost a week after from the herbs he had been given for the pain and the swelling. Sometimes he wondered how or why he allowed Gamlen to convince him that the tattoos were necessary to identify other Shepherds when the gnome had given him a codebook and a badge only a few days later. He didn't feel totally comfortable lieing to Selissa, but the Shepherds operated mostly in secret; a disjointed group with a common goal but few formal leaders and little oversight. Recruits were initiated as needed, or when someone seemed promising to the cause.

    The clattering of drinks and the sounds of conversation stir Fanlomen from his thoughts. <"It has been a very long time since I have visited my tribe. Whatever bad omens lay between our tribes, I seek no quarrel with you. There are more important things at stake than some ancient grudge between two elven clans.">
    Quote Originally Posted by fibericon View Post
    This seems like a really cool concept, so I feel like you're going to get a lot of applications. Best of luck sorting through them all. That said, I'm going to do my part to make your job that much harder by adding one to the stack.

  9. - Top - End - #39
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    "I saw her last...two years ago? I think, but we exchange letters regularly. She's doing well - on her way to be Chieftain, she says. Either of the Bloodwolves or an offshoot clan. Shura's always had big ideas - and the mettle of mind and body to back them up. Smarter than me by half, even if she can't yet take her older brother in an arm wrestle." Left unchecked, she'd probably rule the world before long. He left that thought silent, but the smile on his face spoke all it needed to. He'd be happy to join her too, once he got the giants out of his head. Nothing would please him more than to see her succeed.

    "And your brother? Does he dwell on the sands still?"
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  10. - Top - End - #40
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Jemriah Cleater
    Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

    Jemriah quirks his brows at Birel's age... more than 10 times his own. His eyes follow hers upward as she references the stars, the strange thought gumming up his ability to process her next sentence for a moment. His terrors came from below the ground making the terrestrial far more interesting to him than anything from the heavens.

    He felt a bit ashamed at her noticing the linguistic similarity, as though she intercepted a code meant for another. "It's... well I don't rightly know, actually. Just something I... picked up, I suppose." The fact he didn't have a name for it made it all the more disconcerting. Was the knot in his stomach just his own discomfort? Perhaps a bad meat pie or too much ale on an empty stomach? Or was his unwelcome guest acknowledging it was the subject of the conversation... He desperately hoped it wasn't the latter.

    Spoiler: Insight 12
    Show
    He doesn't seem to be lying, but there's clearly a bit more to it than is being said.


  11. - Top - End - #41
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Selissa watched the flickering of emotions of the forest-brother's face, heard the stumbling of his words - but it was no business of hers, and so she let it pass without comment.
    "<I agree,>" she said, and the conversation lapsed as she finished the contents of her mug, expression twisting slightly at the bitterness of the brew.
    And the far stars cried, and the planets yearned;
    But no man may know, for she'll ne'er return.

  12. - Top - End - #42
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Set Al-Sayyid
    Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
    AC: 16 HP: 27
    PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    His smile broadening, Set takes great pleasure in the way Vargath describes his sister, reminding him of his own sister Sisi. "Strong of mind and body, with ambition to match? No doubt she will carve her name into the histories," Set says with conviction. His smile falters even before Vargath can ask him about his brother as he dwells a moment on this morning's dream once again. Sisi was no doubt leading his people now that he and Sirus were both gone, but what if she wasn't?

    The doubts spreading across his face are well covered by the question about his brother, allowing Set a moment to breathe before continuing. A sad half smile greets Vargath as Set explains, "alas, he dwells underneath them now, but his essence has passed on to A'aru, the Field of Reeds where my ancestors are. He died," Set says, pausing to wipe away a phantom splatter of blood that had erupted from Sirus' mouth and splashed across his face when he'd run him through with his spear. "He died with a weapon in his hand," Set says simply, feeling that the half-orc would understand. He died when I killed him, Set leaves unsaid, an undercurrent of sadness mixed with repressed rage present, but mostly hidden.

    "Thankfully," Set says, moving his thoughts and the topic forward, "I still have two beautiful sisters waiting in the sands for my return." I hope, he thinks grimly, torturing himself with thoughts of the dream. "Sisi and Sythpen," he explains, adding, "my parents were fond of the letter S."

    He'd been so focused on the companion opposite him, a voice at the table beside him caught him completely off guard. He stiffened, breath caught in his throat as he swallowed audibly. He resisted the urge to immediately turn to look, though it was nearly overpowering as his curiosity threatened to overwhelm him. He took a few shallow breaths, trying to maintain his composure and act natural, but in his mind the faces he'd seen through the tavern flashed through his head. A jumbled bunch, he couldn't keep them straight, though he knew the voice was a young man's. He strained against the urge to look. Then he heard the witch's question.

    "What language was that you and the over-dressed fellow at the other table just used?"

    A moment's pause, followed by the young man's voice once more.

    "It's... well I don't rightly know, actually. Just something I... picked up, I suppose."

    Heart hammering, Set clears his throat before speaking up. "My people call it Elder Speech. I have only ever heard it spoken by a few." Only by one, in fact, and never by a human. "My grandfather was a great lover of history and made it his life's work to record the language in the Book of the Dead." He burned The Great Library during the War of Lost Faces. "He used to teach me the Old Ways." Had father not spurned their guards and beaten him to within an inch of his life, he might've publicly ordered Set thrown into a bed of scarabs like any other newborn with the Mark of a Changeling in the decades that followed the War. "I miss him dearly." The bastard had taught him one thing, the bonds that hold a family together are only sacred so long as both parties believe in it.

    Even a well-practiced liar like Set had to frown as he mentally worked to commit these details to memory. In stressful situations Set's tongue had a habit of getting ahead of him, his mind chasing after it like a jackal after a hare. He tries to move forward thoughtfully, preferring not to arouse more suspicion than he may have already. Set had to admit, using that tongue had yielded the results he'd been after, even if his initial target had been off the mark.

    "I never thought to hear it outside my homeland," he says, meeting the young man's eyes. "Though perhaps you've studied other cultures or done some traveling," Set offers, raising an eyebrow as he stares into the other man's eyes. In truth, he wasn't really that much younger than Set, but then, a few years mattered more when your years were few. "I am so out of practice, it would be great to have a partner to keep the language fresh in my mind so that I might pass it on. <If you speak the language of the Depths, we have much to discuss,>" Set finishes, bowing his head as if in greeting, but keeping his eyes raised.

    "I am Set Al-Sayyid," he says, his voice light and pleasant as he looks back and forth between the elf and the young man. "I don't believe either of you have met Vargath Hubrecht, of the Bloodwolf Clan," he continues, gesturing to his drinking companion. "And who might you two be?" Set asks, starting the question with eyes on the elf, but traning them firmly on the young man when he finishes.

    Spoiler: OOC
    Show

    Deception: (1d20+6)[19]

    Obviously, there were a lot of lies baked into this post so...feel free to pick and choose if your Insight matches or exceeds Set's Deception. Maybe you caught the bit about his brother, his grandfather, or you were focused on the bit about Deep Speech. The world is your oyster if my roll sucks


  13. - Top - End - #43
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    In the Oaken Larder

    The front door of the inn suddenly opens up so quickly that it bangs in it's frame, with force enough to rattle people's drinks on their tables. Some of you are familiar with the man who enters, but for most of you this is your introduction to the Chief of Dam'ess.

    The human before you stands tall, perhaps six and a half feet tall. But this doesn't truly encompass the size of the man. If he could stand straight, he would probably be scraping the ceiling of this establishment, which is around eight feet high. But this mountain of a man has a massive hump on his back, his spine curved and twisted like a striking snake underneath his clothes, causing him to hunch down to the more modest height. Before Birel's time in Dam'ess, stories of Maus Moeller start as a giant of a young man, a scion of the village said to be strong as a bull and humble as a hearth spirit, to a middle aged man struck by malformity and pitied by all, to an elderly man who sharpened his mind and soul as much as he once prided his body, universally respected by everyone in the village as a fair, just leader. His once dark, thick hair has gone iron grey from his prodigious beard to his thinning crop on his head, and there are wrinkles and age spots where once there were none, but his gaze has never changed- a steady green stare that seems like it can see through any lies, expose any inequities, and pierce through to the very soul. He dresses simply enough in blue roughspun wool and a tartan kilt, and walks with a cane that could do double duty as a great club. When he walks into the room he looks from one side to the other and back before focusing his gaze on Birel, stepping towards her and Jemriah. Filtering in behind him like a gaggle of ducklings return the yokels and Lowbe, all looking like young boys who've been caught with their fingers in the cookie jar.

    "Birel. These men say you threatened them. Ensorceled Lowbe's drink." He bangs his cane on the floorboard with enough force to rattle everyone's mugs again, his face going sour. Before he can continue, Horace speaks up, his voice shaky and uncertain. "Chief, Birel may have magicked Lowbe's ale, but it was only after he insulted my boy. And then these layabouts threatened her first. Threatened her life, they did. It was only then that she responded in anger. You ask me..." The Chief raises his cane and slams it down, interrupting the barkeep. "I appreciate the information, Horace, but I am not asking your opinion. I deal in facts." He returns his gaze to Birel. "Birel, we have known each other for some time, you and I. And I think over the years you've had a good relationship with this village. No matter what these ingrates think, you are a part of Dam'ess. So, I ask you politely, but firmly. Use your magic for the good of Dam'ess, not for pranks, even on those who deserve it. The people of the village already whisper that the eternal elf who lives on a cursed farm hexes their sows into still birth and sours the milk before it comes out of the cow. We both know that to be bull puckey, but there's no need to reinforce the stereotype. If it happens again I will have to admonish you, and nobody wants that." Then he turns his stern gaze to Lowbe and his friends. "You worms, I admonish NOW. Horace's boy is as innocent and sweet as a newborn fawn, and I will NOT ALLOW ANYONE to throw dispersion his way, ESPECIALLY in his father's own establishment!" The Chief's voice rises to booming levels, and the men quail before his rage. "If it were not my job to KEEP THE PEACE I would allow Birel to do as she wished to you SWINE! This feud is SETTLED. If I even hear WHISPERS that you have brought harm to Birel, her birds, or her home I will PERSONALLY bury you in an anthill slathered in honey and LEAVE YOU FOR THE BEARS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!?" The men all nod enthusiastically. "Go to your homes. Pray to the spirits for forgiveness for your sins. I promise you, you'll have it FAR SOONER FROM THEM THAN FROM ME!" The men then turn and flee like children, each one pausing only to mutter a "Sorry" to Birel on the way out. The Chief bangs his cane again to punctuate his judgement, nods to Birel, and then turns to face the room as a whole.

    "I am Maus Moeller, Chief of the village of Dam'ess. I seek aid in dispelling the darkness that has settled over our homes and our farms, in freeing my people from their fear of the night and the forest. I ask you all, if you are willing to come to our aid, whether it be for gold, glory, or good conscience, stand up and name yourselves, so that the spirits can look upon us honestly and rejoice." As his eyes roam the room, you all get the distinct feeling that he KNOWS. Knows your histories. Knows your secrets. Knows your fears. But knows you can rise above all of that and do real, unquestionable good. "Name yourselves, pledge your aid, and know I will reward you to the best of my ability once we've beaten back the darkness. Now, WHO ARE YOU?" His cane comes crashing down so hard it makes the very tables jump, and he waits for someone to speak.
    Last edited by purepolarpanzer; 2020-06-20 at 09:22 PM.
    The Bear is Back.

  14. - Top - End - #44
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Jemriah Cleater
    Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

    "I'm sorry," Jemriah replies genuinely at the loss of the conversational newcomer's father. "Family is the most important thing. I'd be honored to help keep him alive with conversation."

    In the brief pause that follows, Jemriah's voice coalesces out of a shadow in Set's mind - the same feeling of moving abruptly from dream, or nightmare, to reality. As clear as day he hears, <Does something dark live within you too?>

    "I'm Jemriah, born not too far from here. Set, Vargath," he repeats, nodding at the first and raising his glass at the second before taking a drink himself. He opens his mouth to continue when all eyes shift suddenly to the front door.


    Jemriah gives a quick look about the room then stands purposefully. "Jemriah Cleater, son of Brind and Delilah of Falcairn." He wasn't sure if rumors of his incident with the sea witch a year ago had traveled up the mountain to Dam'ess. They probably had. It didn't matter. If he proved himself maybe the Chief could help. "That's why we're all here, right? There's evil in the woods, creepin' into all our lives."
    Some more than others...
    "We gotta take control. If we don't put a stop to it, who will?"

    Last edited by miinstrel; 2020-06-21 at 02:05 AM.

  15. - Top - End - #45
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    Vargath doesn't doubt Set's story for a moment - he has no need to, any hesitation or stumbling he puts down to nerves, memory or a combination of the two. "I'm sorry to hear about your brother, it does him credit that he went down fighting," He offers, lowering his head for a moment in a show of consolation. "but I'm glad your sisters are still waiting for you. Having a home, a family, to go back to is important for hunters on a path."

    His brow furrows a little as he is forcibly introduced. As a rule, he and his introduced themselves or not at all, but he can put it down to cultural differences and leave it aside. Hardly a big deal given the circumstances, and he wasn't to know. By the sounds of it despite his travels he wasn't familiar with his clan. He sits back to allow Set his language discussion - all over his head. Unless giants came up chances are he wouldn't have much to say. His index finger on the hand clutching the cup quietly begins tracing runic shapes again, but stops the moment the door bangs open. His hand immediately goes to the axe on his belt, but relaxes once he realises what's going on.

    Unlike Jeremiah, Vargath doesn't stand, merely twisting in his chair. The Chief had presence and was clearly respected, but the self seemed to be a projection. There was fear in his steps, Vargat judged - fear that one day all the presence and respect would be gone and he'd be left a broken old man with nothing to his name. The yelling, the posturing, he'd seen it before. He'd been it before, once upon a time. It'd bend and snap like a rigid tree in a harsh wind.

    He calls out "Vargath Hubrecht, Bloodwolf Clan," before taking another chug of his drink. He leans forward in his chair towards the Chief, his form just as imposing, tusks glinting in the firelight. "I'd know more about this 'darkness' before offering a pledge. Such words cannot be taken back lightly once given."
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    Each of the first three thumps of the chief's cane is enough to cause Fanlomen to visibly flinch, but he reigns himself in by the time the chief has finished his speech. He is reminded of an Orcish phrase he had learned from a shaman he stumbled upon during his travels. It roughly translated to, 'There are old warriors. There are bold warriors. There are no old, bold warriors.' If the empassioned speech was anything to go by, Chief Moeller of Dam'ess actually was an old, bold warrior. Fanlomen gets caught up in the gravitas and stands up a bit too fast, his stool clattering to the floor behind him, though his voice is calm and measured

    "Fanlomen Fogspyre answers the chief's call." He leaves out the information to his tribe and heritage. Humans were rarely concerned with the matters of elves anyways. It is only when the half-orc requests a bit more information that he notices how zealous he was being. Was it weakness to pledge yourself to the greater good without a second thought? The other shepherds would surely say no. Kharliss would chastise him for being swept in the moment, lest he lose any control over his mental state. Gamlen would probably insist that whatever unspecified pay they were promised should be doubled, regardless of the amount.

    Fanlomen resigns to remain standing, if for no other reason than to appear self-assured and confident.
    Quote Originally Posted by fibericon View Post
    This seems like a really cool concept, so I feel like you're going to get a lot of applications. Best of luck sorting through them all. That said, I'm going to do my part to make your job that much harder by adding one to the stack.

  17. - Top - End - #47
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    Set Al-Sayyid
    Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
    AC: 16 HP: 27
    PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    Set thanks the half-orc opposite him with his eyes, if not his words, for the respect shown his brother. Nodding as Vargath goes on to talk about the importance of having a family to return to, Set agrees, though he leaves unsaid concerns about their safety or ever being able to return home himself. "They are everything to me," he says of his sisters.

    Displaying a certain emotional and mental agility, Set nods solemnly a couple minutes later as the young man offers to honor the memory of Set's grandfather. "I thank you, Jemriah. He will live on through our words and deeds." The old bastard.

    Any further reflection on the man whom Set secretly despises and calls grandfather is moot as a voice bubbles up in Set's mind where only the Shadowkeeper had ever spoken before. Though Set fancies that he has a knack for subtlety, there's nothing subtle about the way his jaw falls open. Snapping it shut an instant later, Set searches his mind and glances back at his shadow, but he can neither feel nor see any sign of His presence. This was Jemriah's doing, and his alone. His mind races ahead as he struggles to come to terms with the facts:

    • Jemriah knows Deep speech and can push his words into other people's minds just like Him
    • Vargath is also beset by voices, though he believes them to be giants long-dead, a mistake he likely doesn't understand yet
    • Birel took an interest in the Elder language, which could just be a way of covering how much she already knows while gathering more information

    Set glances over at the other two strangers, eyes narrowing as he wonders what else he might be missing. One thing was sure. The dream and now this, it couldn't be a coincidence. What game was He playing? Whether He was here right now watching or not, this was the Shadowkeeper's work, of that Set felt sure. A sob echoes through Set's mind as it becomes clear what that means. The dream was real. His people were gone. His sister's were captive. And Set could do nothing, but play right into the Shadowkeeper's hand.

    Honesty came harder than lying, when it came down to it. But until Set knew whether these people were the Shadowkeeper's tools or similarly at His mercy, Set would have to keep his guard up. Lying would not serve here. Where the others might still be in the dark about His influence, Jemriah must surely know. He is either the Shadowkeeper's servant or his slave.

    "<You already know it to be true, do you not? We share a great...responsibility,>" Set thinks to Jemriah, trying to reveal as little as possible while the link is open, but still admit to their mutual master.



    As usual, even with thoughts swirling in a milion directions, Set studied how Chief Moeller uses language. Where Vargath had used his words like a scalpal, cutting around the issue at hand so that you couldn't even be sure he'd threatened anyone, Maus seemed more disposed towards Birel's style. They wieded words like a maul, bashing them over the head of anyone in earshot. It was fascinating enough to occupy Set's mind, but only for a moment.

    This one knows all. Whatever else the others may be, innocents swept up in the Shadowkeeper's game or His willing servants, out to drive Set mad or worse, Maus Moeller is not the man he appears to be. He speaks like he would love nothing more than to crack two heads together, but he is far more shrewd than he appears. Set's eyes narrow on the man as he holds back a sneer of contempt.

    Oh very good, noble Jemriah, son of Brind. The young man comes off as so pure of heart it makes Set's gut twist with anxiety as his suspicions only grow. No wonder the Shadowkeeper saw such potential in him. Who would not trust such a one?

    The wood elf did not give Set undue cause for concern, but then, he'd only just heard him speak for the first time. Did that make him more dangerous, or less?

    As Vargath takes his turn to speak, Set's frown only deepens. Despite himself, Set felt slightly...hurt? He'd felt the bond of mutual understanding with this one, where now only suspicion remained. A part of Set still hoped that perhaps Vargath was just as unwilling a participant in the Shadowkeeper's game as he was, but why then try so hard to pretend otherwise? Vargath would join Maus, Set was certain, and it would only prove His influence more.

    "Set Al-Sayyid," he says, rising slowly to his feet and staring at Maus, trying to keep his face blank. "I too would like to know more about this darkness," he lies, watching the Chief's face. They both already knew why the other was here. "But I have come too far to turn away from your call. I hunt creatures of the dark," he says, a layer of irony laced in his voice. "I am with you." As if I have any other choice. Where are my sisters!? Set raged internally, but kept his voice and his breathing as calm and even as he could.

    Spoiler: OOC
    Show

    Deception: (1d20+6)[26]
    Insight can determine that Set is being less than entirely honest about his grandfather or about his enthusiasm for joining Maus and the group.

    @miinstrel: I don't think it can determine his feelings towards the source of his dark power, since he's being so cagey.


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    Birel Amastacia
    High Elf Wizard
    AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
    PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    In a moment of unusual clarity when it comes to people, Birel sees through the veil of lies Set puts up. "He's clearly lying about the significance of this Elder Speech language. Firstly because I've heard of the Book of the Dead before and it just uses an old variation of Common. Secondly because I've heard of the language in passing before, used by some manner of unpleasant beings or another. The boy has already admitted to being beset upon by some kind of darkness. This Set fellow must have some connection to it as well to try to disguise it while fishing about for others so afflicted. Which probably means it's something he has special reason to be wary of, it's something he hunts, some affliction he too is also beset by and afraid to reveal the truth of, or... *sigh* or under the power of some dark being. My parents did tell me to be wary of Warlocks and other people who have made pacts with unknown beings. Even the one's pacted with fey can be unpredictable and dangerous and those are some of the least worrying sorts."

    She's considering how subtle or blunt she wants to be about that while she's about to make her introduction to the others.... when the chief shows up and does it for her.

    She barely holds back the urge to roll her eyes in the middle of his speech when he comments about the stupid rumors. As if she doesn't purchase meat and milk from the same people who make up such falsehoods like everyone else in the town. "Though maybe that's just their way of grappling with the idea of what I must be doing every day. Most of the people here wouldn't understand the concept of serious reading and study if you threw the book at their face."

    "Understood Chief." is all she replies to the subject of hostilities. Him handing the situation was what she had expected to be the result anyway. Letting the people of this town believe he had the power to control her, keep them safe from her (not that she wanted to harm them), was a convenient lie for both of them. It solidified his position, making it easier for him to keep things in order. And it made the people who lived here think that the situation regarding herself was being handled so that they had no need to do anything foolish that would force her to defend herself. Or overreact if she happened to be inebriated at the time.

    After most of the others had replied, she asks, "You mentioned something about payment? As a member of this community I'm happy to help of course, but I do need to eat." "and drink" she mentally adds. "Along with other expenses."
    Last edited by Ramsus; 2020-06-21 at 01:35 PM.

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    Selissa's expression didn't change as the Chief spoke. Instead, for a long moment, she looked down at her wooden arm, and thought of her last confrontation with the horrors of the dark. She thought of the sounds of flesh wrenching, of teeth parting meat, of a scream cut off. Slowly she curled those fingers into a fist.

    It had been years. Time enough, perhaps, she'd regained a lot of her skill with a bow. Would she fail this time?

    She could only know if she tried.

    "Selissa Betula," she said for the sake of the others here to hear the Chief, but didn't otherwise say anything.
    And the far stars cried, and the planets yearned;
    But no man may know, for she'll ne'er return.

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    The Chief responds to each of you, in turn, his expression changing each time. Neither Birel nor Selissa have ever heard of the Chief being a caster of any sort, but this is disproved almost immediately.

    "Jemriah Cleater. An honest name." The Chief raises his cane and utters a few words, his green eyes changing color to a solid purple with no irises or whites. He looks Jemriah up and down, his gaze penetrating despite the lack of focus. "A great darkness comes within you, boy. I can't promise to fix that, but I may be able to point you in the right direction through divination."

    "Vargath Hubrecht. Your words are discerning and wise." He looks the half-orc up and down with his purple eyes as well, frowning slightly. "You're plagued by the long dead, but they are not malicious. Odd. You'll find more wisdom from them, but they may guide you to join them if you are not careful."

    "Fanlomen Fogspyre." The chief looks the wood elf up and down and then smiles. "A mind-mage. Let us all pray your intentions are noble and your mind is strong. You could be a great ally in this, or our worst nightmare."

    "Set Al-Sayyid." He looks you up and down, his face pulling into a sneer. "Darkness. Shadows. A curse like none I've ever seen or heard of. I'll say the same to you that I said to the boy- I can't fix you, but I may be able to divine a way to help you. If you still want it, that is."

    The Chief sighs and then smiles. "Birel Amastacia. The job pays, if that's what you're after. In gold... and in magical aid. Your magic is strong, but it is nothing against the wisdom and knowledge of the spirits. They may aid you, if you have aspirations beyond drinking yourself to death in this tavern."

    "Selissa Betula." He looks you up and down, then focuses on your wooden arm. "You've lived among us for years, but I barely know you. That arm carries strong magic, but it is not your own." He looks Selissa dead in the eyes, his eyes turning green again and the pupils returning. "It will be good to see what a Horror slayer is capable of."

    Satisfied, he stomps over to the bar. "Horace, a cider please. My throat hurts from yelling." The barkeep quickly pours a mug and hands it to the elderly man, who drains a third of the cup in one long pull. Then he turns to face the room again, his face serious but no longer judgmental. " I won't mince words any longer. You've come a long way and deserve straight answers. There are three main threats to the village that I have been able to identify through my magic. A pack of werewolves has moved into the area. More than two, perhaps as many as a half dozen. You'll need silver before you take them on. Thankfully I know where you can get some. The second threat is a witch. Not a wizard like you, Beril, but a verifiable witch who communes with dark powers. She's laid a curse on this land, and it will only be lifted once she is dead. I've narrowed down her hovel to a rough area, but I have a feeling finding her will be just as hard as taking her down. Third threat is the the most insidious one because it comes from within. Someone in the village is entreating the aid of Pale Night. Who they are, how many they are, and what their purpose is I don't know, but they threaten to bring ruin to us all. They will have to be rooted out and purged. I will pay sixty gold per werewolf head, three hundred for the witch dead and the curse lifted, and three hundred for the purging of the cult of Pale Night. There's no use negotiating because this will just about bankrupt the village's gold as well as my own. Complete all three and I will commune with the spirits and provide any aid I can for any problems you all might have. I know a few of you should be more worried about your souls than your coin purse. I wouldn't try to take on more than one of these threats at a time, despite your numbers. So the only question is, which do you want to kill first?" He tips back his cider again, draining another third of the mug and leaving an unintentionally amusing coat of foam over his mustache.
    The Bear is Back.

  21. - Top - End - #51
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    Vargath's eyes narrow dangerously thin when the Chief speaks. While he'd never made his condition a secret or shied away from admitting it, he'd also never spoken of it to this man, and he wasn't convinced of any magics that could adequately give him that much information. Certainly the university hadn't shown anything of the sort, nor the spiritwalkers or shamans of the clan. He remains seated, fist clenching on the now-empty cup. Harder and harder as the Chief goes around the room naming people and their 'quirks', for lack of a better word. When the Chief finally asks for a drink, Vargath unclenches his hand and finds the cup has splintered in his hands, now thoroughly unusable. With a growl he drops it on the table.

    "Very well." He still doesn't stand. He'll agree to this. For now only. "I am no stranger to hunting beasts or dealing with what you'd call 'dark' magic. I will assist you." He stays quiet as the rest of the room gives their responses to the Chief, whether they pledged or not. The voices come again, the colour of moss filling his mind as they do so. "ᛏᚺᛖ ᛖᚾᛖᛗᛁ ᚨᛏ ᚺᛟᛗᛖ ᛁᛊ ᛗᛟᛊᛏ ᛞᛖᚨᛞᛚᛁ. ᛈᚢᛚᛚ ᚦᛖ ᚱᛟᛟᛏᛊ." He sniffs, and then regrets it - remembering that the bar smelled less than ideal. They weren't wrong, this time. Deal with the closest and deadliest threat first. A foe in your midst was always worse than one outside your walls. Beasts and witches could wait. "If this Pale Night cult is as insidious as you say, we should deal with those first. Gather everyone in the village to the town square and then search their homes top to bottom, no exceptions. They must have tokens or icons or the like. Allow them no notice or time to destroy them. We can end that threat in a single day, then focus on the rest."
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  22. - Top - End - #52
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    Fanlomen was pleasantly suprised that he even had a reputation which could precede him. 'Mind mage' seemed like an odd moniker; he couldn't read minds or cast spells. His training so far allowed him to increase his focus and communicate with others, sure, but those were hardly the gifts of a mage. On the other hand, he shared the chief's concerns, as they were a matter of his daily life. Either he would control his abilities, or they would consume him, as far as he knew. He noted an absence of mentioning the Shepherds of the Wild. Perhaps even that kind of privileged information was beyond the chief's reach, or he was omitting to keep the secret. Regardless of the chief's intent, it seemed he was some combination of well-informed, well-connected, and well-traveled. No secrets seemed out of his reach, judging by the descriptions he gave each of what, the wood elf assumed, would soon be his companions.

    He opines on the matter of which quarry to chase first. "I agree that we should end the cult before it can take root. A rotten sapling is easily dislodged and cast to the flames; a tree with years of roots is not." Not to mention that Fanlomen felt that any cult which would brazenly oppose the tenets of the Green Faith would be a priority for the Shepherds to eliminate, and he was here in their stead.
    Quote Originally Posted by fibericon View Post
    This seems like a really cool concept, so I feel like you're going to get a lot of applications. Best of luck sorting through them all. That said, I'm going to do my part to make your job that much harder by adding one to the stack.

  23. - Top - End - #53
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    Set Al-Sayyid
    Changeling Fighter/Hexblade
    AC: 16 HP: 27
    PP: 11 PIv: 12 PIs: 9
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    As Maus the Malevolent goes from one person to the next, Set's alarm at the situation grows, his heart pounding in his chest as Maus' eyes settle on him. With each word he utters, Maus hammers Set further and further into the ground. Unconsciously, Set begins to physically shrink, his height dropping a few inches as he recoils from the spotlight cast on him.

    Why? Why would he do that? He's part of the Shadowkeeper's game, he has to be! But why then would he reveal so much about all of them? Was it all just some trick? A game within a game? Was this a ploy just to gain Set's trust and make him think Maus wasn't working with Him? But if that were true, it would mean the Shadowkeeper knew Set would suspect something to begin with.

    For the first time since hearing his Patron's laughter echo in his head upon waking up this morning, Set feels a tingling behind his eyes and a presence beyond his own reclaiming residence inside his head. Set can feel Him. Glancing over at his shadow, Set jumps as it becomes painfully obvious to him, though his shadow remains unmoving. Instead it's leaning forward, hands flat on the table and seemingly staring straight ahead...at Maus.

    Was He communicating with Maus? Is that it? Was He commanding Maus to make up this elaborate ruse just to trick him? Or, could he actually be...

    The Shadowkeeper's laughter breaks his concentration, blotting out Set's vision as it reverberates through his head. "Oh, how DELIGHTFUL. I may have to check in on you more often, my dear, foolish Set. This is getting quite...entertaining." The laughter echoes louder through his mind for a moment before slowly receding further and further into the background. As Set's vision clears, he looks over to see his shadow standing upright, albeit as shaky on its feet as its owner.

    Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Set looks over at the man drinking his cider. He couldn't understand it. They weren't working together. This man, this thing, this, this whatever he was...interested Him? What are you?

    As his thoughts continue to swirl, Set struggles to keep up as Chief Moeller details the village's dire situation. Three distinct threats, but Set was far too caught up in his own thoughts to really understand any of them until the words 'Pale Night' pierced all.

    He looks thankfully over at Vargath as the half-orc says what he cannot at the moment. There was a lump in his throat larger than the tankard he'd been drinking from. Set was finally sure he didn't understand a thing about what was happening around him, but mistrusting this one may have been a mistake.

    The wood elf Fanlomen only adds to their momentum. His analogy takes hold and Set finds himself nodding enthusiastically as he looks around at the others who'd pledged themselves to this Chief. But still Set struggles to right himself. It felt like he'd been riding a horse full tilt only to be knocked off, flipping end over end and he hadn't landed yet.

    Set closes his eyes to focus. His sisters needed him. Whatever else may be true or false, that would always be. If they were near, he would find them. If they were safe, he would keep them that way. Set grows a couple inches back in height before clearing his throat.

    "I am with you," he says simply, staring at Chief Moeller. "And I am with Vargath, and Fanlomen," he continues, looking around at the others. "We must strike the cult. Whatever secrets they hide," Set says, glancing at the Chief, "we must shine a light on them."

    Spoiler: OOC
    Show

    I don't need to make a deception roll


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    Birel Amastacia
    High Elf Wizard
    AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
    PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    Birel raised an eyebrow in surprise at the Chief's show of magic and knowledge. She felt a bit bitter that he'd hid this side of himself from her. She could have had someone worth talking to this whole time. But that thought quickly passes as he dishes out information about the others. "Oh, delightful! What an interesting bunch you all are. Well, this will be fun won't it? Well.... up until one of you snaps and tries to kill someone I suppose." Birel says finishing with a shrug, having read plenty of tales about colorful adventurers and being honest in her assessment of both potential entertainment and how unstable most of them seem to be. At least Selissa wasn't a lunatic of some sort. Then again that wasn't much comfort as she'd taken a clear stance these last few years to be completely uninteresting to Birel. Sure she had that wooden arm, but what did that matter if she wouldn't share her tales over a drink?

    "I agree, the cult is what we need to address first. Can't have where I lay my head be a constant source of worry. More than it is already anyway." Birel comments. Then she adds, "Mr. Hubrecht's plan seems like a good one to me."
    Last edited by Ramsus; 2020-06-22 at 08:39 PM.

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    Jemriah Cleater
    Aberrant Mind Sorcerer 3 | AC 15 | HP 20/20 | PP 11 / PIns 11 / PInv 10

    Jemriah cows as he is singled out by the Chief's oracular abilities. Sharing it with one person, a mage that might be able to help, was one thing. He had not intended to openly flaunt his sickness. The knot in his stomach returns, churning and twisting each second as the Chief's magic pierces him. It could feel itself being watched... He places a hand on his stomach in a futile effort to soothe the inky fetus' kicks, but pressing back only sends the sensation crawling up through his chest. He can taste its putrid ichor in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out and drown the tavern like it had in his dream. As soon as the Chief's eyes move to Vargath the sensation fades, the Dim's boiling anger receding and allowing Jemriah to release the stale breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

    The dream. The wolves. Could they be his salvation? As he ruminates on this the others lean a different direction, and one he has a hard time disagreeing with. Jemriah was raised to hate and fear Pale Night like most. The wolves would come soon enough if he could muster the patience.

    "...up until one of you snaps and tries to kill someone I suppose."

    Again. Jemriah adds silently, a sense of shame sweeping over him as his fingers float to the necklace of interlinked holy symbols around his throat.

    Brushing the feeling aside, the boy adds an earnest question of his own. "Chief, if you can see all that about us, can't you see who's a part of this cult too?"

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    In the Oaken Larder

    "Would that I could, Jemriah Cleater. The seer's vision gifted to me by the spirits allows me to see magical auras and the effects of particularly strong forces of good and evil that arcane magic may miss. When I focus it lets me see the effects of necromancy, fey magic, and other polarized sources of power. That combined with years of hard work with books and wisdom allowed me to infer more about the lot of you. If this cult preformed some rite of evil, I'd be able to see that lingering on them, or if the magic was strong enough to leave an aura. But if that was true they would have already accomplished their goal, so hindsight would do us no good. But your plan is a fine one. I'll get men and women I trust to go house to house and call a town meeting in the square. Getting to the outlying farms will take some time, though. Would you all be willing to aid the search? I'll inspect the villagers for any signs of corruption if you will join my most loyal forces in the search. For those of you who know how to ride we can provide horses. Plow horses, but they will still get you there faster." The Chief finishes his drink, setting the mug down on the bar.
    The Bear is Back.

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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    "These people you 'trust' can know nothing of the why of it." Vargath says gravely, stressing trust to show just how little he believed it to be worth in this situation. "As I said, no exceptions. You don't root out corruption by lopping off the bad fruit. You tear it from the ground, root and stem." He gestures emphatically, miming tearing a plant from the ground to punctuate his words. "Likewise this one -" Vargath points at the barman, "and his boy must not be allowed out of sight or allowed to discuss this with anyone. A single whispered word or note shared could see them dig deeper or panic." He'd like to say this was all his idea, but in truth he was imitating his mother's example after she'd been called in to perform a similar hunt on a friendly clan's blood mages, trying to find out which of them had dove too far into the magics and lost themselves in it. It hadn't been Kala's fault, but they'd brought in her help too late to save the clan. A mistake of the elders that Vargath would seek not to repeat.

    "And of course that includes you as well, Chief. You need to be watched at all times, and your home searched. Probably as one of our first destinations. The others too." He gestures at Birel and Selissa. He is aware he might sound paranoid, that it may be extreme to go this far. Maybe it is extreme. But it will also work. Quickly. Efficiently. Brutally. Just like his fights in the pits. His hand drifts to the wolf-pelt cloak wrapped over his shoulders and he gently rubs a hand through its fur as reassurance, masking it poorly by also scratching at his neck stubble.
    Last edited by Amnestic; 2020-06-23 at 02:29 PM.
    DMing:
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    Cyre Red IC | OOC

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    OotA IC | OOC

    Master Homebrew Index (5e)

  28. - Top - End - #58
    Ogre in the Playground
     
    Awful's Avatar

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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    The female wood elf had been quiet as she thought over the options. The others seemed mostly focused on the cult, but she wasn't sure that was the best option - either way, she was going to ask for more information, but it seemed the matter was decided.

    At Vargath's final statements, Selissa's mouth quirked in a frown for a brief moment. When she spoke, it was in the same quiet murmur she'd spoken in so far.
    "Stupid."
    She looked at the half orc, though her expression was back to stoic.
    "If the Chief was in the cult, he wouldn't mention it to us. Just send us after the wolves or witch." She paused to let that sink in, then added: "And you won't search my house either."
    And the far stars cried, and the planets yearned;
    But no man may know, for she'll ne'er return.

  29. - Top - End - #59
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Birel Amastacia
    High Elf Wizard
    AC: 13/16 HP: 20/20
    PP: 13 PIv: 13 PIs: 11
    Conditions: --
    Concentration: --

    "No, Selissa. You are the stupid one in this instance. Misdirection is a common tactic among secret groups who are worried they might be exposed. We will search the Chief's home, yours, and mine as well as the homes of those the Chief sends with us. Furthermore, the Chief should make it clear one of the outsiders is in charge to the group of people he'll be sending with us. Jemriah is likely too inexperienced, I have already caught Set Al-Sayyid in lies, Chief said Mr. Fogspyre could be a dire threat, so that really only leaves Mr. Hubrecht as a suitable leader for this task." Birel says quickly and sharply.
    Last edited by Ramsus; 2020-06-23 at 02:50 PM.

  30. - Top - End - #60
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    Default Re: The Madness of Men in a World of Monsters (D&D 5e IC)

    Selissa made a tch! noise. She unconciously slipped into elvish when she spoke to Birel.
    "<Did you know of this cult, then, far-sister? I did not. Foolish to tell of what you would want to keep hidden. If he had not spoke of it - there would be no search at all.>"
    And the far stars cried, and the planets yearned;
    But no man may know, for she'll ne'er return.

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