Griznuq Gaming

Mel generally uses his free time freely.

He has no set schedule, no pattern by which he lives his life. Arising in the morning whensoever sleep may wear off, he goes off somewhere to relieve himself; as long as this is not on anybody or anything of value, he's none too discriminating.

Off to the mess tent for firstsies he'll eat what he can of what is available and eavesdrop on anyone foolish enough to have a conversation nearby.

Should he find someone eating alone he will go and sit with them so as to increase is circle of contacts. He will do a little information gathering, finding their interests and engaging in their own expertise (so as to glean anything that might be either interesting, important, or amusing).

Should that person be offensive or brusque with Mel, Mel will be as pesky as he possibly can so as to annoy that individual out of thier appetite(s).

Should any particular activity capture his fancy (like exploring the chasm) he will seek to enlist allies and cohorts to wander about. In a bored state he would visit parts of Base Camp that he's not familliar with, so as to broaden his diminutive horizons.

He will occasionally wander into a random tent, and if there is anyone there and awake, he will say "What? This is not my tent!" and leave. In this endeavor he takes great care to not walk into a "ranking official's" tent.

He will also endeavor to set up practical jokes on his friends (like the "blood-in-the-bread" joke (thanks, Quartz) and generally cause mayhem.

He rarely passes the opportunity to ask inane questions of T'Riad - the monk's pursuit of balance being so darned whacky that Mel can't resist (But if there's balance in the universe, why do we need levers?)

If at any time during his daily wanderings he should pass near the mess tent, he will likely gravitate towards it for seconds, thirdsies, lunch, midday snack, supper, dinner, midnight snack, and to secret scraps of bread, cheese and smoked meat for early-morning munchies.

Mel will also go out of his way to visit any animal pens there might be. He watches animal handlers and asks lots of questions the way an insatiable toddler might, learning what he can easily learn about any given animal that might be on-hand (horses, ponies, wolves, birds...).

Mel will often participate at Beachstock as a performer (story-telling or instrument-playing), but might just entertain himself dancing and laughing with party-goers of any race.

Life is like many humans - too darned short.

Duthash Albyr Syncath [May 3rd, 237 VY]

The rescuing of the pilgrims was not satisfying for Jarmok; they had gotten there too late for most, and those that did survive would likely have night terrors for the rest of their lives. Jarmok knew only too well that particular award for survival.

He tried to not think about the poor souls who were lost, and the poorer ones who were saved. He lay on the floor near the fire in his little cabin; he hadn't been able to sleep in a bed - other than while convalescing with the gypsies - since he could remember. His leg and shoulder ached and oozed thickening blood, but he knew that they would be mending themselves soon and would likely be gone but for some minor scar tissue by morning.

When the rat had exploded in the subterranian temple, Jarmok thought it was frighteningly odd, but in the caves, when the lizard-thing exploded, that was different. The waif, he was now sure, was the cause of that. But she seemed afraid of herself. No one, he thought, should be alone and afraid of themselves. She is in need of a friend now, that much was clear, and she needn't be as skittish and frieghtened as she was. If Jarmok was any judge, she was not fully grown; little more than a child, despite her appearance.

As he considered how best to help her, yet keep secret what she obviously wanted to retain, sleep overtook him as he watched the flames caper lightly in the fireplace.

Crisp early morning air and a sharp pain in his head wakened Jarmok before the sun breached the eastwall. He looked around, his head fuzzy and sat up, then, succuming to gravity's brutal force, he fell down through fronds that tore at his face and hands. He tried ineffectually to grasp some purchase, but what little there was to be found was fleeting and harsh. He only did himself more damage.

Stunned and bleeding, but on the ground at last, he found himself laying prostrate beneath a broad southern fir. How it came to pass that he was in that tree, he could not guess...although shards of a dream of flying pierced his mind rather suddenly. Something odd was clearly afoot.

Whatever the case, it was near-dawn and he should be up and about already. Intimate with all areas of this forest, he rose stiffly and returned to his cabin. Dressing - but leaving his sleeves short so that the fresh wounds upon his hands and lower arms might be more rapidly healed by the morning air - and gathering his weapons, he left on his daily tour to the westwall; he was late, but that could not be helped.

Threshold was yet quiet, as it tended to be. Maal, Jarmok thought, would doubtless be touring the southern fringes about now. Jarmok picked up his gait, jogging toward the Rosewalk. He had already missed the sunrise, but he could at least poke around the forest for signs of the rat-man. He needed to collect Maal and go looking for him, he reminded himself, time was of the essence.

Jarmok was surprised to see the familiar cuvaceous form of Kit walking through the early Sythus morning towards the Rosewalk ahead of him. She was alone, and it was unusual for her to be about this time of the day. His thoughts of last night came unbidden to his mind, and her current solitude punctuated his conviction that she seemed to feel very much alone. Again he picked up his gait to catch up with her; opportunity had surfaced, and he would be remiss if he did not seize it.

He ran up behind her, holding his gear close as was his wont: a hunter must make no noise. That lesson, driven so repetitivly by Mercer, was now more an autonomous response than an effort. He pulled up short just behind the girl and said, "You hurt rat and lizard? Is secret?"

I don't recall whether we've had this discussion in the past, but...

Along the lines of critical hits and misses in combat, I think that there should be the opportunity for critical successes and failures in other skills.

Just to add to the spice...

Critical Success: if you roll a natural 20 on any given skill, you roll again. If that second roll would be a successful one, then you have garnered a critical success. If that second roll would not be a successful one, then you now have a Marginal Success, which is handled as a regular success.

A Critical Success on a Heal check is additional healing that occurs. A critical opposed skill check adds 2 to your opponent's DC (for instance if you're hiding (skill modifier = 5), and roll a critical success, your oponent's spot DC is going to be 27, or 2 above the modified 25 that you rolled).

Critical Failure: if you roll a natural 1 on any given skill, you roll again. If that second roll would be a successful one, then you have garnered a Marginal Failure, which is handled as a regular failure, as we do now. If that second roll would not be a successful one, then you now have a Critical Failure

A Critical Failure on a Heal check is reduced healing that ocurrs (instead of 1+ CN bonus in the event of a success, it is now CN bonus -1 - you actually did damage to your patient).

Critical Failures for other skill rolls will be handled on an as-needed basis. Rest assured that something bad will happen. My thinking is that in the event of a critical failure to your Hide check will have you sneeze at a critical moment. We shall see...

Untended wounds will heal at a rate of CN bonus per night. Tended by the Heal skill will heal as follows:

Marginal Success: 1+ CN bonus per night (Heal check made each day)

Critical Success: 2+ CN bonus per night (Heal check made each day)

See the defenition of a Critical or Marginal Success for a skill roll in another post.

You know, Dwarves are a peculiar lot, but they're not typically stupid or foolish in their architecture.

I've been wondering about this dungeon that we've been exploring. The secret passage, as such is what I presume the tunnel behind the rock to be, would have been expected to be an emergency exit of sorts. But I look at the map (figuratively) and I see from the boulder a tunnel to a very elaborate trap, after which is a room with a murder wall.

Now, the murder wall, I expect, is there in the event that the enemy finds their way into the back door, but under normal circumstances, the population of that outpost would be expected to be able to get to and fro via that door. Now I ask myself, if I'm an ugly, hairy, smelly dwarf living in that area, how am I supposed to be able to flee through the exit?

I would have to get around the murder wall, yes?

Let's look at the other murder wall: there's a via around it. Hmmm...

I'm starting to think that area of the complex where the grick was living was an unfinished part of the dungeon; the dwarves would have finished that tunnel, for whatever purpose it was intended, and then hidden the via or even filled it in. Although I would think that they hide it, because they would supposedly need to get around the murder wall in "normal" times.

This in turn leads me to think that there must be a via around the murder wall that has the silver battering ram through it, not that it matters. The "armory" at the bottom of the stairs behind crossfire alley would have been there to support the effort to build the tunnel at the far side of the grick lair. The dwarves building this complex obviously lived in the appartments that we found.

So I'm thinking...

Griffen was born in a rural community (country hobbits - much like the shire). Dad runs a weed farm, growing weed primarily for export (slightly better than trash for the community's consumption, but plenty good enough to sell to the Dwarves and Humans). He made a viable life, but Griffen (the youngest of several) wanted nothing to do with it - booaaringggg!

When Griffen became old enough to work the farm, he began to rebel (shirk his errands). He would rise early in the morning and sneak out of the house to live the free life, as he referred to it. In this endeavor, he became very adept at sneaking out in silence and hiding from dad and the brothers, who couldn't really spare a lot of time in searching for him since they had a farm to run. Griffen spent his days running from work and family and exploring the countryside, which he found was teeming with life that one might never see (brownies, gnomes, and elves and such living everywhere from forest to rolling hills...).

The first brownie he ran into was being chased by a fox; Griffen lent his throwing arm to scaring the critter off, only to find that the brownie was more playing with the animal than not. Still, the brownie acknowledged that Griffen was trying to help and befriended him. His brownie (Sylvan) name became Magnus, which means big blunderer (compared to a brownie, Griffen is really quite large, clumsy, and noisy). Magnus spent a fair amount of time in the company of brownies, and their allies, while hiding from his responsibilities.

Eventually, Griffen was given the "my way or the highway" speech and he chose the highway. The parting was actually quite amiable. So much so that he sends money to his family every now and then (and filches a pie on the way out).

As Magnus, he wandered the regions around his home for a few years, learning what he could from the indigenous folk (elves, centaurs, gnomes...) including languages, moving about unseen and unnoticed (move silently and hide), music...and contributing as best he could to their way of life (he had to earn his food somehow).

At length curiosity got the better of him and he wanted to see what city life was like. The answer: "not so good". Going into the city, at the suggestion of his forest friends, he adopted the name "Cam". He found that people were a lot less accepting. He found himself in bad shape and had to help himself to some food. The following morning he awoke with a charming older man sitting in the hay that was Cam's bed. This fellow introduced himself as Gurdion, and told Cam that he was a representative of a group that specialized in helping wayward souls find their way back onto their feet. Gurdion had noted that Cam had filched food the previous night, and assumed that Cam was in need of work. He offered Cam a job within his organization, which was so large that they would surely be able to find Cam's brighter talents and put him to good work. Without options to speak of, Cam accepted.

Thus was he inducted into the IBEW (The Intra-Borough Entrepreneurial Worker's Guild), where for the first few months he did only straight work (this was his "trial membership") in shipping, porting, locksmithing, and a variety of other tasks. In fact, during this time it was Cam's understanding that the IBEW *only* did straight work; the guild was tantamount to a temp agency with clients throughout the city. When the guild leaders felt that he could be trusted, he was indoctrinated deeper into the guild for...special assignments. They provided training, and suggested that he take on a new name: Maxmillion. As Max, he worked in various nefarious trades from smuggling to burglary, plain theft and so forth. He was never very good at muggings, as being very small tends not to be too intimidating. Occasionally, he would also do "straight" work under the name of Cam; a guild's gotta keep its reputation, after all.

The IBEW proved to be a very comfortable home for Max; it was never boring as folks would get rotated through assignments to some degree, and it provided him an opportunity to learn new skills, including some rudimentary training in foreign scripts and the use (tricking) of magical devices, the latter provided by Gurdion, who appeared to also be a sorcerer of some ability. It was through the revelation that Gurdion was a User that Max learned that his mentor was a friend of one (or more) of the elves in the forest; he had been sent to keep and eye on (then) Cam for recruitment purposes - it all tied together rather neatly. Although, Max has yet to learn which elf or elves had been responsible for this introduction.

Lately, Max was given the opportunity to participate in a new venture for the kingdom: the establishment of a mid-sea port. He eagerly accepted this new challenge, and, under the nomen of "Meltin" (Mel), was assigned to a group headed for a sea journey of unprecedented opportunity.

And that's the way it was...

Time is measure in this game as:

Hands - 1 Hand = 1 Hour; this is the distance that the sun moves in 1 hour

Candlemarks - 1 Candlemark = 1 Hand, used mostly at night or in-doors. A candle has demarkation lines on it, and it takes a Hand for the candle to melt from one line to the next.

Days (or suns to some more primitive groups)

Weeks

Moons

Years

Death of an Elf  :twisted:

I was thining this morning that the FK game started just about this time of year; it's "birthday" must either have just passed or is immenent.

Checking the log, Session 1 ocurred on April 25, 2003. FK is two years old the-day-before-yesterday!

Yay!

Happy birthday to you, (come on, you all know the song) Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear FK, Happy birthday to you!

Blow out the torches!

Now the Keep gets to open it's presents:

Look! A whole horde of occupants! Won't that be nice? There are men-at-arms, clerics, general worker-bees. Awww, you shouldn't have. *sigh*

What's in this big package? Ohh... a new ballista for the south-west tower! Prettyyyy.  :)

Look at this big package over here: what can it be? Ooohhh...lots of rocks! Just like the ones that the humans were trying make the main walls from! Just what I needed.

I'd like to thank all the people who came to enjoy my birthday with me; it was nice to get together as friends and allies for a change. Thanks to the delgates from the giant-kin from the mountains - I'm *so* glad that you could come and not kill anyone for a change.

And to the Orcs, I realize that this food is not to your tastes, but I'm very gratefull that you haven't tried to eat any of the party-goers. Too bad Himo and his band couldn't be here; the spiders say that they're all tied up at the moment.

Let's agree to get together like this every year - no matter who controls me (the keep).

You've now seen that Jarmok is clearly not from the Threshold area. He speaks in poor, broken common and has only a tenuous mastry of the language.

This is perhaps the result of his apparent seldom use of the tongue. He seems to preferr to communicate in gestures, grunts, and as few words as possible (although what's the tail and what's the dog may be open for debate).

When tracking Jarmok keeps close to the ground, sometimes moving about with his hands as much as his feet, looking as much animal as man. When he pauses he tends to a crouching stance instead of standing tall.

Jarmok is intensely private, not joining the group in the tavern / inn during "quiet time". He heads off in one direction or the other and melts into the foliage at the edge of Threshold (any edge that they are near at the time when they part company). It may often be that you don't notice that he's gone until he's gone; he neither parts nor greets in other than minor gestures (a nod of the head most usually) and rarely makes eye contact. He most often walks looking at the ground and occasionally glancing skyward.

It is difficult to tell if Jarmok is freightened, nervous, or simply wound over-tight.

It would be easy to equate his apparent desire to remain apart as aloofness, but his anxious, overly-shy nature might lead the careful observer to conclude that there are other motivators that drive this enigmatic citezen of Threshold.

Although he carries a magnificent battle axe, his long bow and arrows are crude, his two hand axes are dissimilar, his studded leather armor is worn and mis-matched. His body, while very clean, is not very sheveled (I just made this word up as the antinym to "dissheveled"). His thick black hair is invariably pulled behind his head through a nondescript leather collet and falls in a barely tamed tail down beyond his shoulders.

In days of peace and content, Jarmok will rise before the sun and go out on something of a walk-about.

His morning journey will take him southward circumnavigating the largely still sleeping villiage of Threshold, up amidst the trees along the western perimeter of the valley.

From a perch there he will watch the sunrise and listen to the land. After the sun has breached the eastwall (the mountains to the east of the valley) he will continue his trek northerly, completing the circuit around Threshold.

He will forage for forest vegtables to include in a crude stew to be cooked back at his cabin. Also, at intervals he will set traps to snare small game that he will eat (in those same stews or not). If he has the opportunity, he will also go for the big game, which he will take back to his home, and skin.

Being that he cannot use the full animal, he will take the skin to Philip Stagdrake's Leather & Butchery Shop (I imagine that Mercer would have done this if he had more meat than he could use, and that he would do a similar thing with the skin. If Mercer had a different plan, then Jarmok would follow that, perhaps delivering the meat to one inn or another, or in succession?).

Warm evenings are generally spent at his cabin watching the sun dip below the westwall and bathe the sky in iridescence. Cold evenings at the fire tending armor and weapons.

Many nights he spends up on the ridge watching the lights of Threshold as they present themselves and light the various paths until they wink out like the eyes of the dream-bound.

Just to be sure that it's captured - every PC starts with maximum HP, and gains maximum HP upon new levels. No rolling a HD for HP at LVL.

Thank Phin.

If there are no objections to the FK Log as it stands for Session 17, I'm going to make a news item on it for the home page either Thursday night, or early next week.

Going once...

The SNAFU with Himo's level and HPs and stuff brought a long-dormant thought to my mind as I scuttled off to bed last night.

Some time ago I had decreed that as far as the FK game goes, Sorcerers would get a d6 for HPs instead of the standard-menue d4.

This was, in my mind to balance the sorcerer against the wizard.

In most respects these two classes are identical; their differences lay in the fact that wizards need to study for thier power, derriving their spells from intellect, while sorcerers are wild talents, derriving their spells from their personalities (charisma).

Wizards get the opportunity to specialize in a school of wizardry (illusions, necromancy...) and such specializtion, while at the cost of the ability to cast spells from one or more of the other schools, yields the wizard bonuses to the DC of spells that they cast from that school. I believe that this balances the wizard (specializations) and the sorcerer (no studying necessary).

Then, however, as the wizard progresses in levels, they do, at intervals, get bonus feats. Sorcerers do not. I think that this is an imbalance, however slight.

So, I gave the sorcerer a d6 HD. I like this because one of the reasons that was historically given, at least to my mind and by my mind, for the wizard's whimpy HD was because he could not devote any time to combat, being tied up in the school room, as it were. Sorcerers don't have that problem, and thus are able to concentrate a little to combat.

Now this is captured in formal-type writing. So let it be written.

Good session last night. At least, I thought so.

verily, verily, verily, verily, I'll take my coffee with cream.

*ahem*

Just thought I'd steal a good idear from Wildfire:

As far as my games go, here's my suggested stat-generation method:

1) Roll 4d6, taking the best three. That's a stat
2) Roll eight of these, taking the best six. That's a stat "bank", if you will.
3) Do this three times, yielding three stat banks.
4) Elect to use one of the banks and allocate your stats among your...stats.
5) Once all of your stats are allocated, you may deduct 3 from a single stat to add 1 to another stat (like removing 3 from strength to add 1 to intelligence, for instance).

Two observances for "5)"
First: Do not use this method to increase any number to greater than 18
Second: Apply racial modifiers after this step
Third: You can do the Subtract / Add as much as you like (take three from Str to add one to Dex, then three from Cn to add one to Int, then three more from Str to add one to Ws...)

Now, this said, I'm sure that I wouldn't have any issues in running a character that anyone brings to the table having generated stats based upon whatever system they like (you could use WF's method, or Dray's method...)

The point is to have a character that's fun to play. If, in my method, you generated three banks that have no numbers greater than 6, you: 1) get rid of your dice, and b) try again.

Jarmok came from the neighboring "Islands of Sarrgonnas" (so the common people call them). His culture is a primitive one that lives off of the land, largely hunting and gathering for their sustenance. On one particular day his life changed for the worse.

Out with a small group of comrades hunting to feed his clan/tribe, he became separated from the group.

His next awareness was of a constant rocking. He found himself to be in the hold of a large ship. He did not know it, but he had been captured by The Emerald Merchant Company (pirates to some, free-lance merchants to others). He opened his eyes painfully, but the world was ought but a murky haze. He was vaguely aware through his haze of people near him every so often; he was unaware of the passage of time.

Unknown to Jarmok, he had been captured Jarmok with the vile purpose of selling him into slavery in the Xanthakos Empire (aka. Shadow Riders). His captor's chosen method of control was the use of drugs.

During the journey back to the mainland a deployment of the Xanthakos navy attacked the vessel that Jarmok was on and he became their prisoner.

At some point, Jarmok awoke with a fierce headache. He was still on a ship, and his head was still thick and foggy, but his senses told him that this ship was a different one. He drifted in and out of a restless sleep, each awakening bringing a different pain than the last. His thoughts were becoming clearer, but as he tried to fathom what had happened to him, he found it difficult to recall much at all. His most recent recollections were of events that, somewhere deep inside, he knew to have happened years before. To his horror, he found that he had huge gaps in his life-memory.

Today, he was in a particularly spartan cell. There was no furniture; only a hard wood floor covered by a shallow carpet of straw. He called through a cottony throat for help and was relieved to have been heard. A pair of filthy, rough men came down a set of stairs to investigate Jarmok?s cries. Jarmok?s relief, however, was short-lived. This ship was apparently entirely manned by wicked men. He was dragged from his cell and brought up onto the deck where he was beaten for ?disturbing the peace?.

Time continued to have no meaning for Jarmok. He was beaten daily. They gave him drink by dumping a pail of water (no doubt after cleaning the deck first) atop him after his beatings. Food was sparse, thrown at him every day or two, barely enough to sustain his life. Jarmok spent a lot of time on the floor of his cell, desperately trying to recall his crimes.

One day, he had had enough. He fought back against the man that they sent to beat him. It was all that he could do to bull-rush the man into the cell wall and flee up the stairs. Digging deep into his being, he mustered his strength and burst onto the deck. The sun burned his eyes painfully, and disoriented, he blundered across the deck unsteadily. He heard an evil laughter then, and his world exploded in a burst of color.

Today?s beating eclipsed any that he had experienced to date. His body was wracked with such pain that he no longer felt the individual whelms, but became numbed to the aggregate beating. His mind drifted, almost euphorically; it seemed that he would be out of the reach of his captors once and for all.

The air was salty. It hurt to move. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his awareness was the realization that he was alive. Were he dead, there would be no pain. He opened his eyes on a broad, barren beach. The sun was low in the west. Night will bring scavengers. He thought. To be asleep on the beach would invite his death. But where was he? The land seemed odd. It seemed to him that the beach ought not face northerly, but why this might be he could not say.

Whether or not this was his home, his instincts told him that he needed to find shelter. He had sustained a great deal of damage; he thought his right arm must be broken and perhaps his right foot as well. Neither seemed to work quite right.

As he wondered what he might do, his nose caught the scent of fire over the brine. Then the voice of the ocean was shadowed by the sounds of people. Jarmok?s heart throbbed and fear splashed upon his soul. Unable to stand, he crawled towards the tall, dense grass at the edge of the sands; it was a much longer journey that he might have imagined. Exhausted, he collapsed amid the sea grasses.

...


The sounds of rejoicing assailed him. Music. Dancing. Laughter. Then his nose was awakened by the sweet smell of well-cooked meat. Fish. Flowers. A cool pressure graced his forehead. He opened his eyes to a dark, unfamiliar room and a lovely face with kind eyes and a friendly smile that put him instantly at ease. He closed his eyes gratefully. He was in no danger; he wondered why that thought seemed somehow foreign to him.

The next weeks passed quickly for Jarmok. He had been found on the beach, near dead, by a nomadic people. They brought him back to their camp and cared for him. Although they were friendly, they were careful to not cultivate friendship. They were as much frightened as they were helpful. Jarmok got the sense that it wasn?t him they were frightened of, but it was something that he must represent to them. He didn?t press it. He took their care, and what form of friendship they were willing to give, and he took them with great gratitude.

When, after nearly a full moon, he was near-healed, the gypsy leader came to him and explained. He told Jarmok that his people believed that Jarmok must have been on a ship of the Xanthakos Empire, and was likely bound for slavery in their land. This navy and it?s slaving ways are often referred to as ?Shadow Riders?. The gypsies theory was that Jarmok must have escaped ? albeit barely ? and that he was likely already being sought by the Empire. His presence was a danger for the family; he asked Jarmok to leave.

Unwilling to place his rescuers in danger, Jarmok agreed, and readily. The gypsies gave Jarmok a worn battle axe, a slightly abused long bow, and some mis-matched armor, and their blessings, and sent him on his way, pointing him in the direction of the setting fiery moon.

Jarmok avowed the gypsies his perpetual gratitude and indebtedness, and sadly left them, forever burned as his earliest memory that lovely face whose large and kind eyes crowned a friendly smile. To him, this was his mother as he knew no better.

Life was not easy for Jarmok as he wended his way into the night, but at least he was free. Summer was upon him and he honed his hunting and tracking skills daily. He tended away from the hated ocean and kept himself hidden in the forests of the land, fretting that agents of the Xanthakos Empire might once again seek to enslave him. Fear kept Jarmok alone but alive.

Red was touching the leaves as Jarmok came upon such a town as seemed untouched by shadowy figures. The town, being nestled in an idyllic mountain valley through which ran a mighty river presented the wayward traveler with the makings of a survivable winter.

Winter, however, set earlier than he expected and was colder than it should have been. As game became scarce, the hunter no longer hunted. In the belly of darkness, the hunter became the hunted. The survivability of that winter became more a question than a likelihood. Desperation moved Jarmok to kill and abscond with a sheep that was decidedly domesticated. Then another. He regretted this method of survival, but survival it was, and his options were few. He could not trust the inhabitants of the valley?not yet.

The nights were longer than ever when Jarmok, arriving back at his cave from a ?hunting? trip (sheep in hand), heard the crunch of newly-formed frost coming from behind a boulder. He crouched, dropping the sheep, and found himself under attack. Covered by a net, he struggled to free himself, stopping only when he realized that there was a crossbow aimed at him.

He found himself face-to-face with a grizzled old man. Disheveled as he was, this new-comer didn?t seem evil; his old eyes had a gentle, understanding cast to them. He lowered and disarmed his crossbow. ?Just trying to survive, aren?t you?? He asked in a voice as grizzly as he appeared.

Jarmok only nodded, unsure of what to expect. His captor nodded understandingly and knelt next to his captive, gently removing the net. ?The townsmen are frightened of the ?beast? that?s been killing their animals.? He explained. ?Come with me. I?ll help you learn to hunt if you promise to stop taking domestic animals.? The old man held his hand out to help Jarmok up.

Suspicion lurked in Jarmok?s mind, but his senses told him that this was not a wicked man. Tentatively taking the man?s hand Jarmok was surprised to feel the strength therein. Old this man may be, but not frail. ?Name?s Mercer.? He said by way of introduction. ?Bring yer sheep, but that?s the last one. From now on, you live off the wilderness. If you can?t live with that, I?ll have to run you off. But if you can, you?re welcome at my cabin.?

Quickly weighing his options, Jarmok accepted the old man?s invitation and, taking up the sheep, followed at a respectable distance. His eyes darted about the forest, looking for signs of a trap, but there appeared to be none.

Winter passed in a surprisingly contented manner for Jarmok. Mercer quickly became a friend and mentor to him, teaching the ways of the forest and the animals therein. Jarmok, for his part, was an apt pupil; an innate friend of nature. He couldn?t understand why anyone would want to live in an area clustered with people.

People, you see, suck.

Jarmok's is a lean figure standing roughly five-and-a-half feet tall.

He wears well-worn leather armor, carries a small wooden shield and bears a magnificent battle axe. He also typically carries a crude long bow (with a quiver that is clearly home-made and contains low-quality arrows) and two smaller axes depend from his belt.

His face is round and his large eyes are somewhat bulbous. Pointed, somewhat cupped ears stand high on the sides of his head and protrude out from under thick black hair that is crudely tamed, pulled to the back of his head through a leather collett to fall past his shoulders.

Anyone who has spent the bulk of their lives in the presence of elves will be able to tell that he is either a mal-formed elf (or half-elf) or not an elf (or half-elf) at all. His height would make him more likely a half-elf, but his ears sit up a little too high on the sides of his head, and his fingers are long in comparison to his arms and hands. Just slightly.

Please note that these "features" would not likely to be noted by folks who are not intimate with those other races or who are just not that observant.

However, viewed in sufficient light, it becomes clear that Jarmok is not an elf. In bright-light conditions his pupils are decidedly slit, like many-a snake or cat.

If you get close enough, you might also note that he is covered with a fine layer of soft light brown (coffee-tan) hair.

Hey kids. I was just perusing the FK log, specifically session 16, and made a correction. 'Tis a minor thing, but should be corrected.

On the evening when you left the lodge, there's a line that says that the full moon is four or five days away. The date, however, is Sap / Delver's +28, and that means that this coming night will be the first of the new Moon.

I replaced that remark with the following:
The comming night will be the first of the new Moon (what the elves call the "Sprouting Grass Moon" and the Dwarves call the "Egg Moon").

Matt, can you please make this change to the log that appears in the public domain ("Home" page)?

As an additional note, for log purposes, tonight (when you all die) would be Sprouting Grass / Egg -1

Thanks.

I keep forgettting to note that the 40 PP that were found in session 4 on the hobgoblins need to be split up.

They should be divvied up between Mel, T'Riad, Mel, Elberron, Mel, and Amy. My personal feeling is the since Dave and Decal didn't participate in the fight, then they can safely be left out. Although Mel should be included. If there are no objections to this, I think we should split that money up evenly. That would be 6PP each (for the 6 of us, including Mel) and would leave 4 left-overs that "someone" could hand onto.

If we think that D&D should be included, and I can easily argue for that as well, then (having included Mel as well), then there would be 5PP each (40PP divided 8 times).

Thoughts?

Whispers on the Wind
[Saturday 15 January 2005]

Sap/Delver's Moon +27

Valen Galaphile, Belwar Fireforge, Zurn Darkbrew, and Himo head southward through the forest headed towards the open plains and the human city of Gorna. They eventually come to the foot of a small cliff and Himo is elected to scale up the cliff side and investigate. His first attempt fails, but after moving over to a different section he does manage to effortlessly scramble up to the top. He sees a cabin here and standing guard outside of the lodge is a humanoid cat warrior holding a spear. Himo panics at the unfamiliar sight and leaps down from the cliff. Once he has recovered from the fall he quickly describes the "lion-man" and the cabin at the top to the others.

Meanwhile, Mirri, standing outside of the cabin sees a person appear at the cliff edge and then quickly disappear down out of sight again. She approaches to investigate and sees a group of people below. She thinks they may be the owners of the cabin, or perhaps friends of the madman that attacked Arlen.

Down at the foot of the cliff, Belwar, Zurn, and Valen discuss the sighting above with Himo. Valen happens to look up and glimpses the "lion-man" peering down at them. He is intrigued and decides to climb up to investigate for himself.

Meanwhile, up above, Mirri re-enters the cabin and informs Arlen that the madman's friends are approaching. Arlen, resting near the hearth is very hurt [1 hp] and cannot do anything about it besides have his weapons at the ready for a last stand. He is in too much pain to even rise so stays right where he is. Mirri ventures back outside to confront them. She meets Valen just as he gains the top of the cliff and levels her spear at him. They find that they both speak elvish, but Mirri is still very suspicious and untrusting of this stranger. The others call out to Valen and he tries his best to answer them with the spear still leveled at his chest. He reveals to the cat-woman that he has some skill in healing and she immediately takes him towards the cabin where Arlen lies.

Mirri brings Valen past the dead madman into the cabin where Valen finds the seriously wounded Arlen and offers to heal him. Arlen introduces Mirri and himself and explains that they were attacked by surprise by the madman when they opened the door to the storeroom. Arlen explains further that if it weren't for his good friend Mirri, he would be dead now. Suddenly, there are sounds of combat coming from the foot of the cliff. Valen is worried about his comrades and Arlen seeing his concern quickly consents to the healing. Valen begins to cast a spell, but the superstitious Mirri becomes alarmed by this action. Arlen gently convinces Mirri that they must trust this stranger for now and Mirri keeps a close eye on Valen as he heals Arlen's serious shoulder wound. Arlen soon finds that he is fully healed! He is very impressed and thanks Valen excitedly. Valen, Arlen and Mirri then run out to the cliff to see what is going on.

Meanwhile, Belwar, Zurn and Himo have managed to fight off a terrifying flying ghost-man with charred stumps for legs. Himo was hurt in the shoulder by the creature and Zurn heals him with a divine spell.

Valen and Arlen hold a rope as the others climb up the cliff one by one. Introductions are made. Arlen, seeing their whole party of four, suddenly makes a connection... He recalls that Brescht told him and Mirri to keep a look out for his comrades, an elf, a human and two dwarves. Arlen mentions Brescht, Captain Coris, and the keep in the forest to them and they do indeed know of it. Arlen gives them the latest news of the keep and explains how he and Mirri came north and ultimately arrived there. He and Mirri passed many disturbing sights along the way and eventually had to flee into the woods after leaving the keep to avoid the many orcs patrolling the road. He reveals that they are on a mission of sorts to deliver a message from Captain Coris to his superiors in Gorna asking for assistance or reinforcements. Valen explains that they are also headed to Gorna and both parties agree to travel together, as there is safety in numbers.

The entire party returns to the cabin where Zurn performs last rites on the dead madman lying outside.

There is more talk and discussion within the cabin as Belwar and Zurn investigate the storeroom (searching for beer). Arlen hears a strange whispering apparently coming from outside and hushes the group as he points to a window in alarm. Belwar, Himo, and Mirri run outside to check as the others look through the open window. The search reveals nothing, however. Arlen tries to shrug off the strange experience and tends to the fire in the hearth. Valen notices the exposed hole in the fireplace mantle and mentions it as the others return. Arlen reveals the five vials of liquid (two red and three blue) that he found in the hole. Valen and Zurn examine these, but unfortunately cannot identify the liquid within [both tried using their Spellcraft skill]. Arlen also shows them the madman's dagger. Zurn and Belwar both examine the weapon closely and agree that it is a Masterwork dagger, but Belwar determines that it is decidedly less than dwarven quality. Arlen describes the dead man against the tree that he and Mirri found. He explains that the man, who held an identical dagger, appeared to be tearing at a bandaged wound on his shoulder. He also apparently had some very strange self-inflicted wounds in both ears. No-one is sure what to make of all this and the others do not recall seeing this fellow.

Everyone settles in and Arlen plays a relaxing rhythm on his elven drum as he tries very hard to ignore further whispering on the wind. Valen, meanwhile, works his nature magic to produce a handful of berries for them to eat. Mirri is spooked by this and refuses to eat the berry offered to her, though.

Soon, Himo also hears the faint whispering on the wind. He announces this and another round of listening and searching takes place, but still nothing is found. Arlen is both relieved and disturbed by this. Relieved that someone beside himself has actually heard the strange whispering and of course disturbed as it doesn't seem to be going away at all and they still cannot locate the source.

Himo has many questions about the bizarre flying-stump man that attacked them and Valen tries his best to answer him. Valen reveals what he knows of wendigos. This thing that attacked them seemed to fit in with the stories that he has heard about these dreadful creatures. He explains in simple terms that there are times when mother earth becomes angry at the abuse of her world and responds by creating a wendigo. A Wendigo was once a beast as ordinary as any other, and could have been a man or any other creature. It is essentially a spirit of vengeance. He further explains that the wind whispering is one of the hallmarks of the haunting wendigo.

It is agreed that the madman's body should be removed before the party settles down for the evening. Zurn decides to toss the body over the edge of the cliff. As he does this, he notices that there are already two other bodies down there and returns with this news. The group decides to investigate this discovery. Himo and Belwar wait in the cabin while the others make their way to the cliff.

Arlen and Valen hold a rope while Mirri and Zurn climb down to the bottom of the cliff. Zurn investigates the bodies while Mirri stands guard with her spear at the ready. Zurn determines that they were probably chewed up by the wendigo before they were thrown over the cliff. Arlen hears the whispering on the wind again... He is shaken up, but holds fast to the rope. When Mirri and Zurn finally return to the cliff top Arlen wastes no time in high-tailing it back to the cabin.

Once everyone is back they discuss spending the night here in the cabin. It is agreed that there should be three watches (with two sentries for each watch) during the night. One sentry will patrol outside of the cabin while the other sentry keeps watch inside. The first two watches pass uneventfully, except for the fact that Arlen still hears the increasingly annoying whispering of the wendigo. It occurs to him that the dead fellow against the tree (with the apparent self-inflicted wounds in his ears) may have also heard the whispering and that it may have ultimately drove the man mad and caused him to injure himself with his dagger. Arlen is very concerned that he will share this unfortunate man's fate if he continues to hear this whispering all the time. He is very eager to move on from this haunted place now.

Sap/Delver's Moon +28: Third Watch

Valen (on watch inside) watches as Himo rises silently from his spot on the floor and purposely makes his way to Arlen's side. He continues to watch in disbelief as Himo (clearly not himself) leans very close, taking the arm of the fitfully sleeping Arlen...

"ARLEN!" Everyone is suddenly awakened by Valen's yelling. Arlen jolts awake to find Himo hovering over him and about to bite into his arm. The half-elf jerks his arm away before any teeth can penetrate his skin and scrambles to his feet. He hurriedly explains to the others what has just transpired as he heads to door. However, he finds the door blocked by Belwar (who has just come in after hearing Valen's cry) so he throws himself out through a window in a panic. Mirri quickly runs outside to check on him.

Valen, Belwar, Zurn, and Himo also exit the cabin and gather for a private discussion. Himo seems to be himself again now and has no explanation or recollection of what happened inside. Belwar voices his concern that they have not been totally forthcoming with Arlen and Mirri about their current plan. They still need to find the "swamp lady" on their way east to Gorna, yet Arlen and Mirri know nothing of this plan. Valen is unconcerned by this, though.

Meanwhile, Arlen crawls back through the window into the now empty cabin and gathers up all of his and Mirri's equipment. He passes the stuff out through the window to Mirri and then hastily exits through the window himself. He is still hearing the mysterious whispering on the wind and tells Mirri that they must get away from this terrible haunted cabin immediately. They soon join the others and are filled in on the side quest for the "swamp lady". The discussion has now moved on to the wendigo and Himo. The general consensus is that Himo seems to be infected with some type of "lycanthropy" from the wendigo. Belwar feels that if they can find the "swamp lady" she may be able to help their friend. Himo and Arlen are still hearing the wendigo's whispering on the wind. Arlen is completely spooked and wants to get as far away from this haunted cabin as possible. It is agreed by all that the party should leave the cabin behind. Belwar re-enters the cabin and gathers up the remaining equipment.

The party finally leaves the area, heading southward away from the cabin. The comming night will be the first of the new Moon (what the elves call the "Sprouting Grass Moon" and the Dwarves call the "Egg Moon"). Mirri leads them away south on a deer path towards the road. Valen explains his theory of the wendigo as the party moves along. He believes that the wendigo has been haunting the cabin, driving folk there mad and possibly infecting them with his disease or with the madness of the constant whispering. The madman that attacked Arlen was probably hiding from the wendigo in the store room. He likely tossed the other two bodies over the cliff (maybe after killing them himself), either out of madness or because they were infected by the wendigo. [Dray, my apologies if I've hacked up your theory. I don't recall what you actually said at the time and had to fill this in by memory... feel free to let me know if it needs fixin'. -fraz-]

The party travels for a couple of hours and finally halts at dawn so that Valen and Zurn can meditate and regain their spells. Arlen continues to hear the wendigo's whispering during this time and tries his best to ignore it, but it is driving him nuts. Belwar offers up a theory that the silver-colored dagger could be cursed. Perhaps it would be best to get rid of it. Arlen does not believe that the dagger is magical (his Detect Magic spell did not reveal an aura of any kind). Despite all this, he considers discarding the dagger here in the woods (where he hopes it is unlikely to be found again anytime soon), perhaps then the annoying whispering on the wind would cease (and he would not be inclined to inflict damage on his own ears).

The party suddenly finds themselves under attack! The wendigo has found them! The wendigo attacks Himo immediately. Arlen panics and throws the silver-colored dagger off into the woods, hoping that the wendigo (which he now thinks must be the source of the whispering) will possibly leave them to reclaim it. The wendigo, however, continues it's relentless attack. The party fights back. Arlen fires an arrow which strikes the wendigo and then falls to the ground below. As the fight continues on, Zurn casts bless and Arlen recites a battle chant inspiring courage in his companions. The battle goes well (although, Belwar is unfortunately struck by the wendigo). Belwar damages it with his axe and a nasty spear thrust by Mirri finally brings the wendigo down to the ground. The party continues hacking at the body until someone suggests that they cut off the head. Himo chops off the wendigo's head with his masterwork longsword.

Mirri suggests strongly that they burn the body and bury the head. She continues to keep the prone and apparently dead wendigo pinned down with her spear. She soon notices that the axe wound in the wendigo's torso seems to be mending itself. The wendigo is apparently regenerating! There is a sudden panic and flurry of activity and everyone agrees that this thing must be burned before it can arise again. Arlen, Belwar and Zurn gather wood to make a fire. Valen, who was trying to finish his meditation, gives up and prepares a Produce Flame spell with which he can burn the body. As the ball of fire lights up in his hand, Mirri quickly backs off with her spear. Belwar pours oil on the wendigo and Valen hurls the ball of fire at the body. As it burns, they throw the gathered wood on the flames.

Zurn takes a few moments to tend to the wounded. Himo still has a nasty looking wound/scar from the wendigo's initial attack at the cliff.