Griznuq Gaming

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.

OK, I jumped the gun and posted session 17 to the Home Page.

So let it be written...

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...

Never mind.

Quote from: MattIt will allow him to attract attention even when his mouth is unable. (while sleeping for instance...  :roll: )

Do you honestly think that Mel's mouth stops while he's sleeping?

Amature. :P

[OMG! I certainly screwed *this* up, vile bastard that I am...

let me try to rectify it:]

Quote from: MattIt will allow him to attract attention even when his mouth is unable. (while sleeping for instance...  :roll: )

Do you honestly think that Mel's -er, my- mouth stops while he's - I mean, I'm - sleeping?

Amature. :P

Quote from: wildfireT'Riad: "So, Mel, what are you going to get a tattoo of on your little bald head?"

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.

Quote from: BlackspearHey Johan...Sorry to rip you on ourfirst exchange.

No harm meant :D
Blackspear

Nothing lost; my skin's near as thick as my skull  :)

Far as I can see, all that means is that you don't reallocate points. I'm OK with that.

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.

Quote from: wildfire...have you read the MSI logs? it's "Mel and some other people".

Isn't that how we're playing the game?!?

What's your point?  :)