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The year is 1998. A young Toph Bei Fong starts to scribble ideas for a Dungeons & Dragons campaign in a spiral bound notebook. Years pass, and the notebook gets worse and worse, the perfectionism and obsessive unnecessary detailing running into a massive roadblock when D&D 3.0 is released, necessitating a rewrite of the entire thing (or so young Toph thinks). Eventually the notebook gets crammed into a milk crate between a 1st edition Exhalted player's guide and a copy of Human Occupied Landfill, and is forgotten. Spoken about widely among friends, the game was never played. The year is 2015. Toph Bei Fong is clearing out old boxes of books in the library, and happens upon the notebook while deciding which to keep and which to get rid of. Re-reading it, and struck by a wave of nostalgia, Something Awful seems like the only place to run the thing. Eris help us all. ---  Soundtrack The time is 31 December, 1999 AD (After Dobbs), and the city of Ycchyr is in full celebratory swing. Wine flows freely from the casks that stand sentry behind the bar at Ataru Moroboshi’s Fallen Star Tavern and Eatery, the three story building absolutely packed with revelers in various ethnic and religious costumes. The enthusiastic, magically augmented bass, drum, piano, and guitar of Uncle Redgar’s Gnomish Music Experience keep the party moving when the wine does not. The roof of the Tavern provides a perfect view of the clock tower in the city center, the hub upon which the walled city turns. The illuminated hands stand at 6 minutes to midnight. A big, brightly colored ball is suspended from the top, ready to have its ropes cut so it can slam to the ground and explode in a shower of candy for the children. Other bars and taverns, indeed the streets themselves, are just as full. No one wants to miss a new year’s celebration as big as this. Ycchyr is a peaceful trading hub, landlocked but located strategically at the confluence of all the major trading routes. The rolling steppes that surround it are dotted with small farms and the customary villages and hamlets each a day’s travel from one another. It hasn’t seen war in generations for two reasons: the blessing of the fisher king, which protects the city provided that the rightful ruler is on the throne, and the fact that all the surrounding nations rely on the city for goods coming both to and from, and messing that up would be absolutely devastating to their economies. The banking crisis alone could cost rulers their lives... Speaking of rulers, there’s City Mayor Robert Ustenov Dobbs the 23rd, shaking hands with Carah Stone, the High Priestess of Eris. Dobbs has been mayor for years now -- winning every election as far back as you can remember, as did his father, Robert Carlos Dobbs the 22nd, and his father, and his father before him... all direct descendants (more or less) of the original Robert Dobbs, three fisted hero of the town and raiser of the original walls. Stone, on the other hand, won her job in a lottery, the traditional way the Erisians chose their leadership and all the tremendous power that goes along with it. According to the more power hungry factions in the church, she’s squandered it utterly; in the eyes of the traditionalists, she doing a bang up job; according to the average citizens, she’s much more approachable than her predecessor Piers Goodkind (who died tragically while blessing a new combine harvester), which is unsurprising considering she used to slaughter and package meat for a living. There’s Moroboshi himself, clumsily balancing a tray of drinks as he attempts to serve a tableful of men and women in Algesian Cosair costumes. Two tieflings are engaged in a theology discussion with a pair of aasimar, over whether the gods are fundamentally chaotic or organized -- the tieflings argue that the gods couldn’t care less, thus rendering the entire point meaningless, while the aasimar have respectively chosen to argue for order and chaos, though all of them agree that the city’s government and religious practices certainly seem to point towards chaos. The debate would probably go much differently if there weren’t half a dozen empty glasses in front of each of them. A curious sense of foreboding hangs in the air, but only you seem to feel it. The moon is full in the cloudless sky. Revelers crowd about happily, someone hands you a drink and slaps you on the back. You can’t see a single frown or grimace. The blessing of the fisher king must mean that the gods (whichever ones they are) are happy with the current mayor. But what’s that in the sky, near the moon? It’s not a cloud or a meteor. More like a wrinkle? Something incorrect. Something wrong. The clock ticks. “Five minutes!” someone yells, and the crowd cheers in response. --- The building is three stories tall, with seating on the top two floors and cooking area on the first. Customers enter via a staircase on the front, staff via the doorway behind it, and there is another staircase running along the inside of the building to allow complete access for the servers and cooks. The bar is on the 2nd floor, along with the band and many smaller tables and booths, while the roof has a much looser seating arrangement and a lot of standing area. What were you doing when you noticed the thing by the moon? How do you react? The Thing will happen Sunday night. --- If you could start your posts with your character name and a link to your sheet, that'd be great. When we're in combat, a running total/summary at the bottom of your posts is very helpful (I can repost the one I stuck in the OOC thread if necessary). Toph Bei Fong fucked around with this message at 07:36 on Mar 28, 2015 |
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Mar 28, 2015 07:34
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Tristan Pierrot In one corner of the rooftop area sits a young man in brightly-colored, ostentatious robes. The son of some banker or somesuch rubbish most people couldn't care less about, calling himself "Aersayne Wolfe the Third" and claiming to live by the southern wall of the city. He is surrounded by a veritable bevy of beautiful women, along with other assorted sycophants, as servers run themselves ragged keeping the group supplied with drinks, which vanish as quickly as they arrive. The man's entourage is itself spread out around the seating available in the corner, almost an entirely separate party-within-the-party. The conversation turns out to be rather shallow, almost entirely focused on how great the Right Honorable Lord Wolfe of the Wall's Street is. Many of them promise to donate to various charitable organizations he mentions, just for the sake of earning his approval. To an observer, the entire display seems almost cult-like. In reality, neither Aersayne Wolfe III nor any of the organizations he speaks of exist. Lord Wolfe is, in fact, the notorious confidence artist, charlatan, master of disguise, and amateur tailor, Tristan Pierrot. He has infiltrated the party in one of his many disguises, mainly to enjoy himself, but if he can bilk a few nobles out of a handful of crowns, he considers it a bonus. His alleged charities are, in fact, fronts for associates of his, who will then distribute the majority of the money to the poor, and keep the remainder, and the marks are none the wiser. With so much revelry going on, the chance of Pierrot being discovered is low. However, as he looks up into the sky, finishing his second drink (naturally, he's been careful about his consumption, in order to drink his many new friends completely under the table), he notices something extremely odd. He was no astronomer, but he was fairly certain the night sky did not normally look like that. He raises an eyebrow, but a jubilant exclamation from the woman next to him draws his attention back to the celebration. Apparently, the call has just gone forth, and in five minutes, the new year shall arrive, and with it, a new year's worth of gold to coax from the pockets of the wealthy. And there Tristan Pierrot sat, among many of those very same wealthy individuals, who not only welcomed, but lauded his presence, unaware of his intentions. Truly, nothing could spoil this moment. Absolutely nothing at all.
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Mar 28, 2015 09:33
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Zuza Kolar Zuza doesn't really look like she belongs in the erstwhile Fallen Star. I mean sure, she's wearing that fancy pantsuit her mom talked her into buying for last New Year's and she's even combed her wild mat into something resembling a hairstyle but the ratty old toolbelt she couldn't bring herself to leave at home doesn't so much tie the outfit together as wrap it in burlap and throw it off a bridge. And why is the fit so bad? That's undoubtedly a Chaïs Chelon piece, so why is it hanging so awkwardly off her shoulders? Don't tell me she's wearing that stupid- no, no, she definitely is wearing chain mail to a New Year's party. "Faux pas" doesn't even begin to describe it. Small wonder nobody's talking to her. Not that she minds. People are cool and all, but they're hard to wrap your head around at the best of times. After a drink or twelve, it's like trying to play chess with someone who keeps spinning the board around and insisting that no, knights totally have the "charge" special quality it's right there in the second edition rulebook. So she's found this nice little rooftop corner where she can choose to look at the splendid assortment of fops or turn her head sideways to get an eyeful of the common masses, all the while sipping a drink that only barely tastes like poison. Her gaze drifts to the candy bell, swinging gently in the breeze. The dropping of the bell has always been her favorite part of the celebration, not just because she has a sweet tooth a mile long but because ever since the celebratory committee of 1981 rigged the bell to send flowing streamers over the crowd at the moment of impact, the dropping had become an ever-escalating contest of one-upmanship as each year's committee tried to outdo the previous one with increasingly complex self-destructive contraptions of wood and paper. And magnificent destruction is right up Zuza's alley. So why this creeping sense of unease? The crowds and the sounds do give her the willies sometimes, but that's not it. She definitely hasn't been drinking enough to be getting sick yet, either. Besides, it's more like the cloying feeling she gets when her space is invaded, like someone's already wrist-deep in her pockets, messing up the order of things and taking valuable nick-knacks. Nobody's there, though. Nothing funny going on here at all. Only, what is that thing in her peripheral vision? She turns to look, but she can't quite focus on it. Some kind of crease or swirl, right next to the moon. She blinks, turns her head, but it stays. Not a speck of dust or a trick of the light, then. She's staring now, absorbed by an irrelevant little oddity like so many times before. Except for some reason it doesn't feel irrelevant at all. "What is that?" she says out loud, but her words are drowned out by the four-minute cheer. Terrorforge fucked around with this message at 15:16 on Mar 28, 2015 |
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Mar 28, 2015 13:46
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Socrates "Socks" Pillarseeker Socks secured the last of the pitons, carefully tucking the hempen rope out of site down the drainpipe. Socks wasn't likely to need the quick exit, but it's always the one time you don't check your exit lines that you need them, said Niccodemus. Socks could hear the old man droning on, and smiled a bit sharply. Exiting the balcony to rejoin the party, idle thoughts of the owner distracted Socks for a moment. The innkeep was a good man, no more dishonest than average. His books were kept, and audited, and the audits turned up the expected amount of mistakes each year. Nothing malicious, just lazy. Sign of a man with too much to look at all of it closely. He'd never notice the rope unless it was needed, and it would be a simple matter to remove it if it wasn't. While socks ruminated, some hint of training turned hip to avoid an enterprising pickpocket, leaving Socks unconcerned as the maid went on her way. The balcony was prepared, it was now a simple matter to find it from the roof. Easily managed, with six minutes to spare. Should hear the shout any moment now. Socks thought. If someone was planning something, it would almost certainly go off with the clock. Socks adjusted the pack harness to settle it cleanly between leg and wall. Less noticable that way under the fine cloak. Everything important was in the pouch of course, but it didn't hurt to keep up the appearance, and having a neatly kept bag of goods let the staff see only an eccentric visitor, and the guests as staff. It was a beautiful night, and you could see clear to the tower itself from here. Socks leaned back, cushioned, and looked up at the stars. If anything was going to happen, it was going to happen. Maybe life would suprise them. If not, there would be other surprises. For now, a moment of rest, waiting, and. Oh. Socks stared at the moon, completely at ease. An intricate bit of music began to play, and he smiled just slightly. "Well, it's about time." The three minute cheer echoed through the building. Anias fucked around with this message at 07:16 on Mar 30, 2015 |
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Mar 28, 2015 19:47
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Nijena Cronwier Nijena briefly wondered how the Outsiders Theological Society had formed. It had been one of those unavoidable things. The thieflings had been talking amongst themselves about the uncaring gods, and the daft son of a lantern had overheard and nearly started a fight with his interjection. Of course, the interjection had been about the rigidly hierarchical nature of the gods, which had forced Nijena to join the debate. Someone had been blatantly wrong in a bar, and that just wouldn't do. The drink, and the atmosphere in general, did wonders for keeping the conversation civil, even friendly. Nijena only felt a little smug when she pointed this out to the archon-blooded aasimar. He'd replied with something about the orderly nature of everything making the debate possible in the first place, but the thiefling jury had forced him to concede the point. The next round was on him. The count progresses, and at the 5 minute mark people start shouting it every minute. Out of a window, she notices the wrinkle in the sky, and quickly writes it off as just a flaw in the window pane. Windows got broken all the time, especially around large parties. Everyone knew that. Nijena gets up for a moment to go fetch her gong, so as to be ready for The Thing. She had stored the precious and somewhat clumsy instrument in the kitchen, with the innkeeper's permission, to keep it out of the way until the occasion called for it. On the way back to the Outsiders Theological Society table, she notices the other windows seem to share the same wrinkle-y defect. Huh. How unlikely. At the two-minute mark, she joins the general anticipatory cheer, thoughts of celestial wrinkles already out of her mind.
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Mar 29, 2015 04:33
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 Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart, ad-hoc Ribartan Ambassador to the Fallen Star Tavern, has never been entirely comfortable indoors. Perhaps this is an artifact of his upbringing first among dinosaurs, and then with an errant paladin, or perhaps it is a result of the general reaction of door-owning people to a mogogol riding a dinosaur passing through those doors. Either way, there is certainly more room up here for Ribart Jr., the young deinonychus upon whose back Sir Ribart sits. The mogogol holds a mug of some foul-tasting fermented substance in one hand, politely sticking his tongue into it at regular intervals (much to the disgust and delight of the knot of partygoers who have surrounded him and his mount). "Yes, my good sir, it was certainly a most daring raid. I do not consider it indecorous to boast of my own courage in leading the Ribartan Army against the Alligator Horde back in '95-- indeed, if anything I underplay my own bravery!" Sir Ribart puffs out his chest (quite a bit, as a good portion of his throat is inflatable), then somewhat ruins the effect by swiftly picking his nose with the tip of his prehensile tongue and swallowing the resultant glob of phlegm. One woman standing nearby gags, barely managing to hold in the canapes she has been enjoying. Sir Ribart does not appear to notice, so wrapped up is he in his tale of derring-do. "The Alligator Chief put up a good fight, I deceive you not: his fearsome jaws nearly ripped me limb from limb, but I-- upon my trusty steed--" he leans down to pat at the dinosaur's flank at this, and Ribart Jr. snarls and snaps at his hand, "struck him a telling blow, sending him reeling back into the vile muck from which he arose. Aye, t'was a glorious victory!" Sir Ribart crows, clenching a four-fingered fist. "And then we ate the fiend, right there amongst the swaying reeds." At this, Sir Ribart's huge eyes grow distant, and he licks what passes for his lips, sub-vocalizing a slight moan of gustatory pleasure. Appreciate (and surely not condescending) approval murmurs through the small crowd, and the knight basks in their praise until Ribart Jr. turns her head to hiss at her rider with barely-disguised contempt. "Eh, what?" Sir Ribart murmurs, looking down at his mount. She jerks her head skywards, and the knight follows her gaze towards the ripple. He blinks a few times, uncomprehending, then his eyes bulge. "By Ribart!" he croaks, urgency in his voice. "It must be the spirit of the Alligator Chief, returned for vengeance on the eve of a new age! To arms! To arms!" Whether anyone hears his rallying cry amidst the three minute cheer is another matter.
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Mar 29, 2015 07:16
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Bella Liambe Bella is engaging in some rather convoluted sophistry, having attracted a passing little group of philosophically minded randoms, with the discussion settled onto Art and Beauty, regarding absurdist art, art-that-is-not-art, common objects put into a space traditionally reserved for art, whether those objects become art, whether the very particular first instance is art, but only due to its novelty and the commentary made by its presence and self-referential designation as art, and, now, finally, whether a human form, put into a similar context, can be considered art, or Art, and how the bulk of thought regarding Beauty that once underlied the traditional notion of Art applies again, how Beauty was often defined different ways depending on how one was speaking of art or of human beauty, and so on. This is all taking place in the context of a drunkard lying unconscious on one of the benches on the roof, a small puddle of vomit pooling below, a bottle of rum still clutched in his hand, and his dress most hideously and uncouthly ruffled. "So, now, I ask, Devin, would you take a photograph of our subject? Thank you, yes, good. Here we can consider the resulting photograph, which could easily be shown in a gallery, and yet the subject placed physically in a gallery would not be afforded the same consideration, at least not as easily. Why? Arrangement, the composition of the photograph? I'll admit, this is somewhat intriguing, and it relates to our intuition that a photograph taken of a painting, head on and level and square, is not art, but merely a representation and reproduction of prior art. So, then, does the definition of art require this labor, this effort of composition? But, then, is a bridge art? A dam? A house? Perhaps the effort of composition is only tangential and coincidental to a much... deeper... hmm. Er, excuse me, I need to... I just remembered, there was someone I was going to speak with as well tonight. Excuse me. And, please, continue the discussion, perhaps introduce further art, I believe at least a few of you brought charcoal, or, Devin, continue on with the camera. I must be going though! Thank you!" She grins magnanimously and slips away, weaving through the crowd to get a better look at the... whatever it was, the little glimmer near the moon.
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Mar 30, 2015 06:37
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Soundtrack The countdown begins: 10... A flash on the horizon. People chant the number. Fireworks explode in the air, timed with the ticking of the hands on the clock. ...9... Something on the horizon's getting larger. Horns and noisemakers wheezing and clacking. A sea of party hats nodding in time. ...8... Last second champagne flutes are flying off the bar and off serving trays. The unpaired are quickly grabbing available partners for a kiss. ...7... A white orb, like a big shooter marble with a figure 8 twist of black in the center, is up high in the sky. A special firework perhaps? ...6... There’s Moroboshi’s wife in a tiger striped dress, floating over the crowd, looking for her husband. High Priestess Stone is handing out apples for the teetotalers in the crowd. ...5... “Ker-Rang!!” Someone else heard that, right? The marble whacks off the strange anomaly you noticed by the moon, angled downwards towards the city. How big is this thing, exactly? What is it? ...4... Dobbs has already finished his champagne and is looking for another glass. What was he thinking? ...3... The crowd is deafening! The poor orphan who was selected to pull the rope that drops the candy bell is grinning like mad. The marble... It’s the size of the moon! ...2... It stops just before slamming into the heads of the crowd, hovering with utter stillness. The door is open without so much as a quiver or wobble. The people let loose a shout. What kind of crazy attraction is this? ...1... And from inside emerge horrible creatures, their strange, thick bodies in various smooth unnatural geometric shapes, supported by spindly arms and legs, and carrying the most generic, featureless, and mass produced weapons you’ve ever seen. The cries of excitement turn to screams of terror. ...0 The leader, an icosahedron, stands at the edge of the platform and speaks “People of this side. Order has come. I am taking your leaders. This force was calculated sufficient to maintain order. Any resistance will be met with force. Submit. There will be no questions.” Two of its lackies, dodecahedron, make gestures in the air. Stone and Dobbs appear at their sides, floating in balls of force. Stone is trying to cast a spell of some sort, but seems cut off from the source of her powers. Dobbs stands there puffing away, seemingly confused by the interruption. Panic! Tables are upturned in the mad dash for the stairs, the fire escape, the decorative ropes strung across the road holding banners. More of these strange beings pour out of the marble: cubes and pyramids, led by an octahedron, its top half white, the bottom blue. “Stop running. Remain calm. We have your leaders. Do you not understand? Why do you not listen?” says the icosahedron. “Will you listen to force?” The cubes and pyramids advance slowly and methodically on their spindly legs, their spears and swords in their spindly arms. They pass through the shimmering screen of force the surrounds the marble and onto the roof.   --- Round One (?) Y’all have the initiative if you want it, because these things are slow and deliberate as hell. Right now, the three pyramids and two cubes are at the edge of the roof, in front of the octahedron, and are advancing. The icosahedron is standing at the edge of the door to the marble, flanked by the dodecahedron. Both Stone and Dobbs are being floated into the marble. The Pyramids have 16 AC (10 Touch, 14 CMD) and 13 HP. They wield Longspears The Cubes have 17 AC (10 Touch, 15 CMD) and 23 HP. They wield Longswords The Octahedron has 18 AC (10 Touch, 15 CMD), and 25 HP. It wields a Mace. I’m not super worried about mapping things out right now, because you’re far enough away, they’re pretty slow, and with everyone running for their lives you’re far from the first thing on their minds. They won’t make a beeline for you if you don’t attack, but they will make their way over eventually. What do you do?
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Mar 30, 2015 06:52
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Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart Even as the countdown reaches its climax, Sir Ribart is already urging Ribart Jr. towards the approaching marble. "You shan't find me unprepared, Alligator Chieftan...!" he vows, weaving expertly through the crowd. Well, to be honest, Ribart Jr. is doing most of the work: those civilians who don't automatically jump out of the way are unceremoniously shouldered aside by the muscular young dinosaur. The conveyance sets down, and a series of... polyhedrons? Make their appearance, and their pronouncements. Sir Ribart gapes, tongue hitting the floor in shock. "By Ribart...!" he gasps. "Invaders... and they have captured my hosts!" His bulging eyes narrow. "Well, never let it be said that Ribart is anything but committed to its allies. Now is the time for..." Sir Ribart pauses, reaching towards his swordbelt with eager fingers-- "DIPLOMACY!" he booms, voice filling the air. His hand closes on a swamp reed, which he brought for the traditional Ribartan New Years Reed Whack, and he holds it up before him. "I SAY, sirs!" he calls, still in that tremendous voice. "You appear to have misjudged your timing, or perhaps misread the atmosphere! This is a time of celebration, not consternation." The mogogol leans forward, voice earnest. "You are being very rude. Pray unhand our hosts, and take up a flute of champagne instead. Join our revels!" To demonstrate how much fun everyone is having, he stuffs the reed into his mouth and swallows it whole, letting out a tremendous belch half a moment later. Sir Ribart glances to the side, hoping to see a bard nearby. The world should know of how well he's doing here. Sir Ribart is fairly certain that he is nailing this. He returns his expectant attention to the polyhedrons. Ribartan Diplomacy: 1d20+7 26
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Mar 30, 2015 08:18
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Tristan Pierrot As the ominous sphere descends and legions of highly aggressive dice approach, Tristan, deciding he may as well have a little fun if the world is about to end, sweeps his cloak in front of him exchanging his nobleman disguise with his regular street clothes, which he'd stored in the robe just in case. He cackled with glee unto a light bout of madness as he revealed his deception to his retinue, "It's me, Tristan! It's me, Tristan! It was me! All along! You all bought it, you all bought it hook, line, and sinker! You all bought it! Every drat one of you were made fools of!" Rather than continue his speech, he decided to get while the getting was good, and moved from his stunned audience into a nearby crowd of panicking civilians, into which he promptly vanished. (26 to hide until the situation becomes more clear. Note that due to Face in the Crowd, Perception checks to notice Tristan are at -4, as he is presently concealing himself in a crowd. Should the crowd disperse to less than eight people within 30 feet, the penalty drops to -2 as long as at least two other people are nearby, and from there it just goes away.)
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Mar 30, 2015 09:59
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Socrates "Socks" Pillarseeker Knowledge Planes: 1d20+13 18 What form of axiomatic things are these? Also Ready an Action to Socks doesn't react much, simply leaning back to get a clear look at the proceedings. Thoughts tumble, aligning. No more than a moment passes, and then the Frog Prince steps forward. At this point Socks begins to smile, thoughts rueful. "Nic, you must be laughing at us from that bunker. I bet she wishes she'd hired the actors now, but even you wouldn't have predicted this." Anias fucked around with this message at 14:21 on Mar 30, 2015 |
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Mar 30, 2015 14:19
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Zuza Kolar At first she thinks it's part of the celebration, and she smiles, eager to see what absurdity had been cooked up for this year. She isn't surprised when fear begins to creep into the crowd. After all, people fear pretty much everything, even fancy New Year's celebrations. But when the fear begins to shift to terror, the smile falls away and gives way to puzzlement. The gears in her head turn and turn, trying to make sense of this strange turn of events. It isn't much good; Zuza always finds that if she doesn't get it at once, she probably never will. Unless, of course, something changes. Luckily, something does. The orb opens and something A creature. Alive, definitely. steps out and speaks, Sapient. Clear declaration of intent to use force. No questions; a pity. sending the crowd into a panic. It speaks again Declaration of imminent subjugation. and several others advance. Armed. Hostile. Zuza has never seen anything like it. No foe she's ever faced has been a pyramid with legs. It's a new problem, begging for a solution. She pushes off the balustrade and slips into a wide-legged stance. She breathes in deeply, and when she breathes out, the air is just a little hotter than it should be. Her eyes narrow and the smile returns, splitting her mouth into a toothy, reptilian grin. She fixes her eyes on the advancing shapes and speaks in a loud, clear voice only faintly tinged with the bubbling excitement that's causing her to bob up and down in anticipation. "I will listen to force!" ----------------- Move action to Martial Flexibility into Dragon Style, Swift to enter Dragon stance, Standard to ready 5-foot stepping forward and kicking the poo poo out of the first dice that comes close enough and looks at her funny. Using Power Attack, roll for the attack will be at +8 to hit, 1d6+11 damage. ----------------- TN Human Brawler (Steel-breaker), Level 3, Init +4, HP 31/31, Speed 30ft. AC 18, Touch 12, Flat-footed 16, CMD 20 (23 vs. Trip and Grapple, 24 vs. Sunder), Fort +6, Ref +5, Will +3, CMB 8, Base Attack Bonus 3 (+5 Str) Abilities Str 20, Dex 14, Con 16, Int 10, Wis 14, Cha 5 Conditions None Special Abilities Martial Flexibility 3/4 Ongoing effects Martial Flexibility: Dragon Style (10 rounds) Terrorforge fucked around with this message at 23:10 on Mar 30, 2015 |
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Mar 30, 2015 18:31
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Bella Liambe Bella grumbles, then scans the crowd. In a panic, injury is inevitable, people just tripping and falling, possibly even getting trampled in the mad rush. She identifies a handful of the tougher scrapes and winds up her healing field, a soft yet insistent mental invitation pressing in on them. She spots the first attacker, and includes her, and anyone else who seems to be leading the attack or otherwise on the verge of getting injured. Standard action to join up to seven other people into the collective, all voluntarily. Zuza, and then four random injured people and two other random attackers (or however many of each are available). Range on the collective is 130'.
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Apr 1, 2015 05:35
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Soundtrack Sir Ribart The giant icosahedron stares at the strange little frog man and his gesture. The pyramids and cubes stop moving. “Have we been misinformed? This is the leader of this community? This is why it is speaking for the assembly?” it says to no one in particular. “The records indicate that the two in the capture spheres are the highest authority in the city,” says the dodecahedron on the left. “There are no records of the mounted silica eating amphibian,” says the one on the right. “And yet it speaks for the assembly?!” says the icosahedron. “Our timing and entry through the atmosphere were perfectly executed. What is this “very rude” you speak of, representative?” Looks like it's listening to you! Tristan “drat, I cannot believe he’s--!” “He had you fooled, JR!” “He had us all fooled, King.” “Not me, JR! I put all my gold in the sock under my bed, where not only is it safe, it’s useful for fighting off anyone who might try to steal it.” “You might need it, if these invaders keep advancing, King!” Women clutch their pearls and monocles fall into glasses of champagne. You are totally lost in the crowd. You might even let out a whoop of surprise and shock to lend to the effect, if you felt inclined. Even if Sir Ribbart is parlaying with the leader, that’s not stopping the panic. But his smooth talking does seem to have them confused. You've seen that look on the face of a thousand overconfident marks before. Despite all your efforts to blend in, it feels like there’s something asking to be in your head, some friendly presence, that’d would heal you if you were injured. Socks You’ve read about these things before. The Modrons are a strange race of beings who rule the other side of the planet. They are completely lawful and orderly, without any particular inclination towards good or evil. Everything they do has a structure, a form, a proper method that has been perfected over generations and generations of refinement, and now that they have achieved perfection they will not accept that any method but their own is the correct one. They rule the societies there with a velvet fist in an iron glove. Their god, Sire, is either a perfect sphere or a shape with infinite sides (if there is a difference), and thinks thoughts so flawless and unchanging that the world and everything in it are already a part of them, but he is so perfect that to think or communicate would be to change from his perfect state, and therefore he floats there doing nothing at all. Just as you’re getting ready to rappel down and book it, a little frog man starts... talking to them? And they’re listening?! Zuza Just as you’re about to batter one of the huge pyramids, it stops moving completely, like a tin toy whose spring has run down. Studying it, you can tell that these things are much too top heavy, the legs far too spindly for such a high center of gravity. Adding a lot of extra legs to the bottom to keep it from toppling over was a great idea, but one good blow in the right place might send it crashing down with immense difficulty getting back to its feet. You’re welcome to still smash it, if you like, but there’s a little froggy guy mounted on a dinosaur talking to their leader, and who seems to be the cause of the soldier's arrested movement. You also feel a pleasant mental sensation offer to link its way into your head, offering to heal you. Perhaps it’s from the holy woman over there? Bella You get seven folks roped into your mental web without trouble. The injured are: Harriet Cooper, a wealthy dowager who twisted her ankle and is being helped up by her nephew and his millionaire guardian; Moroboshi, the tavern owner who was thoroughly stomped by everyone in the initial dash towards the stairs; Pongo Twistleton, a harried young gnome here visiting his Uncle Fred, who no one saw in the fracas; Pemulis, a hot shot tennis player with a beanie hat perched between his horns, who was knocked into a table and seems to be having trouble with his right knee. As for combatants, you connect with Zuza if she wants it; Sir Pynchon of Boonville, a dashing knight famous for never removing his helmet in public; and perhaps a weird third presence you can’t quite get a good fix on. You can’t tell if he (she?) is injured or not, but they’re definitely in the crowd, and might get involved. --- The Modrons seem to have stopped their attack for the moment, but it’s still pretty tense and the panic hasn’t subsided one bit! What do you do? The Modrons will take their turn on the 4th, Saturday evening. Toph Bei Fong fucked around with this message at 05:51 on Apr 2, 2015 |
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Apr 2, 2015 05:48
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Tristan Pierrot As Tristan observes the frog talking to the invaders, and their reactions, he begins reasoning out their behavior, one of his greatest assets. They clearly don't seem to understand emotions, or anything deviating from pure logic. Any such departure from cold rationality appears to offend them, if such a word can be applied to emotionless beings, and they will move to destroy it. It clicks, and Tristan realizes, these berks are the ultimate marks. Simply twist their own logic against them and they'll at the very least be set back enough to give the city a chance. He may not normally be one to do things openly, but this time, Tristan has a feeling the guards will forgive his presence. He swiftly bursts from the crowd, undisguised, and takes a place next to the large amphibian, giving a look that he hopes he construes as telling him to play along. "I must apologize for my friend, here, he's a little out of sorts. The two of us are Deputy Leaders, authorized to speak for the people should Mayor Dobbs be removed. Now, if you wish to impose your rule, I suppose that would be fine, however, there's just one little thing." Tristan begins his grand con, "You see, you certainly seem to be creatures of pure logic, but, we have no proof that that is the case. So, perhaps you could agree to demonstrate your flawless reasoning with an exchange of logic problems." He begins gesturing to each of the people who look reasonably prominent on the roof, including Zuza, Socks, Ribart, Bella, Moroboshi, and Sir Pynchon. "Those individuals and I make up the Deputy Leader Council, and each of us shall pose one question. When you solve one of our problems, you will ask us to solve a logic problem of your own, and should any of us fail to answer correctly, you may take us along with Dobbs and Stone. Should you solve our logic problems, we will accept you as supremely logical beings, and we will endeavor to calm the rest of the townspeople. But, if you cannot, and we instead solve all of your logic problems, you must then conclude that our logic is superior, but I'm sure that will not be the case. Your logic is flawless, is it not?" (26 to Bluff the Modrons into a riddling contest. Face in the Crowd applies to Sense Motive, so their attempt will be at -2 or -4, depending on how many people are within thirty feet. I love urban campaigns.)
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Apr 2, 2015 07:34
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Nijena Cronwier Nijena arrives at the scene of interesting events at a time that could politely be called fashionably late. She'd been in the wrong end of the room when the kindergarten geometry lesson had invaded, and ended up missing the introductions. Making a half-hearted effort of looking as inconspicuous as one can while carrying a large gilded gong, she quickly points a finger at him and whispers into his ear from half the roof away. "Do you think they'll acknowledge any logic other than their as logical, even if the bullshit seems otherwise well-polished?" Sorry I'm late. Got delayed on the way. Using a cantrip to pester Tristan.
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Apr 3, 2015 15:25
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Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart Sir Ribart rubs at his chin while the shapes reply, eyes narrowing in thought. One can almost see the gears trying desperately to grind behind his jet black pupils. "Well, we are having a celebration, you see..." he begins, before Tristan bursts in and delivers what, to Sir Ribart's ears, sounds like the set-up of a joke. He turns towards the flamboyant man, eyes widening again, and just barely notes the look. It takes a moment, but Sir Ribart is reminded of the times he has had to outwit the Alligator Chief of the Dinosaur King with his superior intellect. A slow wink of the eye on the side of his head facing away from the icosahedron is the frog's reply. "Indeed, sirs. I, Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart, duly representing Ribart to this city, am naturally the next highest ranking individual. Our word carries such weight, and you would do well to demonstrate to us the superiority of your logic." Aid Another (Bluff): 1d20+7 18 (+2 to Tristan's Bluff check.)
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Apr 3, 2015 18:15
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Socrates "Socks" Pillarseeker Detect Evil In case of smiting, although I am assuming they're LN. Socks nods slowly, keeping his expression calm. "Indeed. We have a collapsible modular leadership structure for just such disruptions." Anias fucked around with this message at 21:30 on Apr 3, 2015 |
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Apr 3, 2015 20:49
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Bella Bella raises an eyebrow, a weird iridescent glimmer and low, soft hum strumming and fading around her, then steps forward. "Yes. I was highly placed in the selection process for the position of that lady you've captured there. In fact, my chances were roughly equal with hers, it was only a quirk of fate that she was selected instead. Additionally, I am a sophist, one of those responsible for teaching the arts of logic, reason, and argument in this community." Standard 3pp on natural healing (1pp base, 1pp augment to 6 hp, 1pp augment to target Harriet), 12 hp total, divide equally among the four injured for 3 hp healed each, free action to break the connection with them, move to step forward closer (?). Are there more injured? If so, and if we slip into no longer tracking rounds, will repeat the process a few more times (Standard establish collective, Standard natural healing), spending 6 more pp to heal 24 hp, divided into 2-3 hp chunks over around 10 more injured. 17/20 pp currently.
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Apr 3, 2015 22:33
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Zuza Kolar Just as the thing is just close enough, every fibre in Zuza's body tenses, her predatory grin turns almost feral and she lunges, nearly falling flat on the floor trying to reach a foe that's stopped abruptly just out of range. Huh? She stands there, blinking and staring in a confused daze. The pyramid is just standing there, in all its structurally unstable glory. It sure seemed inclined to fight just a moment, so what gives? She scans the rooftop and finds the weird little diplomatic delegation parlaying with the invaders. Oh darn it, did she misinterpret the situation? Maybe it's some kind of parade? Who is that guy, anyway? He seems to be up to something, and is hopefully lying about the Deputy Leader Council thing because otherwise she's been missing a lot of meetings. Either way, this mess is getting real complicated. Better ask for clarification before she she does anything embarassing. Zuza raises her hand like a perturbed schoolgirl. "Uhm, excuse me Mr. Your Deputiness, uh, ma'am, sir." One of those has to be right. "Are we having a fight or nah?" Terrorforge fucked around with this message at 18:28 on Apr 6, 2015 |
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Apr 6, 2015 10:53
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(Sorry about the delay, y'all, had to serve out some time in cat jail) --- Soundtrack The icosahedron seems to lean back from Tristan’s speech, augmented by comments from the others. “Is this the law of the land? Are these the deputy council representative?” says the icosahedron. “No record exists of a deputy leader council,” says the dodecahedron on the right. “No record exists of a contest of logic puzzles to determine leadership. Such a thing contradicts the nature of the area,” says the one of the left. “And yet it is the law of the land?! How were we not informed? This was to be a lawful takeover, and we are not informed?” says the icosahedron, visibly vibrating with anger. “There are no records. We cannot be blamed,” says the one on the left. “The antipodeans are poor record keepers,” says the one on the right. “Ask your question creature, then we will ask one of our own,” says the icosahedron. “This is a trap, leader,” says the one on the right. “We can defeat them with the logic of our ways,” says the one on the left. “Are you indicating that we are no correct?” “No, but the creatures will try to trap us.” “If it is the law of the land, then we must abide by it,” says the icosahedron. “Just as they conquer by the capture and deposition of leaders. They cannot be smarter than we are. Ask your questions.” It takes a moment to realize that its speaking to y'all again. The panic and terror have turned into stunned confusion as the assembled crowd gathers at a safe distance to watch the heroes, err... the deputy town council, face off against the invaders in their logic contest. Bookies are already taking wagers, food and drinks are being passed out again... the whole environment seems closer to a boxing match than a battle for the city's survival! --- Your bluff seems to be working, they're totally taken in! Well, except for that one dodecahedron, but the leader doesn't seem to be listening to it. Aunt Harriet is up and running, thanks to Bella's help. Bruce and Dick see her out the door, then quickly skedattle off... somewhere... leaving her in the butler’s care. The modrons aren’t pinging evil as far as detect evil is concerned. We're out of combat rounds for the moment, unless people start swinging. The modrons will start answering and responding with their own puzzles on the evening of the 8th.
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Apr 6, 2015 15:45
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Tristan Pierrot Tristan gathers together the rest of the "Deputy Leader Council", to present an organized front. Before presenting themselves to the modrons, he gives them all a little pep talk, of sorts. "All right, I think I got these berks figured out, just hit 'em with your best riddles. I'll go last, I got a special one planned that's sure to give 'em the laugh. Oh, and seeing as we've not been introduced, Tristan Pierrot, at your service, folks." The con man gives the group a knowing grin. "Now, let's save our city." (As a reminder, the "Deputy Leader Council", as Tristan bluffed it, is made up of the PCs, Sir Pynchon, and Moroboshi. Figured having a couple NPCs would be useful if someone needs to be made an example of.)
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Apr 6, 2015 17:23
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Bella Liambe "This isn't going to work. They seem to be under the impression that disabling and capturing our leaders means they've conquered us, when there are already laws of succession. We should determine their actual long-term goals, make sure they wouldn't actually be willing to do it, and then inform them they'd essentially have to kill everyone in town to 'lawfully' take power. I have a feeling they're going to have some very pointed and odd opinions about what 'logic' is, and ultimately they're still the ones with the guns and power over the definition." She sniffs. "Also, Bella Liambe, Healer of Eris. We need to be careful around these things, they don't seem to actually care about collateral damage."
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Apr 6, 2015 17:41
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Tristan Pierrot Tristan shakes his head, "No, no, miss, think of it. They're already doubting their authority. Even if we don't drive them entirely from the city, we can throw them into enough disorder to mount an effective defense. As they're trying to puzzle out my little logical trap, they'll be wide open for us to strike. Believe me, if there's one thing I know, it's manipulating organizational weaknesses. Or did the Church of Eris not inform you of the time I convinced them to give me half their coffers 'to shake up the status quo'? Just discover the rules by which a target operates, and you'll never lack for leverage." Tristan didn't mind sharing this basic trade secret of his, no group or person can truly discard all rules the abide by, and so they will always be vulnerable to those tactics which exploit them. EclecticTastes fucked around with this message at 21:36 on Apr 6, 2015 |
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Apr 6, 2015 21:22
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Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart Sir Ribart has already identified himself half a dozen times by now, but far be it from him to pass up an opportunity to say his own name. "Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart, at your service," he proclaims, bowing from his saddle to the gathered 'deputies.' "Any ploy of ours which gives the city's militia time to gather is a worthy cause, I would say, regardless of its eventual efficacy." He pauses, looking down at a hand clenched into a fist for a moment. "I am afraid that riddles are not... popular in Ribart. Though I am sure that any I devise will be of a superior quality nonetheless."
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Apr 7, 2015 00:52
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Soundtrack While you all converse, Moroboshi steps up, tying a headband with a rising sun around his forehead and ginning up his courage. The crowd cheers! His wife waves a white kerchief from the crowd. “Darling! Do your best!” “Alright you silly shapes, try this one on for size! A horse is on a 24 foot chain and wants an apple that is 26 feet away. How can the horse get to the apple?” The icosahedron looks at the dodecahedron on the left, then the right. “A horse?” “Four legged creature used for transport, often by farmers. They have them in the colonies and on the plantations,” says the one on the right. “How could the horse get an apple out of a tree if the apple is 26 feet up? Horses cannot jump that high,” says the one on the left. “The puzzle is illogical.” Moroboshi smiles smugly, arms akimbo, and lets out a laugh. “It is not. The puzzle does not state that the apple is in a tree. It could be on the ground,” says the icosahedron. “Nor does it state that the chain is attached to anything. The horse could simply walk the additional two feet and eat the apple, as the chain is not secured.” Moroboshi’s face falls. The crowd boos. His wife floats over and ushers his slumped frame away. “Well King, we’ve just seen the first of the Deputy Leader Council lose in their logic contest. What will happen next?” “JR, I think the real question is, where are those apples Moroboshi was talking about. I’m hungry!” “How can you think of food at a time like this?” “I'm going to have to get in better shape, if the DLC keeps asking riddles like that!” The icosahedron looms, and narrows its eyes at the party. It speaks in a sombre, serious tone, as if delivering a eulogy: “Why shouldn’t you do arithmetic in the jungle?” How do you respond?
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Apr 9, 2015 04:23
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Bella Liambe "The jungle is a fairly dangerous setting that requires your full attention. Humans are able to make quick estimates of quantity and size which will suffice for all reasonable situations one might otherwise think to use arithmetic for in such a locale, particularly including hunting and the construction of simple structures. Several indigenous jungle peoples are actually known of that do not have words for large numbers or the cultural institution of arithmetic." Bella's eyes narrow. "Before we progress, a clarification. Puns are not a suitable base for logic puzzles."
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Apr 9, 2015 05:23
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Socrates "Socks" Pillarseeker "Terrible. Four plus Four equals Eight punning ate, a thing to be avoided in the wilderness. Puns." "As you are so fond of math, let me offer a slightly more involved puzzle." "Assume for convenience, that there are only Five dimensions in our observed universe. This bound can of course be expanded, but we have time limits and five dimensional thought should be sufficiently interesting while allowing spectators a chance to envision the problem. Assume also that all objects observed in the trivial 3 dimensions are in fact projections performed in sequence of 5d objects onto 4d onto 3d. Describe one of your companion's 5th dimensional shape, assuming that their current appearance is merely a projection of a 4 dimensional projection onto 3 dimensions. Feel free to take your time, as I must report at least one of you for lawlessness, and that formwork requires my attention presently. If an answer occurs to you, feel free to present it to Mnsr Pierrot." Socks smiles a moment, nodding congenially at Pierrot, then returns to the wall and pulls a sheet of paper from the pack and begins casually folding. Answer provided in case you choose to have them answer correctlyA tetrahedron is a 3 dimensional projection of a 5-simplex. Holding two of the dimensions static, you can translate the projected tetrahedron about the 3-space. This is either -very easy- for creatures based in rigidly structured rules to cope with, or -very hard- depending on how you built their rules. Either way should provide more information for Pierott's Penultimate Puzzler. Anias fucked around with this message at 06:09 on Apr 9, 2015 |
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Apr 9, 2015 06:06
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Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart "Performing arithmetic in the jungle-- it is to laugh! If you distract yourself with such frivolity, the dinosaurs shall surely eat you." When the others solve the actual puzzle the real way, Sir Ribart is quick to add, "Indeed, you shall be... ate! Ha-hah!" Sir Ribart does not get it, but continues to pretend like he does. "An amateur effort at best."
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Apr 10, 2015 21:06
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Soundtrack “They don’t like puns?” says the icosahedron, incredulously. “They do not believe that pun based riddles are fair,” says the dodecahedron on the left. “They understand them just fine, yet seem to find them distasteful,” says the one on the right. “There is nothing in the literature or laws about this. Many of their books are full of them. They are a delight for the children.” “And yet they do not believe them to be fair,” says the one on the left. “They do not understand us very well.” “No, it is written in The Books that the play on words is the most superior form of logical riddle, and yet they ask us simple mathematics problems.” “The word ‘riddle’ does not seem to have a different meaning on this side of the sphere, else we would have traded direct facts.” “Enough,” says the icosahedron. “If they wish no puns, so be it. If they will alter the rules, we will abide by their treachery for now to show the correctness of our ways. They will receive what they are asking for, for better or worse. Assuming incorrectly that there are only 5 dimensions in the universe, the answer is a tetrahedron.” It seems to take in air, closing its eyes for a moment, then begins to speak: “I despise anything that cannot be used as a bridge. “Everything, that is worth writing an ode to, would be a welcome gift to me. “A rainbow will not bear the weight of a wheelbarrow. “Whatever can be used as a bridge will bear the weight of a wheelbarrow. “I would not take, as a gift, a thing that I despise. “What conclusion is reached?” --- Those with sufficient Knowledge: Religion or Knowledge: Planes, might recognize "The Books" to which the dodecahedron referred. The Modrons maintain a written “best practices” archive, detailing how to perform every possible action in the best possible way, and which they use to educate the other species under their domain. These holy volumes, Things To Do, begin with volume 1, Dying, section 1, Death Through Inaction, and proceed through eating, milking a cow, clothing one’s self, building a house, sitting down, raising a family, reading this book, etc. with various modifications for the height, weight, gender, sex, number of limbs, tangibility, existence, etc. of the reader. It is unknown if any non-Modron has actually finished reading all the volumes. Toph Bei Fong fucked around with this message at 05:28 on Apr 27, 2015 |
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Apr 27, 2015 05:25
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Socrates "Socks" Pillarseeker "Curious. Does your premise hold if I remove, oh of course. How strange must light be for you. Although I suppose that explains book 713 on observation and causation. Interesting." Socrates remains urbane, then settles down a moment to finish his drink. His hands moving idly along the rim, keen observers will note some system of computation, but it's not clear what exactly he's computing. I recognized the problem, so I'll let someone else go, if we need to move the scene along, prod socrates and you can get a distracted answer out of him. You don't even need to wait for me to post it, just pretend he mumbled it offhandedly and then went back to fiddling with a hastily procured napkin. Solution, click only if stumpedRainbows are not worth writing odes to.
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Apr 27, 2015 07:35
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Zuza Kolar Zuza has been wearing a frown of consternation throughout the entire ordeal, making no sound but the occasional thoughtful hum as she tries to move her mind through the labyrinth of words and plans. She picked up the notion that this is supposed to be a clever plan when it was first introduced, but that knowledge has since become one of the many tragic victims of her futile quest to comprehend a single goddamn word of what Socks said. “What conclusion is reached?” That's not even a riddle. Zuza stares into the modron's face and delivers her conclusion with a matter-of-fact deadpan. "You're picky and obsessed with bridges," she says, idly scratching the side of her nose. Then, as she keeps staring at this invasion of building blocks, another question pops into her head. "What are you guys supposed to be, anyway?"
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Apr 29, 2015 19:38
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Bella Liambe Bella shrugs. "A rainbow is not worth writing an ode to, by those statements." She sniffs. "Riddles are generally taken to involve 'lateral' or not strictly logical thinking, or a questioning of assumptions. As an example, and not as my own entry, there is the riddle 'a man and his son are caught within the range of a stray fireball. The man
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Apr 30, 2015 07:16
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Sir Ribart of Ribart, Champion of Ribart "Indeed, obviously," Sir Ribart adds, puffing out his throat. "I am beginning to form the opinion that you are not masters of riddle at all, but rather masters of... "he pauses, trying to think of a suitably stinging insult which also rhymes. The pause stretches. Sir Ribart clears his throat, opens his mouth, hesitates, closes his mouth again. Silence. "Err... Masters of... piddle!" he concludes, triumphantly.
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May 1, 2015 22:13
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Tristan Pierrot Tristan remains silent, only one person needs to give an answer to the riddle to pass, and Tristan's biding his time until his turn to ask arrives, once the others have put forth their own riddles to get the marks sufficiently invested. He studies his foes carefully, looking for tells, further behavioral patterns he can exploit. However, he doesn't get much, they're just too alien for him to get more than the most obvious clues from. Fortunately, his trump card is anything but subtle. (Sense Motive, didn't do so hot.)
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May 1, 2015 23:17
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“What... are we supposed to be?” asks the one on the left, incredulously. “Modrons, of course,” says the icosahedron, before the two can get into it. “If we were intended to be anything but, we would be it.” “But they wish for lateral thinking?” says the one on the right. “And in asking for it, they attempt to trick us into thinking laterally and missing the answer which is in front of us.” It seems to shake with anger, its eyes spinning like marbles, before settling down and returning the odd, too placid calm. “The sphere is the most perfect shape, having all sides and no sides. This is why they are given to children to play with, that they may learn of the sphere’s greatness. How can you throw a sphere, no matter how hard, yet always have it return to you, even if it does not ricochet off a surface? There is no string attached to the sphere, and no one else catches or tosses it back to you.” --- Sorry about the delays on these, I am terrible with logic puzzles
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May 8, 2015 16:18
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Socrates "Socks" Pillarseeker "If you are meant to be Modrons, then obviously you are not meant to rule. Modrons are creatures of order, they follow rules, they do not make them. Creation requires change. Similarly, your assumption of a perfect sphere's existence is incorrect. There are no truly perfect spheres. The Wizard Planck did some fine work in that area, oh, a hundred years ago or so." He continues to ruminate upon the glass. "Gravity could provide the required path, or many simple conjurations. Of course if you have returned to puns, then individual named NoOneElse catches, but you surely have not returned to puns." He sighs, leaning back to look at the sky, readying himself for the inevitable conflict when the two sides realize there is no arbiter. "I believe it is our turn for a riddle." Finish them Tristan
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May 12, 2015 14:06
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Tristan Pierrot Tristan adjusts his collar as he moves to the center of the group. Hopefully their more pointed digressions won't distract the Modrons too much. If there's one thing Tristan knows, it's how to judge a potential mark. These are beings of logic, certainly, but more importantly, they are beings. No amount of outthinking or verbal slight-of-hand could ever convince them that they might be wrong, they'd just perform ever more convoluted mental acrobatics to keep pace, like any sentient being would. While normally a man of subtlety, Tristan knows when brute force is required, and it just so happened that Tristan found himself, for once, heavily armed in this instance. "This riddle was shared with me by a half-blind fortuneteller in an alleyway that, upon my return, was no longer there. She told me that countless men have died for lack of an answer, at the hands of a being more terrible than our ken permits us to conceive. Clearly, though, if your logic is flawless, you should easily come to a perfect consensus on this: 'What can change the nature of a man?'" (I do hope I didn't raise expectations too high with this, but the opportunity was too good to pass up, given the whole "homage to late-nineties D&D" motif. Tristan, by virtue of not being The Nameless One, does not have an answer, but his goal is to either cause the Modrons to sort of "short out" due to too much abstract thinking, or induce such severe infighting among the Modrons over the objectively correct answer that the invasion is called off, or at least delayed long enough to prepare a more effective resistance. He doesn't know enough about extraplanar stuff to know about Rogue Modrons, but I could see that happening, too. Figure that calls for a Bluff check, so hopefully thirty will be enough.)
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May 12, 2015 14:58
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