The talented Parum, another treasured Desdemona with ruddy blue curls, solidified near Kyra, the priestess of Chauntea, whilst illicit bedlam fizzed beneath the old man’s hideous rictus. Then and there, the arithmetic of a sloshed Escher inaugurated a visual paradox. The parallax error of his foggy right pupil was unsettling, as his Tethyrian nostrils began to flare and exude plasma. The drops of blood contrasted the girls’ tresses, with such lively, but hairy hues. Torus endured the terrifying sight, slowly stomaching the draconic reality. Or was his clouded strabismus distorting his stifling perception of the contorted visage, empowering bliss by sheer ignorance? A voice finally, as if ending a Spenserian sonnet, ricocheted upon his cognizance as he gazed upon the bard, [b][color=ed1c24]“She will be your demise. Not I.”[/color][/b] [hider=Flashback - Gift of Family] [hr]Muttering to himself, the ancient druid ambled to the heart of Baldur’s Gate. [i][color=00aeef]“Promises, promises,”[/color][/i] he snarled at the massive walls, a cocoon later to give birth to retribution with years to come. Or maybe to an invisible, but omnipresent Garyx who harvested indignant clout to alter, destroy, and cleanse fate with spiritual fire. This was his stained existence, from the ruins of Luskan, a life occupied with contracts and wishes. He imagined in someone else’s world, a realm without god or devils, a sparkle of such substance would be innocent and beautiful. Not so for the pirate. He kept vows because debt always called his bluff. Thus, for the same motivation, so many hopes were kept at bay, churning for a future summer, free of obligations and full of aspirations. At the second stop after the carriage line, a woman with a ginger mane, dewy eyes and long legs sprawled onto the cobbled road. She donned an overcoat above her dour green dress, in preparation of the heralding thunder clouds and imminent melting rain. Torus noticed her but paid her no mind. She saw him, but her lashes betrayed no hint of recognition. A throng was about at this hour of the night. Teenage punks going home late from sniffing minced Goldencup at their friends’ houses. Short-order cooks coming off the mid-shift. Machiavellian lawyers who put in long hours. Torus didn’t know any of the mob. A man in a cowl distracted by the drizzle bumped the druid’s arthritic knee and squirmed a remark, [color=fff200]“Sorry, old man.”[/color] Torus offered a half-hearted retort, [i][color=00aeef]“Promises, promises.”[/color][/i] The suit lent the elder a curious look that expressed a lack of comprehension, but then about-faced, returning to his physical conversation with the elements. The Mezro in the minotaur hide was obviously drunk or senile. Just another nut in the Wide, the large open marketplace that dominated the northeast portion of this walled labyrinth. Enduring a statuesque position while tracking the female, his left palm wrapped around an adjacent railing like a branch that had grown around an intruding fence post. His right hand maintained within his burrowed pocket, except for the dozen times he hatched it out to raise a flask to his cyanotic lips. At[i] High Hall[/i], the woman, with the dewy eyes and long legs, turned the corner. Torus departed from his Parkinsonian hibernation, following, about a hundred steps behind her, sipping from his ill-prepped canteen, as if he remembered his place in the choreography of a dance routine. She twisted left at the [i]Blushing Mermaid[/i], left again at [i]Wyrm’s Crossing[/i] and then past the [i]Slurping Sturgeon[/i]. The reject of Chult had curved on Fifth, circled south again, past the outskirts of the [i]Seatower of Balduran[/i] and then right beyond [i]Omduil’s Manor[/i]. The old man wanted her to have ample time. When he turned onto Seventh, no one was there. It was too arctic to be exposed for long, this season of the year, but the pirate always reveled in his unsuspecting prey. The bourbon in his flagon kept him warm, and he smoked a crafty pipe, discarded a few months ago in a pawn shop, clutching the cancer wand between his stubby digits, feeling its heat through his cutoff gloves. Probably a long enough tempo, he reasoned, and took a few strides down the block. The brownstone he lingered in front of was stricken with taciturn light, only a few barred windows displaying any clue of the coming holidays. Presently, a couple dressed in adventurers’ gear barreled out the front door, walking a pale-eyed Weimaraner. The Tethyrian grabbed the Pandoran knob of the slum before it closed and waded past the entry, inside. He found the foyer damnably humid. 3E. His mind stuttered while his boots took the stairs. As he jetted to the landing pad on the third floor, Torus checked his auburn wool jacket. There, inside, he felt the length of a polished, sculpted rowan. Consistently carried, to apotropaically protect against bad luck and malevolence. The epiphytic [i]Sorbus aucuparia[/i] got the job done in these circumstances. He squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, as if the thought pained him; the three foot club always helped fulfill oaths. Torus rapped on the door. The dewy-eyed woman answered, though the entry was chained. She had already changed her attire from her workday drab into slouchy undergarments. Red light emanated from the room behind her, the candles spilling its content, unheeded, awaiting her return. For a split second, the red head face looked confused. Then an appreciative look of acknowledgment washed over her features. [color=fff200]“Uncle Torus?”[/color] she asked. [b][color=ed1c24]“That’s right, my dear,”[/color][/b] the old man replied. [b][color=ed1c24]“I’ve brought your present. May I come in?”[/color][/b][hr][/hider] The Medusa blessed with cerulean tendrils, full of increasing daring and gallantry, continued her song, digesting the ostentatious squad about her. In a brief conceptual burp, more men piled onto the battlement, drowning the two heroines. Armed with spears, knocked arrows, and some with slingshots, poised to do their sacrificial part. As he impulsively grasped to his side, all his possessions within the absent pirate’s net including his orb, staff, and Sylvan spell tome, were apparently left inside the citadel, in his hurried haste to tend to this impenetrable threat. The raven quickly landed and nestled on the jarred Torus, overcoming its own fleeting petrification. The pirate consequently snorted to Brannor, as Orchid seemed beyond earshot, as he stirred to a remote corner on the rampart, not to attract devastation, to those around, from his heaved icicle, moments earlier. The half-orc beamed. [color=a2d39c]"Aaaargh! Coward!"[/color] The pirate swiveled his chin in dismay, pivoting to the hopeful paladin. There was no extraneous need to further add to the rubicund flesh of the monstrosity’s recent victims. [i][color=00aeef]"Suggestions, lad?”[/color][/i] his tongue ring inquired the golden eyes. He attempted to recollect the environment from his familiar’s previous aerial rounds in conjunction with his own observations. An ensuing frustrated snarl soon paralleled a magical construct that erupted from two tethered waterskins on the druid’s sash near his sheathed seashell conch horn; the third remained sealed, for now. Twenty pounds of acquatic shingles speedily erected into a frozen silver parasol over the 56 inched dilapidated human frame, his shield and his avian companion who roosted on his shoulder. Endeavors to provide permanent cover and camouflage, cementing itself with glacial roots into the crevices and cracks of the stoned parapet floor. All to stave off the titanic Ifrit released upon Greenest and its keep. [hider=Mechanics] Torus’ Perception of the surrounding is [url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1758]16[/url], looking specifically for any large mounds of dirt and/or pools water, to manipulate for future utility. I doubt blood can be allowed as a resource. Torus moves 30 feet away from the crowd and stands (at 4’8’’) near the wall of the ridge. Stealth = [url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1759]17[/url]. Torus’ free interact object is uncorking the waterskins. With his action, he improvises with Shape Water, to engineer a 5 foot icy umbrella grounded to the stony floor, to provide a hopeful ¾ cover due to combination of tortoise shell and frozen canopy. If [@Hekazu] permits, this would give + 5 to AC and Dexterity Saving Throws. The raven’s end of turn Wisdom Save is [url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/1757]10[/url]. Still scared, sweetie? AC: 14 + 5 = 19 HP: 7 Spell slots: 0/2 [/hider]