We need a big brute meat shield.
Just cast enlarge on Lulli. It'll be fiiiiiiine.
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Just cast enlarge on Lulli. It'll be fiiiiiiine.
Got mine posted.
Will try to finish up the mechanical sheet later today.
I know its "players choice" generally, but any preference on how to handle clothing/carried items when using Wild Shape? (e.g. naked druid or not an issue/magically merges into the creature -- assuming its not a creature that could wear the clothing)
Will try to finish up the mechanical sheet later today.
I know its "players choice" generally, but any preference on how to handle clothing/carried items when using Wild Shape? (e.g. naked druid or not an issue/magically merges into the creature -- assuming its not a creature that could wear the clothing)
Name: Grimdal "Grim" Springsky
Race: Shield Dwarf
Class: Circle of Stars Druid
Alignment: Lawful Good
Personality Traits:
- If someone is in trouble, I'm always ready to lend help.
- I'm confident in my own abilities and do what I can to instill confidence in others.
Ideal: People deserve to be treated with dignity and respect.
Bond: I protect those who cannot protect themselves.
Flaw: The people who knew me when I was young know my shameful secret, so I can never go home again.
Appearance: At 37, Grim is still in what Dwarves would consider his "teenage years." On the shorter side for a Shield Dwarf, Grim stands 1.3 meters in height (4'4"), with a broad yet still lean build that reflects his youth. He has icy blue eyes and a round face that is rather naked for a dwarf, but his beard will not start to grow for another decade at least. He had a fiery red-gold hair that was kept just off the shoulders, typically with at least one braid, which was often worn on the right side of the head. He favored simple clothing, typically just a jerkin over a plain shirt, and maintained the habit of avoiding metal armor or shields. When he spoke, he had a distinctive Dwarvish accent.
Personality: As a diminutive, "Grim" is a joke of sorts. While Grimdal is a common enough Dwarven name, "Grim" is the complete opposite of the warmth, sincerity, and sheer 40-going-on-16 energy of the young Dwarf. True to the stereotype, Grim can get lost in labors of love, being fond of manual tasks others might describe as hard work. Warm, but reserved. Quiet, yet first to offer a hand or a mug of ale. Grim might not be the most outspoken member of the group, but he is steadfast, curious, and bold. Storms may come, but the sun always rises, is Grim's attitude in times of hardship. He is confident, and that extends to being confident about the hope that he clings to. He can be serious, but grim isn't a word to describe him.
History:Born into a circle nestled within the quiet farming community of Bowshot, Grim grew up in the Sword Coast region. He tended the soil, learning how to grow medicines to sooth ailments, and looked up at the stars at night to learn how to read the stories that are written across the sky. That quiet, pastoral life took a turn when merchants, greedily seeking a vein of silver from nearby caverns, provoked a group of Drow, who then attacked the village. When others ran, Grim stood his ground. And another Dwarf had his back when he did. When the dust had cleared, together, they started the hard work of helping the people to mend both their lives and their homes. People called them the Grim Hand of Hope and the Shining Blade. Small legends, but legends all the same. At least, in their little hamlet on the Sword Coast.
There are those who say its the hope that kills you.
The Shining Blade died. And Grim put Bowshot behind him, selling his skills in reading the stars and ailing the sick for passage aboard a ship sailing over the Sea of Swords. Where was he going? What was his purpose? He looked to the stars to try and find the answers, but instead found himself in the company of a mixed group of companions. He still wasn't certain just where he was going, but being with them gave him purpose enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other and finding ways to keep busy or be useful.
========
Mechanical sheet here. Dice rolls here.
Requested Magic Item: Alchemy Jug
YouTube music playlist here.
I had posted my sheet, but had started on it before I'd realized that @O O was also making a Lightfoot. So I've removed the sheet while I work the concept into a different race.
Is anyone gonna be a cleric? I don't mind picking up Healing Word and Cure Wounds
What I have going at the moment is a Circle of Stars Druid, but its a Healer/Support build
I've been trying to talk myself out of expressing interest, but I keep coming back to this thread.
I've been a tabletop player since the mid-90s (mostly White Wolf) but have never dipped my toe into the tabletop forums of the Guild before, but I'd like to give it a go if there's room.
We can see if my habit/poor luck for rolling 20s for initiative and then 1s on pretty much anything after continues.
I've been a tabletop player since the mid-90s (mostly White Wolf) but have never dipped my toe into the tabletop forums of the Guild before, but I'd like to give it a go if there's room.
We can see if my habit/poor luck for rolling 20s for initiative and then 1s on pretty much anything after continues.
Just a note that @Omega Man is currently busy with work and poor wi-fi, but we've made sure he's aware of the sheet @Dezuel!
NEW YORK
INFERNO: AFTERMATH
10 million.
As Arthur stared at the small, cracked screen in his hands, he was going numb with shock at the number.
10 million subscribers. On his Insta. A few days ago, he’d had 3 subscribers, and that included his nana and dad, so really he only had 1 subscriber he didn’t know and wasn’t closely related to.
Now it felt like the eyes of the world were on his 4th and 5th grade swim meet videos. With him wearing a competition speedo and commenting. Some positive. Some negative. Some with words he didn’t understand or wasn’t allowed to say.
But in all cases, they were calling him Aqualad.
In the midst of the Fire Troll disaster, it had been Superboy. That at least had some rizz to it. Superman would be, like, totes sigma but it was also kinda already taken.
Tears in his eyes, Arthur lashed out as he demanded, “Why did you name it AQUALAD!?”
If Arthur was apoplectic, then Tom Curry was just confused. “You’re the one who named it!”
“I WAS EIGHT!”
Seriously, with the Internet of Things being as perma-death as it was, letting an 8-year-old name a social media account that was going to follow them into college and job applications seemed the height of irresponsible parenting.
Tom buried his face in his hand, pulling on the unkempt beard that had grown in over the past two weeks as he exhaled slowly.
He was probably supposed to have some great parental wisdom to espouse for moments like this. Except he didn’t. He was coming up blank for what to even say as the negasonic tweenage warhead was primed for a dramatic explosion.
To make matters worse, a car with government plates was pulling up near where Tom and the boy’s lingered next to a very battered pickup truck. One that, at the very least, still started. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant drive back to Amnesty Bay with some of the windows blown out, but the crack in the windshield was manageable until they got home.
With a wave toward the truck’s cab, Tom warned, “Get in the truck.” To his relief, and temporary reprieve for a war on one front, Arthur did as he was told.
The National Guard commander was getting out of the car. Hands in the pockets of his battered jacket, Tom gave him a slight nod. “Colonel,” he offered politely, before cutting off any small talk. “I hope it’s brief. We were just...”
The colonel held up a hand. “Leaving, I know,” he interjected, obliging the lighthouse keeper. “I came to see if I could persuade you to stay another couple of days. The work the boys are doing...”
“Is saving lives. You’ve told me,” Tom said evenly. “But they’re kids. They’ve been sleeping out of shelters for the last couple of weeks. I need to get them home.”
The look on the colonel’s face showed his disappointment. Regardless, the man offered. “I understand. I had to try, but I do understand.” Offering a hand toward the lighthouse keeper, the colonel remarked. “You’re raising some good kids. You can rest assured all of America is proud of everything they’ve been doing.”
Tom didn’t let go of the breath he’d been holding until the colonel was back in the car, all he could see were taillights moving away. “Tell that to Reddit.” the man whispered bitterly.
As Arthur stared at the small, cracked screen in his hands, he was going numb with shock at the number.
10 million subscribers. On his Insta. A few days ago, he’d had 3 subscribers, and that included his nana and dad, so really he only had 1 subscriber he didn’t know and wasn’t closely related to.
Now it felt like the eyes of the world were on his 4th and 5th grade swim meet videos. With him wearing a competition speedo and commenting. Some positive. Some negative. Some with words he didn’t understand or wasn’t allowed to say.
But in all cases, they were calling him Aqualad.
In the midst of the Fire Troll disaster, it had been Superboy. That at least had some rizz to it. Superman would be, like, totes sigma but it was also kinda already taken.
Tears in his eyes, Arthur lashed out as he demanded, “Why did you name it AQUALAD!?”
If Arthur was apoplectic, then Tom Curry was just confused. “You’re the one who named it!”
“I WAS EIGHT!”
Seriously, with the Internet of Things being as perma-death as it was, letting an 8-year-old name a social media account that was going to follow them into college and job applications seemed the height of irresponsible parenting.
Tom buried his face in his hand, pulling on the unkempt beard that had grown in over the past two weeks as he exhaled slowly.
He was probably supposed to have some great parental wisdom to espouse for moments like this. Except he didn’t. He was coming up blank for what to even say as the negasonic tweenage warhead was primed for a dramatic explosion.
To make matters worse, a car with government plates was pulling up near where Tom and the boy’s lingered next to a very battered pickup truck. One that, at the very least, still started. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant drive back to Amnesty Bay with some of the windows blown out, but the crack in the windshield was manageable until they got home.
With a wave toward the truck’s cab, Tom warned, “Get in the truck.” To his relief, and temporary reprieve for a war on one front, Arthur did as he was told.
The National Guard commander was getting out of the car. Hands in the pockets of his battered jacket, Tom gave him a slight nod. “Colonel,” he offered politely, before cutting off any small talk. “I hope it’s brief. We were just...”
The colonel held up a hand. “Leaving, I know,” he interjected, obliging the lighthouse keeper. “I came to see if I could persuade you to stay another couple of days. The work the boys are doing...”
“Is saving lives. You’ve told me,” Tom said evenly. “But they’re kids. They’ve been sleeping out of shelters for the last couple of weeks. I need to get them home.”
The look on the colonel’s face showed his disappointment. Regardless, the man offered. “I understand. I had to try, but I do understand.” Offering a hand toward the lighthouse keeper, the colonel remarked. “You’re raising some good kids. You can rest assured all of America is proud of everything they’ve been doing.”
Tom didn’t let go of the breath he’d been holding until the colonel was back in the car, all he could see were taillights moving away. “Tell that to Reddit.” the man whispered bitterly.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
AMNESTY BAY
He knew there was going to be a problem before he even turned onto the harbor landing. A large crowd spilled across the waterfront. A protest and a counter-protest.
It seemed like overnight Arthur had become a flashpoint in the mutant rights debate.
And the best part was, he wasn’t even a mutant. But try explaining to Average Joe what an Atlantean was.
The black smoke rising from the docks was just the proverbial icing on the cake.
“Is that our boat!?” Arthur demanded, throwing open the passenger door and bailing out before Tom had the truck in park.
Garth followed close behind, while Tom tried to mentally brace himself as he exited the truck.
Even while the man couldn’t hear Garth’s telepathic spellcasting, he’d come to recognize the Atlantean boy’s body language.
“No!” the man snapped, taking Garth by the shoulder and gently pulling him back.
Gesturing to the angry mob, the man explained, “Magic might set them off more than they already are.”
Motioning for Garth to go join Arthur, Tom managed to lock eyes with the closest police officer. One of the Masterson boys.
Small town. Everyone knew everyone. For better or worse. “Hey!” Tom snapped, gesturing toward the inflamed boat that was starting to sink down into the water.
He knew something was off as the officer approached. The swagger. The look of sheer arrogance. “Is there a problem, sir?” the barely twenty-something deputy asked vapidly.
“The boat. That’s burning?”
The deputy made a show of looking around the harbor. “I don’t see anything,” he stated flatly, turning to regard Tom with a complete apathy.
Leaning in slightly closer, Tom stated, “Maybe you want to open your eyes.”
The deputy, hand on the butt of his pistol, stepped in, their faces close as he retorted, “Maybe you want to get that FREAK son of yours back in the truck and get the FUCK out of our town.”
Tom held the officer’s gaze, saying nothing, until finally the officer took an uncomfortable step backward. “Your town, is it?” the man echoed with a forced smile. “And here I thought your folks moved here from Connecticut.”
The deputy held his gaze a moment longer, then moved back toward the protest.
The anti-mutant side, obviously. He clearly wasn’t there for anyone save for them.
Tom could think of a dozen different ways that this could get ugly. None of which were going to net any positive outcomes for Arthur. As he made his way toward the sinking, smoking boat and the pair of boys watching helplessly from the pier, the man stated, “You boys can’t be here. Do you think you can get back to the lighthouse on your own?”
Violet eyes gleaming, Garth flatly declared, “I was never planning to ride on that boat.” It was clear that swimming home had been an event that the Atlantean had been looking forward to for weeks.
Arthur seemed less enthusiastic. Looking back at the angry mob, then up at his father, he asked, “Dad?”
“I can’t exactly swim back to the island,” Tom remarked. An honest, if blunt, truth about the situation. “I’ll handle this. You and Garth get back. Vulko will watch over you until I get back.”
The boy seemed about to protest, when a McDonald’s cup sailed through the air. The contents spilling out as the cup bounced off.
Tom looked back in the direction the cup had been thrown from. The protesters were all cheering, obviously gearing up to throw more. Which was setting off the counter-protesters, who seemed ready to do some throwing of their own.
“Arthur please,” Tom snapped, looking back at the confused boy.
He needed to go. Now.
Finally, taking a step back, Arthur just looked down at the ground even as he gave a nod of understanding.
Garth went running down the pier, diving off into the water as Arthur followed more reluctantly. He looked back at Tom a moment before diving off.
Leaving the man to do what he said he’d do.
Handle it.
Just how was he going to handle it?
“I have no fucking clue,” the man murmured to himself in reply.
Maybe he should have taken the colonel up on that offer and kept the boys in New York.
It seemed like overnight Arthur had become a flashpoint in the mutant rights debate.
And the best part was, he wasn’t even a mutant. But try explaining to Average Joe what an Atlantean was.
The black smoke rising from the docks was just the proverbial icing on the cake.
“Is that our boat!?” Arthur demanded, throwing open the passenger door and bailing out before Tom had the truck in park.
Garth followed close behind, while Tom tried to mentally brace himself as he exited the truck.
Even while the man couldn’t hear Garth’s telepathic spellcasting, he’d come to recognize the Atlantean boy’s body language.
“No!” the man snapped, taking Garth by the shoulder and gently pulling him back.
Gesturing to the angry mob, the man explained, “Magic might set them off more than they already are.”
Motioning for Garth to go join Arthur, Tom managed to lock eyes with the closest police officer. One of the Masterson boys.
Small town. Everyone knew everyone. For better or worse. “Hey!” Tom snapped, gesturing toward the inflamed boat that was starting to sink down into the water.
He knew something was off as the officer approached. The swagger. The look of sheer arrogance. “Is there a problem, sir?” the barely twenty-something deputy asked vapidly.
“The boat. That’s burning?”
The deputy made a show of looking around the harbor. “I don’t see anything,” he stated flatly, turning to regard Tom with a complete apathy.
Leaning in slightly closer, Tom stated, “Maybe you want to open your eyes.”
The deputy, hand on the butt of his pistol, stepped in, their faces close as he retorted, “Maybe you want to get that FREAK son of yours back in the truck and get the FUCK out of our town.”
Tom held the officer’s gaze, saying nothing, until finally the officer took an uncomfortable step backward. “Your town, is it?” the man echoed with a forced smile. “And here I thought your folks moved here from Connecticut.”
The deputy held his gaze a moment longer, then moved back toward the protest.
The anti-mutant side, obviously. He clearly wasn’t there for anyone save for them.
Tom could think of a dozen different ways that this could get ugly. None of which were going to net any positive outcomes for Arthur. As he made his way toward the sinking, smoking boat and the pair of boys watching helplessly from the pier, the man stated, “You boys can’t be here. Do you think you can get back to the lighthouse on your own?”
Violet eyes gleaming, Garth flatly declared, “I was never planning to ride on that boat.” It was clear that swimming home had been an event that the Atlantean had been looking forward to for weeks.
Arthur seemed less enthusiastic. Looking back at the angry mob, then up at his father, he asked, “Dad?”
“I can’t exactly swim back to the island,” Tom remarked. An honest, if blunt, truth about the situation. “I’ll handle this. You and Garth get back. Vulko will watch over you until I get back.”
The boy seemed about to protest, when a McDonald’s cup sailed through the air. The contents spilling out as the cup bounced off.
Tom looked back in the direction the cup had been thrown from. The protesters were all cheering, obviously gearing up to throw more. Which was setting off the counter-protesters, who seemed ready to do some throwing of their own.
“Arthur please,” Tom snapped, looking back at the confused boy.
He needed to go. Now.
Finally, taking a step back, Arthur just looked down at the ground even as he gave a nod of understanding.
Garth went running down the pier, diving off into the water as Arthur followed more reluctantly. He looked back at Tom a moment before diving off.
Leaving the man to do what he said he’d do.
Handle it.
Just how was he going to handle it?
“I have no fucking clue,” the man murmured to himself in reply.
Maybe he should have taken the colonel up on that offer and kept the boys in New York.
NEW YORK HARBOR
Not since the days of when a man named Homer sat down to compose what became the Illiad had the imp been able to move so freely, feel the wind in his hair as he moved with a predatory grace through the air.
"Tötet die amerikanischen Helden!"
Flying humans was something new. In the broad sense. The zepplins. The aeroplanes. The notion of man writ large being able to soar was one that had taken some getting used to. And people said that the pyramids had been a marvel of human engineering...
Individuals flying on their own? That was new. Not that he could be one to talk.
But, flying humans weren't as surprising as the hail of bullets that the boy was dancing around, looping through the air. As if dodging arrows hadn't been annoying. What happened to the days when humans would just bludgeon one another with clubs they had fashioned from bone? The whole ballistics thing seemed terribly un-sporting.
The thing about flying was it challenged one's sense of up, down, left or right. ""Herr, welche Narren die Sterblichen sind," the youth quipped in retort, quoting the Poet's Puck from A Midsummer Nights Dream. While Nate wasn't Shakespeare's greatest fan, he had to admit that he appreciated the character of Puck. He seemed a good chap.
Maybe the Poet had met one of Nate's kind. That could explain how he'd have gotten such a character so right.
With a flourish, the daemon's eyes glowed with baleful hellfire as he made an obscure gesture with one hand. A subtle tug of one's perception. A slight shifting of the light, as the boy tried to inspire a sense of vertigo in the German rocketman. Hopefully enough that he'd mid-judge his spatial orientation and crash into the water below.
Nate didn't know much about these flying devices, but he rather imagined they didn't work well immersed in water. Most human technology seemed not to. Though, now he'd heard tale of ships that sailed underwater so, he supposed that anything might be possible.
Of course, Alistair was rather counting on the boy to position these rocketmen to where he could neatly pick them off. "I might not be American, but I suppose I might be a clay pigeon," the boy lamented aloud, as brilliant swirls of light and color sparkled around him.
An intentional attempt at drawing attention to himself. Moths to a flame and what not. They could swarm around him while Alistair sipped tea and lined up a shot from below.
Skirting around the Statue of Liberty, the youth could make out a voice that said, “Oh, great, they fly now?”
Giving the fellow below a jaunty salute, the flying boy quipped, "Quite right. No one just walks anymore." Then, with a sparkle and shine, shot back out over the harbor in a deliberately slowed arc that ought to bring any goons he'd collected on his tail into a convenient spot for Alistair's marksmanship.
"Tötet die amerikanischen Helden!"
Flying humans was something new. In the broad sense. The zepplins. The aeroplanes. The notion of man writ large being able to soar was one that had taken some getting used to. And people said that the pyramids had been a marvel of human engineering...
Individuals flying on their own? That was new. Not that he could be one to talk.
But, flying humans weren't as surprising as the hail of bullets that the boy was dancing around, looping through the air. As if dodging arrows hadn't been annoying. What happened to the days when humans would just bludgeon one another with clubs they had fashioned from bone? The whole ballistics thing seemed terribly un-sporting.
The thing about flying was it challenged one's sense of up, down, left or right. ""Herr, welche Narren die Sterblichen sind," the youth quipped in retort, quoting the Poet's Puck from A Midsummer Nights Dream. While Nate wasn't Shakespeare's greatest fan, he had to admit that he appreciated the character of Puck. He seemed a good chap.
Maybe the Poet had met one of Nate's kind. That could explain how he'd have gotten such a character so right.
With a flourish, the daemon's eyes glowed with baleful hellfire as he made an obscure gesture with one hand. A subtle tug of one's perception. A slight shifting of the light, as the boy tried to inspire a sense of vertigo in the German rocketman. Hopefully enough that he'd mid-judge his spatial orientation and crash into the water below.
Nate didn't know much about these flying devices, but he rather imagined they didn't work well immersed in water. Most human technology seemed not to. Though, now he'd heard tale of ships that sailed underwater so, he supposed that anything might be possible.
Of course, Alistair was rather counting on the boy to position these rocketmen to where he could neatly pick them off. "I might not be American, but I suppose I might be a clay pigeon," the boy lamented aloud, as brilliant swirls of light and color sparkled around him.
An intentional attempt at drawing attention to himself. Moths to a flame and what not. They could swarm around him while Alistair sipped tea and lined up a shot from below.
Skirting around the Statue of Liberty, the youth could make out a voice that said, “Oh, great, they fly now?”
Giving the fellow below a jaunty salute, the flying boy quipped, "Quite right. No one just walks anymore." Then, with a sparkle and shine, shot back out over the harbor in a deliberately slowed arc that ought to bring any goons he'd collected on his tail into a convenient spot for Alistair's marksmanship.
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