Torus now returns to the brim of reality. Or rather fantasy, I should say.
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Sanity is not statistical.
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An unjaded maniacal Ahab shrieked a raging harpoon whilst vaulting his half-blood into the lightning littered eve. His mid-jump scream and throw ambitiously embraced the monstrous Melvillian whale, echoing an orcish fairy tale of an innocent Taji’s endless pursuit for a serpentine Yillah, an obsessive mark that mumbles utopian impossibilities. The Olympian javelin matched the mettle of the now unintended flight attendant, securing amongst the scales of the Mephistopheles underbelly. A leprous twinge later sought a response from the blue dragon as buzzing arrows from Brannor and Kyra tested the tenacity of Orchid’s grip. Yet, a draconian gust easily conquered its tethered Damoclean warrior, dangling for verve and truth.
The subsequent imminent descent was coupled by the background rally of Parum’s music, between her incising bow-blade and heralding chanting, as she sallied away from the pirate’s icy, labyrinthine roof, bracing against the obsidian eyes above. Torus’ body cringed within the Minotaur hide and under the frosty shroud, sensing the mythic plummet would claim another Bladud. Without hubris or complacency, the verdant Icarus tumbled beneath the blackest of suns, his imaginary pinions melting from the brute force of the blue-winged Kua Fu killer, as gales of wind failed to carry the gravity of his boldness.
The desolator of Greenest then emitted not a bolt, but Draconic libretti against the blue-haired Hin, “First you dare compare I, Lennithon, to an overgrown pawn and then suddenly switch to cowering in fear? Learn your place, grain of sand.” The eaves-dropping elder recognized the injured vanity, that was curiously, quickly and serendipitously appeased, jetting now away from the trounced citadel, with a vibrant speed unwitnessed prior by many.
””WAAAAAARGH!”
The nubile decline converged into a bellowing, bloody meteor, crashing but dodging Cuth upon the rampart, that now continued as a mass grave. The brutish Sampati jarred miraculously with gusto and vertigo, a staccato nystagmus that mimicked his earlier gallantry. The hulking Babel of angst, fury, and vigor seemed to bend with the passage of tempo and garbled Common.
””RAAAGH! COWARD! COME AND DIE!”
The Himban phoenix, however, collapsed under the exhaustive trek of heaven to hell, after realizing and declaring his foe was beyond his reach. For now. Soon, Chauntean hands intervened before the Moirai claimed his mortality and, worse yet, his unfulfilled destiny. Kyra whispered as vivacity leached from her core to Orchid’s.
"Both thorn and thistles it should bring forth, for us. For out of the ground we were taken for the dust we are, and to the dust we shall return." Her worsening pallor accentuated the fatiguing expenditure of an already depleted cleric. “We don’t have any time for…”
Golden eyes suddenly chanced upon the druid's wearied gaze, surfacing both his talents and the halfling’s contemplation of the aftermath, with its underlying motives and consequences.
"Help the woman with the rest while I move him out of here."
The simple command summoned ironic rainfall from under the frozen umbrella, while more aquatic earth erupted from the third waterskin, a marine djinn trickling from the druid’s persona to accommodate the paladin’s wish. Two wintry, almost frictionless stretchers anchored with jutted handles shortly materialized, fit for many bodies, whether dismembered, maimed or intact, to shovel and ferry, those most ill inside, requiring only gnome-like effort due to the nature of the incorporated slick ice. Glancing back at the naked Orchid heaved by Brannor and Kyra’s frenetic compassion, the old man offered all simultaneously:
“Oghma indeed! For life and death are united, even as the river and ocean clap in unison. Allow us to yoke together, young warriors. For I, Torus, sense the burden you are tethering.”
The subsequent imminent descent was coupled by the background rally of Parum’s music, between her incising bow-blade and heralding chanting, as she sallied away from the pirate’s icy, labyrinthine roof, bracing against the obsidian eyes above. Torus’ body cringed within the Minotaur hide and under the frosty shroud, sensing the mythic plummet would claim another Bladud. Without hubris or complacency, the verdant Icarus tumbled beneath the blackest of suns, his imaginary pinions melting from the brute force of the blue-winged Kua Fu killer, as gales of wind failed to carry the gravity of his boldness.
The desolator of Greenest then emitted not a bolt, but Draconic libretti against the blue-haired Hin, “First you dare compare I, Lennithon, to an overgrown pawn and then suddenly switch to cowering in fear? Learn your place, grain of sand.” The eaves-dropping elder recognized the injured vanity, that was curiously, quickly and serendipitously appeased, jetting now away from the trounced citadel, with a vibrant speed unwitnessed prior by many.
””WAAAAAARGH!”
The nubile decline converged into a bellowing, bloody meteor, crashing but dodging Cuth upon the rampart, that now continued as a mass grave. The brutish Sampati jarred miraculously with gusto and vertigo, a staccato nystagmus that mimicked his earlier gallantry. The hulking Babel of angst, fury, and vigor seemed to bend with the passage of tempo and garbled Common.
””RAAAGH! COWARD! COME AND DIE!”
The Himban phoenix, however, collapsed under the exhaustive trek of heaven to hell, after realizing and declaring his foe was beyond his reach. For now. Soon, Chauntean hands intervened before the Moirai claimed his mortality and, worse yet, his unfulfilled destiny. Kyra whispered as vivacity leached from her core to Orchid’s.
"Both thorn and thistles it should bring forth, for us. For out of the ground we were taken for the dust we are, and to the dust we shall return." Her worsening pallor accentuated the fatiguing expenditure of an already depleted cleric. “We don’t have any time for…”
Golden eyes suddenly chanced upon the druid's wearied gaze, surfacing both his talents and the halfling’s contemplation of the aftermath, with its underlying motives and consequences.
"Help the woman with the rest while I move him out of here."
The simple command summoned ironic rainfall from under the frozen umbrella, while more aquatic earth erupted from the third waterskin, a marine djinn trickling from the druid’s persona to accommodate the paladin’s wish. Two wintry, almost frictionless stretchers anchored with jutted handles shortly materialized, fit for many bodies, whether dismembered, maimed or intact, to shovel and ferry, those most ill inside, requiring only gnome-like effort due to the nature of the incorporated slick ice. Glancing back at the naked Orchid heaved by Brannor and Kyra’s frenetic compassion, the old man offered all simultaneously:
“Oghma indeed! For life and death are united, even as the river and ocean clap in unison. Allow us to yoke together, young warriors. For I, Torus, sense the burden you are tethering.”
Apologies, to all, for the distracted absence and negligence. I recently had an unexpected death in the family. Between the necessary familial obligations and work deadlines, I will likely generate a post on the morrow.
It's all good! I publicly want Orchid to succeed. :)
Simply spectacular posts!
I wonder if Mr. Lake is out on the parapet and can cast Featherfall on the 'Green Arrow'? :)
I wonder if Mr. Lake is out on the parapet and can cast Featherfall on the 'Green Arrow'? :)
As the Sisyphean canopy finally froze into an icy, protective brolly, the briny pirate gleaned the archer’s summons to arms and religion.
“If your hands can still manage a bow and its arrows, pray then to your patron that they guide your shots.”
Discounting Parum's unintended sedition for alternative, but possible imminent strikes, Torus attempted to quell the arrhythmic subversion among the spongiform crowd on the rampart after the blue-haired kender’s verbal order. His aerial scout did not register earlier any other spurious enemy troops, incongruent with her presumption to further split their ranks to battle unseen adversaries. Overwhelming her volume, he irked words into the Vespasian air, utilizing the seashell conch as a megaphone to quell the waves of unsettling oblivion in the hearts surrounding the Halfling.
“In you desire for identity lies the answer to your unspoken questions. Do not limp before the lame. Do not loiter before your brave brethren. Ask not the homeless, ‘What has befallen to your house?’ as we stand within these walls. It is true that stags cannot teach swiftness to sloths.”
Raising his matured tortoise shield to reveal his raven, he did not emotionally vacillate on his irreverent history. He focused on the psychological icon of the Crying God, of those who suffered and endured for martyrdom. Perpetually encouraging us and taking our burdens. His voice soared above his previous peripatetic wanderings mentally etched, swarming his mind with faltering jeers and crimson tar, attributable to a lineage of murder and larceny from conquest past.
“Yet, our residence lies within the courage to prod slowly and faithfully forward like baby turtles scurrying to an ocean’s tide. The instinctual ritual ingrained to advance and dive into the watery void is here! And now! This monster that lies before and above us compares little to the solace that rests within and behind us. The future of your families belongs to you. Those, who believe, stand and face nightmares, secure the beauty of your children’s dreams to be realized.”
The elder phenomenon thrived on harnessing and manipulating this myocyte of men to its full potential. Similar to his own crew. To spark and to contract before Ilmater. And to, alas, redeem his trabeculated antiquity.
“Our honor is not born, but forged, by our posture at this moment. Ready your weapons! On the screech of the raven, release your iron wills! And.”
On cue, the dark familiar fluttered away from his glacial perch into the night, aiming its course for the flickering lightning-breather, as if seeking Ayuruk, the deity of the Ilulutiun people of the Alpuk. His owner’s smile dawdled but glimmered under the sheen of the shady isollette.
The filthy lips broke again with philosophical tenacity. “Embrace the sea of purpose!”
@Hekazu@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@The Harbinger of Ferocity@Norschtalen
“If your hands can still manage a bow and its arrows, pray then to your patron that they guide your shots.”
Discounting Parum's unintended sedition for alternative, but possible imminent strikes, Torus attempted to quell the arrhythmic subversion among the spongiform crowd on the rampart after the blue-haired kender’s verbal order. His aerial scout did not register earlier any other spurious enemy troops, incongruent with her presumption to further split their ranks to battle unseen adversaries. Overwhelming her volume, he irked words into the Vespasian air, utilizing the seashell conch as a megaphone to quell the waves of unsettling oblivion in the hearts surrounding the Halfling.
“In you desire for identity lies the answer to your unspoken questions. Do not limp before the lame. Do not loiter before your brave brethren. Ask not the homeless, ‘What has befallen to your house?’ as we stand within these walls. It is true that stags cannot teach swiftness to sloths.”
Raising his matured tortoise shield to reveal his raven, he did not emotionally vacillate on his irreverent history. He focused on the psychological icon of the Crying God, of those who suffered and endured for martyrdom. Perpetually encouraging us and taking our burdens. His voice soared above his previous peripatetic wanderings mentally etched, swarming his mind with faltering jeers and crimson tar, attributable to a lineage of murder and larceny from conquest past.
“Yet, our residence lies within the courage to prod slowly and faithfully forward like baby turtles scurrying to an ocean’s tide. The instinctual ritual ingrained to advance and dive into the watery void is here! And now! This monster that lies before and above us compares little to the solace that rests within and behind us. The future of your families belongs to you. Those, who believe, stand and face nightmares, secure the beauty of your children’s dreams to be realized.”
The elder phenomenon thrived on harnessing and manipulating this myocyte of men to its full potential. Similar to his own crew. To spark and to contract before Ilmater. And to, alas, redeem his trabeculated antiquity.
“Our honor is not born, but forged, by our posture at this moment. Ready your weapons! On the screech of the raven, release your iron wills! And.”
On cue, the dark familiar fluttered away from his glacial perch into the night, aiming its course for the flickering lightning-breather, as if seeking Ayuruk, the deity of the Ilulutiun people of the Alpuk. His owner’s smile dawdled but glimmered under the sheen of the shady isollette.
The filthy lips broke again with philosophical tenacity. “Embrace the sea of purpose!”
@Hekazu@Ryonara@Lucius Cypher@The Harbinger of Ferocity@Norschtalen
Gracias!
Will finish my shift in about 5 hours. Will have Torus' response later tonight. Please pardon the delay.
Will finish my shift in about 5 hours. Will have Torus' response later tonight. Please pardon the delay.
Absolutely right about Shape Water, @Hekazu. I was definitely jumping the gun. Thanks for the clarification.
Just had an idea, before posting.
Now, if Torus attempts to boost morale alongside Parum's music, could we roll a Persuasion/Performance check to "HELP" the NPCs with their Attack?
Unsure what they would gain since we have advantage from Faerie Fire. Maybe NPCs gain advantage against Frightful Presence or + 5 to hit. DC your choosing, perhaps.
Thinking outside the box is all, especially with the fittest remaining.
Just had an idea, before posting.
Now, if Torus attempts to boost morale alongside Parum's music, could we roll a Persuasion/Performance check to "HELP" the NPCs with their Attack?
Unsure what they would gain since we have advantage from Faerie Fire. Maybe NPCs gain advantage against Frightful Presence or + 5 to hit. DC your choosing, perhaps.
Thinking outside the box is all, especially with the fittest remaining.
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, “She will be your demise. Not I.”
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. "Aaaargh! Coward!" 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.
"Suggestions, lad?” 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.
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, “She will be your demise. Not I.”
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. "Aaaargh! Coward!" 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.
"Suggestions, lad?” 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.
My banter will be live soon.
I'm sorry for the mechanics confusion. Actually, my intention was to have the raven cut its bond temporarily, due to failing under Frightful presence, before the start of Torus' turn; since it went first, the druid was utilizing his own senses, not the bird's, to mitigate the mess when he followed afterwards in the Initiative order. I'll edit my last post to clarify this.
As my understanding dictates, that feature can only last for one 6 second turn during combat, if not renewed. Does it not?
I'm sorry for the mechanics confusion. Actually, my intention was to have the raven cut its bond temporarily, due to failing under Frightful presence, before the start of Torus' turn; since it went first, the druid was utilizing his own senses, not the bird's, to mitigate the mess when he followed afterwards in the Initiative order. I'll edit my last post to clarify this.
As my understanding dictates, that feature can only last for one 6 second turn during combat, if not renewed. Does it not?
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