Kassarock

Lost Mine Of Phandelver (D&D 5e) (CLOSED)

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Azra Flametongue

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"How do I like it? I fucking love it!" Azra exclaimed at the Tortle's elaborate storytelling performance, applauding wildly as he did so. All thoughts of boredom fled from his mind, which became filled instead with images of the mythical jungles of chult and their giant ferocious lizards. Such a performance, with such passion, from such an unexpected source. He had to give his review, of course, to show what an attentive and appreciative audience he was.

"Wonderful, simply wonderful, my friend. I was not wrong when I said you were natural performer, and I can definitely see that pizazz now. You were just hiding it under that shell of yours before! My favourite part was the-" From over his shoulder Azra heard the driver shout something, probably just more congratulations.

"Quiet please, I am trying to give my review as an audience member. Now where was I? Ah yes, the sound design of this piece. Outstanding! Really the highlight of the whole thing, such dynamic use of the your voice and the use of thaumaturgy to produce the rumbling and those whispers? Bravo, could not have done better myself." The pretty young half-elf said something as well, but Azra didn't listen, he was too busy formulating some constructive criticism, his eyes rolled upwards in contemplation. How rude, trying to inject before he was finished.

"Just a moment, then you can chime in. Of course, there are areas for improvement. Costume and prop design, for example. I mean, while your attire could be more... engaging. And the tooth, it needs to be bigger. There's a prop maker in Waterdeep I know who cast a much larger on in plaster for only a few gold, I could make the introduc-" A blood curdling scream cut the Tiefling off. Another interruption, this one ruder than the last, and that was no way to respond to criticism, even if you disagreed.

"Well yes, I suppose authenticity does have its own 'charm', but there are other areas that could definitely be improved. What I think the whole thing was missing were some lighting effects, or better yet just go full atmospheric manipulation. I've heard of this druid that works in a theatre down in Amn, some sort of weather worker, they actually use their magic to physically manifest the weather conditions called for in the play being performed. I'm told its most immersive of experiences. Do you know any weather magic? Well, I suppose its beside the point really, just something to consider, if you are interested in elevating your performance to a higher form of art - and I mean, aren't we all? Is that not the most noble of pursuits that one can follow in this life? To live, to perform, for the sake of Art?!"

As he finished speaking Azra leapt up and struck a pose, one arm outstretched, the other with forearm turned to cover his eyes, as if he were some kind of dramatic actor performing in a play. There was no reply. Odd, it seemed everyone had been so eager to join the conversation moments before. Azra moved his elbow a fraction to peep out in order to see their reactions.

"Oh."

Azra stared at the slumped over halfing driver bleeding profusing from an arrow wound. He dropped his pose and turned around to see the big human and the young half-elf standing over a pair of what appeared to goblin corpses. It was hard to tell, one of them had been ground to paste with the human's large hammer. Further off, another pair of still living goblins brandished bows at them threateningly.

"Well fuck... you could have said something?!"

Reaching down to grip his arcane focus, a large red garnet set into a pedant hung around his neck, Azra let his infernal magic flow through him. His tongue comforted in his mouth as he rapidly spoke a stream of incantations in a language that sounded more like a series of retches, screams and hisses than actual words. From his other hand, a bolt of burning fire, aimed at one of the goblins in the distance, came flying out with a sudden whooshing noise.

thunk

The fire fizzled out to nothing on the ground a few feet away from the goblin.

"Oh... well fuck again!"

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Actions

• Azra casts Firebolt at Goblin C, misses with an 11.

Azra's rolls

We mourn the passing of Polymorpheus

Oh shit, I knew Poly was ill, didn't realise just how ill though.

Anyway, while I never roleplayed with her, I did have a bunch of discussions (and a few dumb arguments) with her in current affairs on the Guild's discord over the years. While I can't say that we were on the same side in a huge number of those, I will miss her contributions to the discourse.

Goes to show, be nice to people on the internet, even the ones you argue with. Don't let the last thing you say to someone be part of some bullshit flame war.

What Are You Listening To?

Gif the User

Of Blood and Burden

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Karlus Marsh

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Karlus watched as these two virtual strangers argued in front of him, secrets spilling from their lips as they did so. He still had one arm clutched to his body, cradling it, as if it had somehow been wounded. This new stranger, Sacha, had reached out to touch him as he had spoken before. Karlus had flinched away, but for a moment, he had been sure that his fingers had made contact with wrist. Where they had brushed him he felt it burn against his skin. Or was he just imagining things? Remembering other hands, other fingers that had once burned.

He pushed those thoughts away. He was not there anymore.

Slowly, Karlus released the tension in his body. His shoulders shrugged back down, he released the grip on his own arm and let it fall back to his side. In the intense conversation between Sacha and Aemma, he seemed to be forgotten. Or at least, Sacha seemed to have forgotten that he was there. Aemma was facing the both of them, he could see the pleading for discretion in her eyes, annoyance bordering on anger. But she humoured him it seemed. Why though, Karlus could not understand.

Karlus knew a thing or two about secrets. He had kept plenty of his own at the college. It seemed he would have to keep more here to survive in the Order. He was resigned to that, this world was one which was hostile to his kind, secrecy was the price that must be paid for greater freedom, greater power. Secrecy was shield that guarded him and those like him, those like Aemma.

And here Sacha was, spilling secrets in front of him. He made a note not to let him into his confidence, as much as he let anyone in. He might might act kind, but what did that matter when a careless word could get someone strung up by a rope - or worse.

Almost as if he knew Karlus was thinking about him, Sacha glanced over at that moment. Karlus did not return his gaze. He would just keep his head down, none of this involved him as far as he was concerned. It was then that Aemma asked him if he had any objections. He looked up, eyes darting between the two of them. Did they think he was somehow part of this now?

"Me? Objections?" He weakly repeated the end of Aemma's statement back to her. "I'm in no position to object to anything. It doesn't involve me... although..."

Although he was interested in the sickness, he realised. He had seen its horrors first hand, he understood why the Order was here to combat it. But there were other things he had heard too, back in College. Most Astorians cared little for what happened over the border in their fog blighted neighbour, but there had been some scholars who had devoted time to its study, in particular the creatures it created. As a healer he had read a few of those books that spoke of the curious effects of the fog. It could kill, destroy, drive mad, corrupt... but it could also give power.

There were witches, he knew, that somehow derived their power from the fog. Beings who were gifted with agility, strength, and endurance in exchange for being forbidden from the light of sun and consuming the blood of others. If one understand the fog and its sickness, perhaps one could understand the powers it also bestowed.

Now that... that was interesting to Karlus.

He stood up slightly straighter, and looked the old dark elf directly in her eyes for once.

"...perhaps it could. If you wanted."

Lost Mine Of Phandelver (D&D 5e) (CLOSED)

I thought I was sitting this round out because of my Nat 1 and Wisdom save fail?

Or was that just for the lulz

The Arrangement [Suki & Kassarock]

Feel free to place yourself into the new scene as you wish obviously, you can still arrive after Ozragad if you'd rather.

The Arrangement [Suki & Kassarock]

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The Hunt

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Precautions had been taken in the aftermath of the assassination attempt. In the week that had followed, Ozragad's every drink and every meal had been tasted before he consumed any of it. There were guards posted in the kitchens now, others were assigned to watch his meals as they were taken up from below, so none might tamper with them as they were brought to the King's table. It was inconvenient, and it was infuriating that he even had to resort to such measures, when once he would have counted on the loyalty of those who served him.

Those were not the only changes Ozragad had made since then. He was getting up earlier each day, making more time in the exercise yards to practice at his swordplay. He would train with blunted weapons against trusted and skilled men. Sometimes one on one, sometimes against up to three of them. If poison had already failed his assassins, who knew what they might try next? But Ozragad would make himself as ready as he could be. He would be ready to fight them when they came for him.

The morning of the first of Manawyndan's planned betrothal events was no exception. Ozragad had awoke before dawn and went at his sparring. He had them push him harder than usual, not stopping until he was short of breath, and aching with soon to be bruises. The rush of adrenaline, even the pain, was probably preferable to the farce he go through today. But he was resigned to it now, this was to be a show marriage after all, he should give his people their show.

After he had finished at the training yards, Ozragad bathed and changed into his costume for the day. For the most part they were practical, dark hunting leathers, though far finer than he would ever normally bother to wear when he knew he was going to get covered in mud and blood. The most theatrical element of it was a furred cloak, cut from the skin of a great spotted mountain cat, draped over one shoulder. They are trying to bring out your predatory side. He made sure his hair was securely tied back, and forwent any jewels beside his plain golden circlet. Rings, chains and their ilk only got in the way when riding over rough ground and handling a bow.

Underneath it all though, against his skin, he wore a fine mail shirt. Do not forget, someone wants you dead.

The hunting party were gathering in the great open square in the lower ward of the palace, where they would then process through the upper city, before leaving through the north gate to the King's hunting parks beyond. By the time Ozragad came down to meet them, almost all had assembled in readiness. As he emerged from the palace and marched down the stairs, flanked by his personal guard, he surveyed the bowing and kneeling figures.

The Princess would be somewhere among them.

After all, she had to be there to receive his bounty of his hunt. There were two sides of this piece of theatre. The valiant hunter proving himself and the gracious hostess to seem his gift. Only she was the stranger here, and he was by no means valiant.

A thought crossed his mind then, did she even ride? She had been brought to Morganyth in a carriage, and up into the palace in a covered palaquin. He had never seen her ride, never asked her if she did. Did women even ride in Eorzia? Or was that forbidden to them too? Perhaps if had been less preoccupied with other matters he would have looked into these arrangements himself, but no, someone wanted him dead. So he had left it Manawyndan, like he always did when it was a task he did not wish to oversee himself.

Perhaps its Manawyndan that wants you dead. Perhaps its your new Princess.

Push those thoughts away. Put on a magnanimous face. Go down and greet all the sycophants. But do not forget, someone wanted him dead.

Lost Mine Of Phandelver (D&D 5e) (CLOSED)

I'm so sorry everyone. I have created a monster.

Lost Mine Of Phandelver (D&D 5e) (CLOSED)

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Azra Flametongue

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As the caravan wound its way through the plains and hills of the Sword Coast, along the dusty and bumpy Triboar Trail, anyone watching it from a afar would see a small object bobbing up and down, located above the central wagon. It had a continuous almost circular motion to it, rising a few feet above the bed of the cart, dropping back down out of sight, before reappearing again moments later. If they had exceptional vision, they might have been able to tell what the object was.

It was an apple.

Throw... Catch... Throw... Catch...

It was an apple being thrown by a Tiefling, red skinned, with two great curled horns sprouting from his forehead.

Throw... Catch... Throw... Catch...

Azra Firetongue was bored out of his mind.

It had been a few days since he had left Neverwinter. Or more actually, he had scurried out of Neverwinter with his tail between his legs, under a hooded cloak so no one would recognise him as he left. At first it had been invigorating, the fresh country air, the new sights and smells, a new set of travelling companions. But as the novelty began to wear off, and Azra had found himself without a crowd to entertain or a tavern to get rat-arsed drunk in, the boredom began to creep in.

And so here he was, laid flat out of his back atop the loaded wagon, staring up into the cloud strewn sky, juggling an apple. He was juggling an apple. He was juggling a fucking apple. Dear gods, had it really come to this?

At the sound of voices, he tossed the apple even higher into the sky than before, sat up from his reclined position, and caught it with his mouth. He took a large bite from it, his pointed incisors and disturbingly enlarged canines making short work of it. His head peaked over the edge of wagon and his goat-like eyes surveyed his companions.

It was the big lunk of a man, Iron-something, talking to the pretty blonde half-elf ...Zynnlin ...Zillnyn? that Azra had already tried his luck with the first night they had set off along the High Road. They spoke in the fluttering tongue that Azra knew to be Elvish, but could not understand in the slightest. He hoped big man didn't think he had a chance there, if Azra hadn't yet succeeded in plucking that fresh, delicate flower, what hope did these others have?

From behind the cart came the sound of music. Azra rolled onto his front and crawled over to see its source. It was coming from by far the strangest member of their party. The great armoured reptile thing that was called... Tim? Who at that moment was playing a flute. It wasn't particularly good, but it was something other than staring at the sky, juggling an apple, and so for Azra, it was the best thing he had heard all week.

Azra listened with a wide smiled upon his face. When the song had finished, he exclaimed:

"Bravo! Bravo! My shelled friend, you know have you ever considered quitting your day job? I mean, being a caravan guard, or whatever it is that you do when you're not guarding caravans, is all well and good. But I know a born performer when I see one. The stage calls to you! I'm sure you would make plenty coin, you just need to add some pizazz to it! Costumes, a dance number, pyrotechnics!" As he spoke, a shower of sparks appeared with a wave of Azra's hand. "You agree of course don't you?"

The last comment was not directed at the Tortle, but rather at the other member of the party behind the cart, the quiet elven mage, who appeared to be reading a book as he walked. That didn't seem healthy, Azra himself didn't see the point he reading, you didn't need books to get by, you didn't even need them to learn magic. Then Azra remembered, this fellow didn't know any Common, that must be the problem! Why he had ignored all of Azra's witticisms and fascinating comments over the past few days. Well, he would have to help the stranger out.

"AG-REE! YES!? THE MU-SIC?! IT WAS VE-RY GOOD!? NAT-UR-AL PER-FOR-MER! BUT NEEDS MORE PI-ZAZZ!" Asra shouted at the elf loudly and slowly, breaking any longer words down into individual syllables, as if that would somehow make him understand common.

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Azra's Rolls