esqueleto
xVampire3go
Guardian Angel Haruki
Neziul
Dane
Auz
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Hugh Caphazath Half-Elf, Monk (Way of Shadow), Level 3HP: 24/24 Armor Class: 17 Conditions: Pass Without Trace Location: M9 -> J8 Action: Prepared action (shortbow attack on Goblin G10 or G9) Bonus Action: N/A Reaction: N/A |  |
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The change in formation was set, and the plan -as much of one as could be had- was settled. With his [Pass Without Trace] technique lying omnipresent over the area and the Cleric’s own “blessing” upon the frontliners, they were as ready as they might ever be. All that was left was to settle into position.
Hugh waited patiently, as his current comrades in arms carefully navigated the radius of his technique towards their respective places of readiness. In turn, once they had settled in, Hugh himself carefully concluded his intended path, pressed up against the side of a pair of large boulders, nestling himself with his back inside the small crevice formed between them, as the pale tiefling made her own way around to the other side of the rocks.
There was a moment of brief restrained panic and a sharp intake of breath that was swallowed by the unnaturally still air, as the Cleric’s armor and rather… absurdly bold open position nearly gave her away. [Pass Without Trace] was strong, but it was the furthest thing from invincible. Testing fate like that… being nearly right up in the enemy’s face… practically taunting them… It set his teeth on edge, but against all feasible odds, the concealment held… if barely. Were it not for the goblin’s sneeze, they’d likely have been made.
That moment of great stress over and done with, Hugh began to take slow, steadying breaths, steadying the beat of his heart to a quiet, familiar rhythm, the rhythm of the assassin.
‘Strike first.’
His right hand crept down, drawing an arrow from the quiver at the small of his back with less than a whisper, the sound swallowed by the Ki-infused environment.
‘Strike once.’
Even though the world around him seemed muffled and distant, he could still hear the steady thump of his pulse against his ear-drums, the absolute lack of background noise only making such a perception all the easier, as his left arm rose, bow in hand, and was nocked with the arrow in his right.
‘Strike last.’
Aiming down the shaft of the arrow with his eyes at the figure of the goblin in possession of a bow, the string drew back silently, as he waited for his agreed upon que, for someone to strike the opening blow.
‘This is the core principle of the art of assassination.’