The Grey Dust

D&D 5e - Lost Mine of Phandelver

"M" the silent

---

A fairy riding a dog. Coming from the west along the road. A friend? Or another nuisance to deal with? She was small enough to perhaps over take but, not in his injured condition. Though in suspicion the psion did subtly reach for his dagger hidden in his left sleeve. It was until the small creature attended to his side, and revealed a Harper's emblem. Ah yes the Harpers. One of the more amiable factions within Neverwinter, gatherers of information throughout Faerûn, keepers of the status quo in the shadows. And best of all aided the weak, the poor, and the powerless. Not all who delved in the dark were bad or sneaks, ill-trusted perhaps, but the Harpers had earned his approval, and vice versa. This fairy in particular seemed familiar enough, perhaps their paths may have crossed in the past, and after her introduction, the mute lowered his hesitation and grasped arrow shaft. Bracing himself for the pain once more, his collapsed lung draining the oxygen from the air as best it could, a final inhale before pulling the damned arrow out. A process that winced the mute's body with his inability to scream out as the bloody metal was ejected from the flesh wound. Then the healing words soothed his bleeding flank, the weave woven around as flesh and organ were restored by magic. With a silent nod acknowledging her work, a finger pointed out at Kiki's direction, for the rogue look a little worse for wear herself moments ago, as she ducked into the pursuit of killing every last one of these buggers... It should be fairly obvious to a trained healer that the psion was a mute.

But it seemed just as the man recovered, literally catching his breath as his lung began to balloon back up into a healthier state, the battle was over. Goblins picked off one by one and their Barbarian raging enough to scare the two or so remaining into submission. Killing a chicken to scare the monkey. And the Goblins gathered themselves, dragging their dead one by one and piling up the belongings of their former adversaries and friends. A rather interesting sight to behold much to the psion' amusement, it seemed he was correct about the barbarian, in such a simple man's mind, might made right. And in lieu of benevolence, ruled over his newfound minions with strictest authority. A bit of power and suddenly the true viciousness comes out. Bathed in blood of his own and the goblins, the green giant looked less than jolly, but taking to hacking away the gruesome trophies of goblin skulls, the man looked fine.

That was until Bar decided to confront him about the lack of collectable skull from the Goblin who had crumbled before the psion's vengeance. An overload of psionic power clearly too much for such primitive brain to handle that it burst. Lifted from his recovered state as the man looked around the battlefield, boots grimed with goblin guts from the rampage that was Bar, a large hand taking him by the collar. To which the immediate reaction was to unsheathe the hidden knife from his sleeve, pressing the blade against the orc's bare flesh, letting the steel edge run across as a warning of how close it was. A bit of knifeplay perhaps, tip threatening to pierce the half-orc's chest should he press them any close together. For the monster's breath was still rank, and is body smelled even more foul. If words wouldn't get through to that idiot's skull, then perhaps sinking a sharp knife would for all the sudden aggression. Did the barbarian even stop to consider a thing called personal space? Or that he was expecting words to come from a mute?

Regardless it seemed it was over, and scuffing off his shoulders and cuff the silent member returned the knife to his sleeve, hidden once more for a quick draw such as this. Daggers of the mind did enough, but sometimes it took something more readily observed, a knife to the throat or to cut off some unfortunate man's chances of children. It would be for the better, as their children did nothing to offend him, but to take them in after killing their sire? There was a twisted irony in that. All that aside, the psion silently peered through the looted remains, taking a curious vambrace which with a conceal blade and examining the mechanism cleverly tinkered to create a spring-loaded dagger. Another to add to his collection of weapons a street boy would use. Rolling up a sleeve and strapping on the new weaponry, giving his wrist a few flicks and a press to extend and react the blade at will. This was worth the setback they had in terms of time keeping. Their party numbered Seven now, as the psion observed the tiefling morph back into the bard making idle conversation with Kiki who hopefully the fairy had gotten a chance to heal. A polymorpher? It seems the bard had some secrets after all, and wore another mask just like he did. Regardless, the psion rejoin the main group, with his ever silent presence as they discussed the fate of the goblins rather openly in front of them.

There was no reason to keep the goblins all alive. They did after all try to kill them, why should a surrender be taken when they were vastly out numbered? No one strikes me down with impunity, and a snake thread upon shall strike the heel of the creature that insulted it. But then again, he really cared not to deal with that unwashed orc again, who wasted another horse for the sake of food. Ah, there were some fried spiders, rations perhaps he could offer the goblins these picking a few in hand. Spiders, a meal compared to what he had eaten, not as good as rat, but certainly more palatable than slugs. They needed more information, these were according to Seethe, the horses of their employer and his guard. A guard that failed at his job presumably, to which the psion would find himself eager to interrogate one of the two conscious goblins remaining who quivered in fear attending to Bar and his offerings of horse meat. Ah horse meat, another street rat delicacy.

"Eat." The Psychic invitation to one of the two conscious goblins. Some spider rations given, alongside the charred horsemeat. The silent man had a voice, one that resounded in the mind as he folded his legs and sat down, taking a horse-kebab casually with eyes watching the two goblins keenly. To those not privy to the mental connection made with the goblin kicked by Bar, it would seem like a normal exchange, goblin being offered food. It was either a small kindness towards ones prisoners, or a last meal before more heads exploded. If indeed they caught on to his psychic powers, but for now it seemed charade worked, at least with Bar. "She will kill you if you do not prove to be useful. There are three of you, it is either you, the one beside you, or the one tied up. Take us to the dwarf safely and she will spare you. Do we have a deal?" Chocolate eyes watching the goblin eat, no signs of any communication between them, but the telepathic link there, as if there was an understanding between the two somehow being communicated as the psion ate his horse meat as well.

Beckoning the wizard over and the cleric to join them, as well as the fairy had she not secretly left with that dog of hers. And if not, the good-natured man would offer the tired dog a bite of his kebab before taking another of his own along with a few scratches to the dog's ear should it not bite him. But turn on the man who counted every wrong against him, and you would end up like the poor goblin with bits of skull and brain scattered in the wind. Let that be a suggestion to the goblin he was currently offering a deal with. Cross him, and suffer a terrible death, perhaps one that would make you stop breathing so that you too may feel the fire burning up your lungs and your body going into respiratory shock.

Mechanics

Claimed Loot: 1 punch dagger, 2 days spider rations.
Action: Switch Psychic Focus from Psychic Assault to Telepathic Contact for Telepathy
Check: Persuasion on kicked goblin: 1d20 + 4 = 12 + 4 = 16

D&D 5E - Forgotten Realms

AdAM 7

---

The many lambs for slaughter you have raised,
Innocence branded with a mark to claim,
Bleating ignorant and mindlessly graze,
And their life a falsehood within a game.
As you their shepherd like a god on high,
Judge which will live on and which ram must die?

All it took was a push of a button. A pull of the trigger, resting at your fingertips. The temptation to become an agent of fate was alluring. To weave the tapestry into an image of your design, to tear out the spots that would not align with the vision patterned in your loom. A deletion of the unnecessary elements, required to preserve the integrity of the rest. The wool sheared off from the flock, the fibers spun together on the great wheel. A fine thread with which to stitch the lives and deaths throughout the course of tale and time. You were the master with deft hands to pass the shuttle and clip the strands, you crafted destiny out of the endless possibilities. Or were you merely a tool in the game of an even higher power? And like a puppet on strings and strands of the very wool you weave with, every action you profess to be your own is controlled by another?

Do you accept your fate as a living implement for eternity to come?
Or will you break free and escape the endless cycle?
Choose, or it is already chosen for you.


I will pull the wool over your eyes to see,
Unveiled what lies beneath so truth may yield,
And humble false superiority,
The fabric of reality revealed.
The mysteries unraveled at the seams,
And your life a shadow within a dream.

Sheep. What an appropriate cognition. An approximation to humor, the irony that sheep came to bear in mind. Organic creatures that were so timid and docile it was blissfully unaware of why its masters let it fatten. Dimwitted and innocent, their flesh appreciated as mutton, and their milk made into cheese. Their hair fashioned into clothing and their bones porcelain, hide into parchment and gut into string. What ingenuity the humans had in domesticating the sheep, they did not stop there as ill content they were with lording over only one lesser creature. Soon more joined into the annals of history as beasts morphed and indefinitely changed to suit the needs and desire of this bipedal species. And perhaps, just perhaps, in the deepest part of the ancestral mind you may still find that spark as a glimmering twinkle in the darkest night, if they could do more than just tame what already was, but design a servant of their own. Perhaps the ancients dreamed of electric sheep.

Created for battle for a war long forgotten by the land and remember by few, the electric sheep that once fought against demons and angels, gods and monsters and everything in between. The battered and broken remains of those corporal things still buried in the Great Dale and mountains of Narfell and Rashemen. The two forces collided in a contest of wills. Armies marched towards destruction, lives carelessly sacrificed for the purposes of conquest and interest. So many souls taken, and for little gain but the profit of the military-industrial complex which grew over the tides of battle. For it was an arms race, the side that had the greater resources and power, making the darkest bargains outright could win the deadlocked contest. A war of supremacy that sent all the sheep to slaughter to fuel the fires of dominion.

It was somewhere in this war the first generation of warforged were created. The ingenuity of the Raumauthar combined the mysticism of their witches, the knowledge of their engineers, and perhaps the divine aid of some higher power to create them. Built to mimic the ideal Raumauthar warrior, clad in armor and bulk, tall and heavy to charge directly against the hellish armies the Nar raised. They were given the spark of life, a rudimentary essence that charged their wooden sinew and awakened their tabula rasa minds. And from here these fabricated soldiers became a common sight to bolster the ranks as they fought alongside their human counterparts. Their purpose was clear, to overwhelm and crush the enemy, trained in the arts of combat by the veterans of battles fought. Then the next generation came, another batch, more fine tuned to compensate for the failings of their first creation. And then another, and another, and another still. Resources poured into the creation of these sentient constructs which were progressively becoming more and more self-aware.

Some of the early warforged, began to question. Instilled with enough free will by their god-creators for introspection. They needed not to eat, nor drink, nor breathe, nor sleep running practically every hour of the day as guardians and drones. But their masters were of flesh, they had spoken of things beyond the arts of war and killing, things of love and life: Laughter, sadness, anger. They were concepts foreign to the minds of the warforged, and most stayed as emotionless warriors for their masters. But others still looked at the broken remains of their batchmates and wondered the greatest mystery: Where? Where does death lead for a being without a natural life? Is it like the things humans described as sleep? A state of inactivity for indefinite time? Would their consciousness still be attached though their bodies were utterly destroyed? Or would their minds fade, the power fueling its existence gone? Where does the dead warforged go?

Unable to be both philosopher and warrior, they rebelled alongside the other defectors. And the empires of Nar and Raumauthar collapsed in on themselves. And those who were still yet to be activated remained untouched in abandoned facilities that doted the Vale and Mountains. Secret laboratories brimming with centuries old secrets lost to the grains of time. Overgrowth and burial hid these places from plain sight, and one must go looking for such a places to even know of its existence. Rumors of great treasures still hidden in the deepest parts of the Vale and in Thesk echoed through the hourglass, and it was from a place found from such as this did AdAM 7 awaken by the activation of some unscrupulous fellows. A relic of times past, one of the last generations of warforged made and put into hibernation, what humans may experience as a comatose state as the decades rolled past before his awakening. But that is a memory for another time.

For what brought the Advanced Assassin Mech unit 7 to the City of Splendors was not for tourist attractions or indulgence, but rather honest work plain and simple. There was a contract on a target, fingered and marked for death. The terms were simple, execute the individual in a public manner so someone would find the body. A strange set of instructions, but perhaps if the target was a high profile in the Crown of the North someone was playing a political move. Yet the contract was accepted, paid for in the fees to arrive and establish an advance support network to ensure the assassins' safe arrival and departure after the deed was done. The thrill of killing was gone now. After over three hundred successful executions to his name, the warforged assassin was known in the criminal underworld as a weirdly effective hitman. One who was effective and got the job done with no hesitation or qualms, as a ruthlessly cold calculated killer. After all, AdAM 7 had a heart of stone, literally.

It was this heart of stone, that tapped the rhythms out. The empowered stony chambers pumping out the hydraulics through the hollow tubes, an entire system that mimicked the human heart. Call it sentimentality, that the designers made it so, a striking resemblance to the weakest part of the human body. Not in susceptibility to injury, but perhaps in the fragility that sentimentality meant human died of an emotionally broken heart. Fortunately for the construct, emotions were a foreign concept to his relatively young mind, as his trainers did not require such weaknesses to be exploited. There would be no hesitation to fire the crossbow, no remorse after each kill, no human qualities that made you weak. And yet it was what AdAM craved most. Consider it strange that Man tried to emulate their gods by creating something to call their own, an entire form of sentient life, and to the created their creators became their gods. So too did the cycle continue that AdAM found its interest in becoming more human the logical step to transcend its prime directive of being a weapon of a war no longer fought.

Pursing the goal of becoming human, over the years with the coins bought in death, the warforged had begun to redesign and construct his body to resemble the human form. Though his original creators had used a lighter alloy in his construction, favoring a sleeker, more agile design for the purposes of scouting and assassinations of key targets such as Nar commanders and messengers, the warforged's final goal was to cover its mechanized form with flesh. Parts harvested from his kills and any unfortunate bystander that had to be eliminated. His fingers for example had been re worked to feature five human-like digits, in lieu of a standard warforge's cruder three-prong grasp. It had taken a few months to learn how to control the bony fingers individually but the artificer who became his wealthy mechanic's work was clean. It was only the beginning, with each customization sessions costing more and more, steel skeletal ribs for example to add a level of unnecessary detail to the wood-fiber musculature, each added rib making AdAM giving him a unique skeletal appearance. The most recent piece however was his change in face plate, crafted from an original human skull. A dark wizard's skull from a few contracts back, liberating a hamlet plagued by his undead minions. With the underlying facial structure done Now it was time for flesh, for a face at last.

A face. Something that the aspiring human lacked, one so sinisterly crafted out of dying bone, mounted and fitted carefully over the original. An unnerving semblance of undeath, a countenance fitting for an assassin though his patrons never met him for plausible deniability. It worked well, and who would believe there was a spider-riding mechanical sniper dropping people dead in a single well-practiced shot? It had scared of most social contacts, but there was an older man who had some interest in the warforged, inviting the construct to partake in food and drink, all the while asking him so many incessant questions about his background. Of which AdAM felt compelled to tell the truth. Yet despite confessing to countless murders, the old man seemed hardly phased, only musing on to more prying. Yes, a round of at least three dozen or so questions, offset by the experience of eating and drinking for the first time.

Ruby lights flashed underneath the ebon cloth. A soft glow muffled by darkness through the dim light, the spark returning, and the loosely termed consciousness of a warforged returning. Systems back online, the thumping in his metal mediastinum, a moment spent rebooting the memory, retrieving the last recorded event as images flashed like a video reel ran in reverse. Blackness, hours of blackness, and then food and drink. A bowl of stew and mug of frothy ale, the lack of taste buds made it impossible to appreciate any flavor the food may or may not have had, but the act of masticating and consuming was far more interesting to the construct. Yes, perhaps a tongue would be required next and the sensory paths to his mind attuned. But before a tongue can be taken, first he must retrieve his personal effects, and AdAM 8 his unusual mount. Last left at the safe house under the care of some frightened common crook. Perhaps the spider hungered and ate the criminal already, never forget to feed a quarter-ton spider.

Arms were detected and moveable, and leg was detected. Leg? Only one? No, two. A peculiar sensation from the left, as if the mind neglected acknowledgment of the limb intermittently. This required investigation, but first to rise from the slightly angled stone slab. Torso rising, pulled forward as the tubes filled with unknown scarlet ether had embedded into his body were tugged slightly back as a curious restraint. What had happened? No memory of being in such a state occurred in the review. Nor was this place as the mantle fell from those glowing eyes. The horizontal visual scan illuminated little of the place, presumptively cubical room of dimensions approximated to be 2500 square feet, no portcullis in sight. Curiouser and curiouser, as more cloth was peeled back by an arm sporting a series of those queer conduits and a shining . A gown. What use did he have for the scant clothing of a gown? It would be discarded soon enough.

A laboratory, a medical one, as the pounding heart sounds resounded against the walls palpating as the warforge sat up against the continual drone of fan blades. Fan blades with no discernable fan, and a now the sounds of pumps from the slab behind him, and the altar-bed knocked of hollow stone. And strangest of all, were the strangers heard and seen below. Alongside the work benches and walls, questionable blood, possible bone dust, and melting candlelight throwing light and shade around the forms. Were these his kidnappers? No. They too seemed to be wearing gowns. There below was a half-breed organic, pedigreed of elven and human which bore a blade into existence. Then a mountain of a man, or rather goliath, smiling a grin that glimmered like a displacer beast's in the underdark. Some paces away a gnomish figure, short and stout, but clearly not a dwarf by the laboratory bench, with a spec of flapping fairy attempting to be as threateningly defensive as possible it seemed in a far flung corner. Two more blankets-covered slabs with similar tubes running into the offered vessels. Six other beings in the vicinity, and AdAM 7, made seven. Was it coincidence? They shall have to see, and finally the veil was taken off and slipped down below, discarded like the wilting petals of the orchids on the table.

A leg. A fleshy leg fused at the pelvis. covered in blonde hairs and supple fair skin. Ah the reason for the sinister neglect. And still tubes attached, like his right arm. And so too was the left. Ah the left, it too was just as the leg, covered in skin and hair and fused at the shoulder girdle, as fingers slowly tingling in a mix of surprise and disbelief. But not fear or shock, more of a child-like wondrous curiosity to find oneself half-way to appearing human. Appreciating the sight of seeing those fingers move, his fingers move. And then those glowing artificial eyes gazed lower as the sight of a jewel near the flexion point of the arm, a radiant blue in what light there was and luminously pulsatile. What was done? And who was responsible for this transformation? And why was there the need? The need for something, something reflexively screaming at his body to draw in air through the nasal cavity. A rise of his chest cavity, a rush of his first breath realized moments after. Lungs perhaps? A human weakness from his autopsies of isolated targets, but a human quality nonetheless, now presumably inside him. All things took awhile to acclimate as the mind reorganized the pathways of command. Including that strange taste. Taste? A new muscle ran across those toothless maxilla, a tongue complete with thick saliva as the faint sulfur in the air became apparent and the new sensory piece withdrawn.

And alas, the final epiphany, the sensation in his chest beyond the rise and fall of this new breathing routine he must do. That pounding, the sounds of... His heart. One that replaced his ancient core, the source of a Warforged's indefinite biological immortality. Was it an organic heart? One ripped out from a human? As were his new limbs? And what of his old ones? Where did they go? So impressed by the new findings, AdAM found himself building the ship of theseus. Maybe he should be rechristened as AdAM 7.5a. To which his gaze looked down at the organics beneath him now, it was time to discern if these were truly organics, or just other experiments more whole than he was...


"Salutation: Greetings Varied Organics.
Comment: I am AdAM Seven.
Inquiry: What are your identities?"

A rather friendly greeting for a man, or rather machine, or perhaps somewhere in the middle now, that has taken a fairly number of lives and left behind a string of unresolved murders and orphans and widows.

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Thomas Richard Harrison

Location: The Crossed Swords, then the Apothecary.
Interacting with: Kyra, Satilla, the Merchant of Menace (shopkeeper).

Well, Only one directly answer the question. Sure it was a longshot, but Sana was generous enough to entrust Thomas with some funds towards ingredients and reagents. "Oh thanks Sana, I'll try and see if they have anything. If not torches should work too if we place them tactically and all." Grinding the last of the powdered silver for Satilla who mused over the amounts of silver unbeknownst to Thomas. They did end up with a bit of extra, probably enough to plate a weapon with silver. A smart idea as Sana and Kyra pointed out, even Satilla threw in a weapon and Keystone threw in a pair of mean looking gloves. Practically everyone was silvering, to which Thomas briefly considered the benefits of silvering his knife, but given his lack of combat efficacy with a blade, he might just end up stabbing himself with a silvered tip in combat. As such pulling out a few Silver coins of his own, the sorcerer added to the pile of silver to be melted down, plus a probably scrap silver fee for the smith's work. Artisans did after all deserve fair pay, assuming they were still around in an undead mobbed hamlet. It was nice that Satilla offered to join, she could learn a few things about the unnatural elements used in alchemy, well unnatural in the sense they didn't grow in a forest. "I'd be more than happy to have you join me Satilla." Wait, was that too strong? Maybe he should invite Cyne too? Although the druid just offered to help Keystone with practical fashion. And it seemed Satilla didn't seem like she approved anyways, alchemy over herbalism it seemed, Thomas over... Uh wait... A slight pause before Thomas awkwardly blinked his eyes trying to reset and recover "Okay then, we'll be back in bit!"

---

The bell above the door rang, a jingle, a little song played for the proprietor to gleefully rub his or her hands with glee. Profits to be made today, or perhaps if they had felt short-changed by Satilla and Kyra earlier, now would be a time to gouge a young wizard. Or at least that was what Thomas looked like, a wizard, with his satchel slung over a shoulder his robes, that boyish look in his eye like a kid in a candy store as he entered to examine the stock. Remember children, alchemical unguents, though some are pleasant smelling, are more often than not rather toxic to health. Yet there was a bit of disappointment to find the shelves more empty than full, as reasonable as it was to find an attacked town depleted of supplies.

"Hello? I'm looking for a few things. Namely 100 grams of purified white phosphorous, a grindable crystal, 50 grams of yellow sulfur, and the same amount of saltpeter. Oh and a fire scarab carapace. Or if you have something that might work similarly to the last thing on my shopping list. Maybe a fire beetle? Not sure on how a substitution will work."

D&D 5E - Forgotten Realms

AdAM 7 (Advanced Asasssination Mech unit 7)

AdAM 7

Reference Picture

🦄 Duplicity - D&D Style Fantasy Rp Adventure (Completed)

Assuming I survive my all day conferences... I will try nd get a post tonight.

@Lady Amalthea
Should I move Thomas and Satilla in my post?

D&D 5e - Lost Mine of Phandelver

"M" the silent

---

A glint.
A cutting of air.
Nothing more nothing less.
Spotted from the corner of the eye.
Heard on the wind as it came.
But all too late.

He was right. His perception and deduction sharp, but his reaction slow at the draw. Agility and deftness was never quite his forte, did one really expect every street rat to be capable of leaping from rooftop to rooftop, parkouring all across the city like some would be assassin? No, the psion took refuge in the mind, in the Noosphere where his psyche leapt from one subject to another, gathering the knowledge of the ages. The memories of the world brain, a sphere of consciousness travelled by those who walk a higher realm. But what good is knowing it is a trap when just as he predicted, the simpleton amongst them ran in with an axe to cleave the head of a horse? Hacking, endless cleaving the sounds of the bait being taken and all that butchered meat wasted. It was a shame, but as the half-orc emerged a full mess of visera and gore, asking the genasi if he wanted any part of the spoils, the glint of an unnatural wasp stung the half-orc.

Yet there was no time to smirk in the superiority of his own intellect accurately predicting this result. For in the matter of moments the goblins pressed the assault, everything exploding into action as darts flew into the air. Maybe there would be an assassination yet, the genasi had dropped down to take cover, lying low from the shots blown. Their warrior having snuck over by the woodland stride, the cleric taking the other path as they crossed. Good, it was all positioned proper as he thought, taking the high vantage atop the cart, and yet what boon was given was also taken. As the psion realized the goblins had not been above killing the animals in tow, thus if they spooked or slew their beasts of burden, then this wagon would never reach their destination in time. Thus rein in hand he started to pull the lumbering beasts to turn, hopefully putting a distance between their living animals and the raiders.

Do you what sound a man makes,
When an arrow punctures his flesh?
When a shaft digs into his ribs?
When a point piercings his lungs?

There was no pain at first. No feeling to it. Just a expiratory gasp, a subtle sigh. It was not some great cry of agony, no dramatic point of death, but a subtle exhale on the parting breath. This was the sound a man. It was the air leaving the lungs as they collapsed, forced out the change in pressure. Like a popped balloon, or more so one crushed by the forces at play, the lobes wilted away. Blood and air from the outside tunneling through the wound, filling the void of space. It was this soft forsaken cry which trumpeted the arrival of pain.

Then came the body's response. The heave, the wheeze, the breathlessness, as the sudden shock alerted the all slow brain to realize what had happened. The flank branded hot from the arrow half-embedded into the chest, from the sticking up and sliding between the ribs at just the right angle to make its way into the airy organ. The immediate action that followed would be the wince, tension and pressure applied to the flesh wound, wooden haft between the fingers to stabilize and reduce the bleeding. And though the brain itself was wracked with screams from nerve fibers on fire, the mind was focus on finding who it was that fired the shot. The direction and angle of entry, the ear and eyes tuning to the balance and sight of the poor unfortunate soul that had so foolishly attacked him.

And though it seemed the sudden disappearance of the flute-playing bard made a scantily-clad rogue appear from the scholar's dark carriage, to which certainly was not the scholar they had been travelling with unless those horns were for more than just impressing the ladies. Of such a question raises why the bard, who was perhaps nauseatingly pleasing to the eyes of men who were intoxicated by the company of such women, ducked inside the carriage to summon her possible protector? A mystery to be considered at another time, as first there was a lesson to be learned. And whatever spell was cast by the tiefling at the offending creature seemed to agonize and antagonize it some, burning away at the candle of rage as it Seethed with emotions at whatever was being shouted at it in some language uncaught by the psion under the distraction of an arrow embedded in one's chest.

His vision turned to the right, of where the roguish warrior had slunk off to, spotting the poorly hidden attacker, and then another engaging the girl. There must be more, there were more, as those deep chocolate eyes had spotted two in plain sight moments earlier and he had expected some movements flanking from the woods to their right. But now those eyes still widen in pain and shock surged with more than adrenaline but terrifying insight. Those abyssal pupils bore locked into that hideous cretin's eyes, staring deep into its sockets, boring a hole through with mere vision alone perhaps! But no, more horrific than daggers for deathstares were the connections being made, entangled waves of psionic energy like invisible tentacles lashing from the psion's head. If eyes could see what the mind has thought of, if words alone could adequate describe the terror that the lone goblin would experience as the target of its arrow became a thing that should not be!

And it was all in the mind of that sole goblin. However clever, or however dumb the creature was, the psion's vengeance was repaid in kind. As within a blink of its terrified eye, its body froze and jaw dropped, eyes rolled back and a earsplitting shriek became its last words. It was done, but not over, no for this very insult and injury, the goblin would not die a peaceful death. He recounted every sin against him, and gave the poor thing its due as the waves of psionic energy intensified, piercing its way through the softened mush the remains of the shattered psyche. And then in a gloriously gory finale, the goblin's head burst in a shower of skull and brains, eyeballs flying out as blood sprayed from the stump of its bleeding neck.

Retribution done, the psion slid down the wagon's seat slumped against the cover of against attacks from the northern flank. A tactical move hopefully though spotting the injuries of their warrior himself, he could turn his attention to that goblin later if it dared to face him after seeing what a bloody mess he made of its ally. And from the looks of it, perhaps what Kiki herself had done to its other friend. Resting his powerful head back against the wagon, grounded body leaning on the wood for his support, the arrow still embedded in his thorax confirmed these were the killers of those horses. And if their Lordsman was right, they have also killed this party's employer and his work contact. Best interrogate one of the goblins to find out, though a psychic interrogation may reveal his powers, if not the fantastically visceral display that may have matched the half-orc's wanton axing. Hopefully the others were finding themselves in better luck.

Still though... This punctured lung meant he would be a bit short on breath, alive but certainly every breath was like breathing fire.
I need healing.

Mechanics

1) Action: Mind Thrust I6 goblin, Int vs 13 = 1d20 + 0 = (1) + 0 = Failed save. Damage = 1d10 + 2 = (9) + 2 = 11. Fatality.
2) Move: D7(ish) to E6, dismounting wagon and taking possible partial cover (half cover)?

D&D 5e - Lost Mine of Phandelver

"M" the silent

---

Half a day into today's travels, behind them the High Road running south from Neverwinter, upon the Triboard Trail that would lead to Phandalin. It was a small miracle that they had made it this far without so much of a gnat to bother their travels. No bandits had accosted them, only the flies that pestered their oxen under the day's sun, and the moths that were mystified by the fires of their camp by night. Uneventful, and uneventful was good, the faster they arrived to Phandalin, the faster he could get paid and return to Neverwinter. Unless of course the journey was meant to be a one-way trip, of which he would have the dwarf's brains splattered inside his skull for such treachery. The kids would have enough for two weeks only, scratched and scrounged out from what savings the psion had, a few glittering gold pieces and of course just enough for himself to purchase a horse to travel back and resell at Neverwinter. Hopefully though the dwarf could loan him a vehicle to get back without charge. Either way there was no intention on staying around in Phandalin, not with his responsibilities and Neverwinter despite all the hardship it had given him, was his home. These others amongst him may have their own purposes, the wizard always annoyingly reminding everyone of both his affiliation with the Lords, and spellcasting tactics. A daily spiel for the sake of the half-orc perhaps, as for the umpteenth time Seethe reminded the party. At least the flute and accompanying lute were less grating. That is until the lutist ended on a short note.

The Triboar Trail ran itself into the woodland a few feet further in. And there in the path, where the greenery and foliage began to overgrow the dirt-trodden plod, was a morbid sight. Amongst the verdant glen two creatures lay, slain by arrows embedded into the their lifeless bodies. What horror was it that claimed the lives of the horses basking under the high noon sun? Their glassy eyes burned out from staring perpetually into the light of unrelenting day even as the leaves filtered out some of the morning beams. Did they die in shock and panic? Suddenly finding themselves riddled with sticks and metal? Neighing and screaming as they fell upon the trampled earth? Did their riders turn back or attempt to as the first arrow met its mark? Yes riders for one was saddled, still geared, and certainly no wild horse would use a road and travel in pairs. What happened here?

They did not a natural death clearly, for what beast uses arrows to kill a steed? No beast made these marks, but what ones made those arrows? Something clever, clever enough to use tools. Bandits perhaps? Looking at the lay of the terrain, it would be likely this was a trap. Holding the reins the silent Psion pulled the oxen back, signaling the beasts to hold their advance just before the edge of the small forest. A hand held up to the rest of the group if they were watching, a cautious stop. Something was amiss. The day was warm, and there was no stench of rot yet in the air. These horses were untouched by anything save the arrows, and how their bodies blocked the path to proceed. Around them ample coverage from nature's blessings, a perfect set up for an ambush was it not? Travelers could not rush forward by the dead barricade. No beast had come to eat the free offerings, nor drag it back to their dens to devour. All of it seemed to cry out trap. Every strike against it considered in his mind.

Watchful waiting, then. the best course of option to see which fool would be the first to be richly rewarded. Either by whatever belonging the riders had left behind, or by more black-feathered arrows. Should it come to it, the psion would demonstrate his ability, taking a moment to refocus his mind, letting go of some knowledge gleaned from the Noosphere and preparing himself for what Seethe had so eagerly been expecting. Perhaps today would be the genasi's lucky day, and finally he would be able to sling some spells, maybe even the Barbarian might hew some limbs off some poor sap. With any luck it would be the half-wit half-orc who would rush down the rest of the road to investigate closer. After all those horses looked heavy, and the brute was probably the only one with the muscle to push them away.

Mechanics

Movement: From starting position, moving to D7 on wagon then stopping. Looking for enemies with a Passive Perception of 18.
Location: D7
Investigation: Passive 20 to consider the scenario presented: considering a trap.
Action: Switch Psychic focus from Nomadic Mind to Psychic Assault in preparation for possible combat.

D&D 5e - Lost Mine of Phandelver

@Regitnui

The problem with playing characters in characters is that if not done correctly, it will get tricky with the group dynamics.
Since currently both members accounted for are one person, yet there is no IC knowledge of them being the same person.
Therein both were assumed to be hired by the dwarf. And thus technically both would be owed 10 gp.
Thus Cas would be paid 20 gp total if the deception remains throughout the party.

You'll have to work out the details with the GM, but since our characters don't seem to know each other that well, no one knows Cas is behind both personas. Hence they should be treated as unique party members until otherwise discovered to be one changeling. At which depending on what happens when the deception is revealed, will be interesting...

D&D 5e - Lost Mine of Phandelver

@Regitnui

I understand that.
However our characters do not know this.
There is a difference between OOC mechanics and IC perception.

So there are for IC purposes 7 people in their party:
Ilisandoral - Scholar 'hiding' in his carriage.
Ardiane - Bard sitting horseback playing the flute
Elki - Young cleric sitting at the back of the supply wagon
M - Mute psion driving the wagon
Kiki - Mercenary 1 / scout
Bar - Mercenary 2 / loose cannon
Seethe - Nobleman of the Lord's Alliance.

Two vehicles in transport:
one being the wagon owned by the Dwarf which we are to escort,
One belonging to Ilisandoral

Is this an accurate party count?

D&D 5e - Lost Mine of Phandelver

"M" the silent

---

Neverwinter the city that was. Beset from all sides yet still it prevailed. Neither volcano, nor sea, nor forces dark could crumble her majesty. And from the rubble of her walls, the sealing of her wounded chasm, once more the city rose. Not as glorious as before, for the still new was her spark, but still she survived. And the greed of men came down upon her, like suitors to a bride, before the first seeds had spouted. Those who were born to her womb, who have struggled to scratch out a living through and through as if trapped by her maternal grasp, they were pushed out. Those who kept their silence in the cycle were viciously thrown into the pit, as looters came to prosper, new inhabitants clawing into the old city, finding ruins and old villas to haunt. New blood trickled in as the walls fell down, and opportunity lay for those aggressive enough to carve out a piece of Neverwinter's ruins. These distressed streets paved piece by piece over the years, and Lord Protector Neverember hand came down upon Neverwinter years ago to stabilize the resurfacing factions. Renewed the spirit, invigorated by the desires of outsiders to control and divide, uniting the once splendorous city under their own banner, every district flooded with new arrivals as travelers from near and far come. It was the dawn of a new day over Neverwinter.

Yet it was not the city he remembered. The city was a harsh father, teaching him what lessons in life he took with him. A cruel master tormenting you hunger though the markets were alive with all manners of food. Long ago, a dry throat thirsted over the taverns lit with carousal and flowing ales, and a weary head rested dreaming of the warm beds of the inn below him. Born nearly two and a half decades ago, M never knew who it was that left him there to be raised by the streets, taken in not by the orphanage that found him there, but rather by the city of Neverwinter itself. Who would adopt a child without a voice? Did they think he was slow? Addled and unable to speak his mind? His caretakers never bothered, keeping the boy alive, but thin and meager, and yet still he took after his rightful parents and survived. They at the orphanage gave him a name, one he no longer uses after leaving that place of sadness. For in the streets of Neverwinter he adopted a new moniker, a name to call his own, for it was he who bestowed it upon himself. Rechristened and reborn, the boy swore he would one day make a home for all the forgotten children.

How long ago was that? Toil and sweat grunted, blood and tears shed. An old building partially restored with what scrap lay in the Chasm's rundown district. A humble place reclaimed from an broken down inn, looted dry of goods by the structure still standing. A roof partially caved in, leaking in the rain, a creaking wood and rickety stairways, and a sewage system long in need of a washing. Through the years by his work the inn became a safe haven for other children left behind. A place quietly run by what they'd consider an older brother, a kind stranger who treated them like family. The coins earned from every odd job that rolled his way, going towards keeping the children fed and sheltered. In a way the makeshift orphanage was his kingdom, and he was the Prince in rags, a working class citizen with a noble heart. What gracious charity was accepted by those few who knew of his work, certainly with two dozen kids running around parentless he alone could not be there all the time. So at times the widowed women came, or the eldest of the children, to keep an eye on the ever-changing lot. They came and went freely, it was there so they could have a place to call home, even if they had wandered well and lost.

There were rules however, and the finances were managed by himself, shrewdly negotiating the prices of daily meals and goods. Work was difficult, and coins were precious, each to be spent prudently in the marketplace. Not the finest nor the freshest of produce and breads, nor the best quality cuts of meats or fish, but there was always something at the table. Where they could all join together as one large family, each taking a bit under the eye of big brother. A simple life, a small pleasure afforded by the wages earned, and a bit of subliminal manipulations. Being a psion had its perks, as he had discovered at an early age. The vast knowledge of the Noosphere waiting to be plucked by his mind, raided for its contents until eventually a new topic was sought to be learned and the memory of the old ones faded away. It was after all how the boy learned all his skills, reading, writing, mathematics, everything was available in the mystery of the Noosphere as the collective body of thought. And this was merely the beginning of what his mind could do.

So looking back, Neverwinter was still visible on the northern horizon smaller but still ever present. A few days away would be fine, there was enough food to last, a few coins left with the eldest Laura and Jules. They were good kids, wouldn't spend so lavishly as the others, knew how to be safe and keep the money tight. In the care of those so dependent on the shelter, it would be respected, unlike those who sought to use its innocence for all sorts of illicit activities. Yes, thieves and other scum had sometimes found it a tempting target, and those honorless bastards found themselves at odds with the building's protector. A solo scoundrel would be easily dispatched, their brains impaled and pierced by psychic ravaging, until their bodies were left brain dead. But a gang or group would be more difficult, especially when they threatened the safety of the kids. To which it was easier to come to an agreement of providing a stipend of money monthly, and some services in exchange for 'protection.' Yet every month they squeezed harder, asking for a bit more each time they came back. The factions wouldn't lend a hand, keeping order elsewhere in Neverwinter, and the rest were vying to rebuild and glean a position of higher power. All the politicks making it difficult to voice anything in the will of the mighty.

Fortunately there was favour with a dwarf named Gundren Rockseeker. Who occasionally provided small jobs and contacts for work throughout the city. A man of talent could always find something to use his mind for, even with the strange mutism he had. Whether it was a simple go fetch this from this person from one of the self-style nobles, which a former street urchin could do with ease, slipping in and out of the bustling city and reappearing later like magic, or assisting scholars in finding information scattered throughout Neverwinter. The psion swallowed his pride and served effectively, though never quite telling anyone his name. Rather, he was referred to as either 'Errand Boy' or 'that quiet one' or whatever name his direct employer decided to call him. This time Gundren had hired him for a mere 10 gold pieces to escort a supply wagon to Phandalin. Phandalin of all places, a grungy little settlement wasn't it? What was there to behold? The dwarf wouldn't say, and certainly the mute didn't ask. Work was work, certainly the dwarf had amassed a strange group.

First was the bard, ever cheery atop a horse, a half-elf girl with locks of golden hair in the wind as her coy smile made the psion doubt her nature. Perhaps it was because he too wore a mask and concealed a hidden talent that the mute man found this girl's mannerisms to be unsettling. For behind her tugged in two another carriage, for some scholar they had hired, one who had yet to be seen thus far. Yet like the stranger, he too was not ready to reveal his own talents and invade the minds of his fellow travellers, especially not that of the Barbarian half-orc. Yes, it was almost a redundancy to say barbican half-orc, and this one as much of his ilk and kin were short on brains. All muscle without thought, a stupid creature that spoke too loudly for its own intellect, telepathy would most likely frighten the simple minded, the voice of gods or demons, or whatever other power they believe it to be talking to them. At least he managed to keep out of the creature's strange ritual of 'testing armor' as their hire called it. Three members to be wary of, as it was.

And then there was lutist, who often accompanied the flutist, another female and a traveler from afar by the looks and sounds of it. He had kept his distance from most, his silence being the bastion that gave him reason to remain aloof, yet she was some sort of warrior by the weapons she carried and armor she wore, though one who prefer finesse over brute strength he concluded by her sleek form and supple armor. Yes, being the one to listen and observe, to think rather than speak, there was the benefit in being a thus far the group's watcher. It was he who drove the supply wagon, sitting with the reins in hand as the oxen plod forward along. A team of horses would have been faster, yet the equipment carried behind him seemed quite the stash. How much was it worth to the dwarf to get it all to Phandalin? A mining operation by the sounds of it, the secrecy and the man involved. Dwarf and his brothers, even taking a guard to go scout ahead? 10 golds was 10 golds, and a man's good faith and trust had been bought for less. Still, the mystery of Phandalin piqued the interest, and what motivations the others had for accepting the job. The traveler he could understand needing the work, and the barbarian perhaps some hired muscle, the bard entertainment for them both.

Then the final two where the academics, a fiery nobleman and a young girl. The former was a member of the Alliance no doubt, the airs and way he carried himself, buried in books or recounting a tale. Perhaps that was why he was here, official business sanctioned by the Lords. He was a genasi of fire as suggested by those crackling curtains, the redness of his iris burning with the look of superiority brightly glowing. The latter was a young girl, not one far younger than Laura by her looks, still wide-eyed and wondering about the world. A holy symbol marked her office, a worshiper, someone who prayed for a miracle to come and thanked the gods for their deliverance. Prayer only did so much, thrown at the mercy of the uncaring gods, the chaos of their dice and the cruel justice of their self-righteousness. And as for magic, magic was either a gift at an accidental birth, borrowed from a moment, or learned to be forgotten. Only the strength of the mind and one's own will persisted. Was he not living proof of that?

Enough looking back. Reminiscence was to be put behind him. For a few days this rag-tag group would be his acquaintances. Three women, and three men, one unknown, each of differing personas certainly, for a balanced grouped it would seem, and each had their role, two mercenaries, two morale keepers, a scholar, a captain and a servant. Strange that the barbarian refused to wear clothing in front of such young ladies, but perhaps decency for one as dimwitted as the half-orc was out the window, despite how much the Lordsmen could protest for. The psion himself wore simple clothes, his thin and lanky frame beneath a shabby white tunic and brown patched linen trousers, his boots clearly his only pair as thin as the soles ran worn down as he walked. A weather-beaten traveler's cloak across his shoulder, serving as a blanket for chilly nights sleeping atop the wagon, he could sleep anywhere by now despite carrying a bedroll. The silent one amongst the group preferred to keep a close count on the supplies promised to be delivered, in case something was missing from the cargo and their pay suspect to thievery, and of course someone had to notice any bandits approaching from the rear and snap the reins to rush the oxen forward. Though their journey so far had been quiet, danger always lurked on these roads thus vigilance was key. They were party united by the threads of their simple task, to guard this supply wagon safely through to the city ahead. What compensation was there should anything happen between Neverwinter and their destination? Was it really worth to risk your life 10 golds? Or would it be more fitting to risk a total stranger's? But the new names of his troupe was learned and placed into memory, written somewhere into the Noosphere. Ardiane, Bar, Kiki, Seethe, and Elki...

And he would remain a stranger to them,
Though they may call him many things,
His name was truly and only his own.

[[5]]