Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update

The Hapless Bishop

Kellus instinctively reached for his Helmite medallion and just as quickly scowled as his fingers met only the folds of his cloak. The only time the former priest uttered the Lord Protector’s name was to use it in vain. He did so now, a reaction born of both bitterness and fear. Helm, you bastard, first my father and now me, is that it?

The shadow was huge.

It came sweeping across the moonlit meadow like a black mantle effortlessly gliding along the weeds. Kellus could easily discern the beast’s head, its sinuous neck, its wings. And that great, barbed tail. The godless priest pressed his head against the neck of his horse and hoped the beast wouldn’t neigh with fear. He felt more than saw the shadow pass directly over his position.

The party was huddled within a copse of dying pines. Raylin was out in the meadow, may the gods take mercy upon him, pressed against the weeds like a babe to his mother’s bosom. Had the ranger rode into the clearing on horseback, instead of dismounting and walking alone, they doubtless would already be dead.

Yet the shadow, inexplicably, passed.

Even Amelyssan seemed shaken in the wake of that flying dread. The elf’s features were white under the moon, his eyes pools of doubt. Kellus reached out to place a reassuring hand on the wizard’s shoulders, then stopped himself. He was no longer in the job of offering compassion. The world was as it at always been; best Amelyssan learn such, and learn it quickly.

Raylin pulled himself from the weeds and silently padded toward the party, his black Larren cloak a darting shadow amidst the patches of snow at his feet. The ranger, if he had been frightened, no longer showed it. “The barbed tail. 'Twas not a dragon. Only a wyvern.”

John barked a not-so-loud laugh. “Only a wyvern? Does a drowning man care if the water’s one foot or one hundred feet deep?” Seeing a few blank expressions, the Pellman sighed and went silent.

Kellus licked lips cracked from the constant winds. It was cold here, so close to the ubiquitous Balantir Cor peaks. Frigid enough to make his snot run, but not so cold to freeze it. Damn the heavens. “And the trail?”

Raylin shook his head. “We will have to wait until the morrow. The Bishop’s horse grazed in this very spot for a handful of moments before being ridden into the field. I lost the tracks there.”

John’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. For a handful of moments Kellus thought the Pellman looked like a codfish known to inhabit the warm waters of John’s homeland. “You lost the tracks? There?” At the clansman’s nod, John spat. “Raylin, by Auril’s icy ass, there’s snow everywhere-“

Raylin’s eyes were as flat as his tone. “We must wait until tomorrow. Spirits willing, I will find his trail with the sun.”

***

Kellus always found it humorous that camping men sat in a circle, as if staring at a fire, even when there was none. He looked across the darkness toward Baden. Other than the thick-skinned half-troll, the dwarf seemed to be the only one not affected by the cold. Doubtless from that sprawling beard, it appears as warm as any blanket. Kellus smiled, though none could see his expression.

Amelyssan wrapped his furs about him. “There are signs. Signs we have been mislead.” No one seemed to be in the mood to encourage him, so the elf continued after a silent pause. “The Rornman told us Bishop Herryn was near Raven’s Roost, yes? But our ranger has found the trail, and believes it to be fresh. We are still – what? – two days’ from the Roost?”

Raylin answered, “Two, at least. We only left Aramin’s tent last evening. The Bishop tracks northward. He has not doubled back, so far as I can tell. I would say we are but a few hours behind him.”

Kellus began to see Amelyssan’s reasoning. “You think he lied to us?”

The elf nodded. “What’s more – I think he wanted us to move early. He did not want us to spend the night.”

John idly dug into the snow with his bootheel. “Think the half-troll scares him?” Vath growled softly, a sound reminiscent of groaning timber.

Amelyssan continued. “He was scared, aye, but not of Vath.”

“He did not want to wait for the morning,” Kellus continued the elf’s line of thought, “because he feared I would then be able to use my powers to discern if he lied.”

The moon’s illumination was growing feeble, nearly gone now, yet Amelyssan’s smile was easy enough to see. “Score one for the Rornman, eh?”

Vath rubbed the constricting wrist-cords of Ilmater. A rumble grew in his stomach, filtered through his throat, and escaped his mouth like gravel falling downhill. “His victory will be short-lived. Let us return to him on the morrow. Forget this Bishop.”

“Easy, friend,” John raised a hand in the inky darkness. “So the Bishop is closer than we thought - I see Tymora’s work as much as Beshaba’s in this. We will get the second piece of the staff that much sooner, and return to the Rornman’s tent that much sooner. By tomorrow night we’ll be pissing streams of beer onto the Doom Lizard’s ribs, richer by two hundred crowns. Aramin can be your companion for the night, Brother Vath, I won’t gainsay you.”

The group subsided into silence even as the wind increased. Finally, Raylin stood and brushed snow from his breeches. “Sleep. I will split the watch with the half-troll. Let us see where these tracks lead in the morning, and then we can decide our course.”

***

John crossed both arms upon the pommel of his saddle and smiled to take the bite from his words. “Back in Pell I remember running into a half-elf who claimed to be a bard. He was a bit of a braggart, so – after a few cups – I challenged him to a duel.”

“You are quick to leap to combat.” Baden tugged at his beard, eyes squinting against the harsh, morning sun.

“Not with blades, dwarf,” John chuckled. “To lutes. I told him he could play any song he knew on my lute, and I would play it twice as good. There were no shortage of harlots around to act as judges. And do you know what he said? Do you?”

“No, John, tell us.” Kellus was fast growing annoyed with the Pellman’s banter.

“He said that he didn’t play the lute. Said he never played it before.” John smacked his hands in the frigid air and grinned like a drunk. Somewhere, far above and to the east, a hawk’s cry pierced the air. “I told him that a bard who couldn’t play the lute was like a ranger that couldn’t track.”

Raylin was squatting in the snow-dappled field. He stood. “Say what you mean, Pellman.”

“I think I just did.”

Kellus urged his horse forward between the men, careful to not mar the Bishop’s tracks in the snow. “Enough.” He looked toward the clansman. “The tracks are easy to see, even for us not schooled in such skills. Yet they just stop, there, in the middle of this field?” It was as much a question as a statement.

Raylin doffed his woolen cap and dragged a hand through tangled hair. “They stop. There are no tracks leaving this clearing, by the name of my father.”

“Tell me, clansman,” John murmured, “was your father as good a tracker as yourself?”

They would have come to blows then had not Kellus’ shout broken the mood. “Enough, I said! Are we children? The tracks stop, John – you can see as much. We must determine why.”

Amelyssan tapped a finger against his chin, unruffled by the recent bickering. “On my homeland there are those of the Totem who, it is said, can cross fields of dead leaves, even snow, without leaving a trace. There is no magic here, I am certain. Perhaps this man knows the arts of those druidic folk?”

“He’s a priest, elf. Though, I suppose, his horse may be a druid.”

Vath suddenly reappeared on the far side of the snowy meadow. The half-troll loped toward them, mostly on all fours, and then straightened. “No scent of man or beast ahead. Snow spiders everywhere, their strands unbroken from tree to tree. He did not leave this clearing.”

“Really?” John feigned alertness and scanned the featureless meadow. “Then he must still be here. Invisible. And floating. His horse – er, druid - too.”

Baden’s face grew red. The dwarf opened his mouth but Kellus interrupted. “Raylin, the tracks…do they simply stop?”

“I have said as much.”

Kellus shook his head. “No, no. Do they stop – as if the horse stopped? Or do they appear as if the horse skidded, perhaps, on the snow?”

The ranger squatted once more and read the signs. “Aye, perhaps. The Bishop was on an easy canter when he crossed to here. There are two hoof prints where there should be four.”

“There is our answer.” Kellus was not so modest to not enjoy the expectant looks of his companions. “The wyvern. Bishop Herryn was dinner. He was plucked from this field, with his horse.”

Baden smirked deep within his beard. “Raylin, tell me – have you, or your father, ever tracked a wyvern?”

This group definitally has a personality. But there's still so much to learn about them.

"Please Sir, can I have some more?"

Climbing Borbidon's Rest

Just the smell of the wyvern was enough to nearly overwhelm Baden with thoughts of terror, followed by loss. Dreadful loss. Unbidden memories rushed upon him like a Deepearth cataract. Aye, he recalled the childhood morning, long ago, when he first smelled such a stench. How could he not? A child does not easily forget the death of his father.

And the death was slow in coming. It started with the battle by the pools, certainly. But then it took the form of simple things: an empty hammock strung forlornly between two stone columns, a wayward rucksack lying forgotten near the door in his family’s den, a basted and boiled cave crab set upon the feasting trestle, a half-moon axe returned by grim-faced Axemarch warriors. A shining axe, mind you, with nary a trace of gore.

The first few patches of whiskers had appeared, nearly overnight, on Baden’s chin and upper lip. He was but ten years old, very young to be sprouting a beard so soon. Runwan Dost ran the tips of her thick fingers along his jaw then pushed him gently toward the exit of their family’s den. “Fetch your sire, young Baden, and let him see the mark of Moradin on you cheeks with his own eyes. Tell him, too, that we shall crack a cave crab tonight in celebration.”

Baden grinned with the confidence of a favored, only child. The dwarf-child skipped down the spiral staircase outside his den and dashed across the flagstones of the central halls. Adults of his clan stepped aside with knowing smiles as the young boy ran past, eyes alight. Banidon Dost was well-liked by worker and warrior alike, and his son shared in the affection the clan held for the father.

Yet, before Baden knew it, he was lost – or, rather, as lost a dwarf could be while traversing the underground corridors so near his clanlands. In his excitement he had made a wrong turn somewhere in the Far-Warrens. Dwarf-sized tunnels, twisting in all directions like a chasm spider’s legs, skittered in every direction. The dwarf-child could certainly find his way back to the central Halls…

But Baden was ten. He had sprouted the beginnings of a beard. Now was not the time to be timid. His father must learn of their good fortune.

The dwarf-child slipped through a narrow cleft in the rock and trotted in the direction of his father’s mining shaft. The cave’s walls leaned closer to one another, even as the floor climbed to meet the ceiling. Soon he was crawling and, shortly thereafter, sliding forward on his stomach. Baden’s new goathide tunic, a mother’s Naming Day gift, was ruined. He pulled himself forward with the tips of his fingers, pushed himself with the toes of his boots. His chin – his whiskered chin – was sliced by a particularly sharp rock. Baden cursed as deftly as a ten-year old could hope.

After the better part of an hour, Baden’s euphoria faded. He never was fearful – he was comfortable within the tunnels and had a general idea of his location. Yet the goathide tunic was heavy – thicker than his normal clothes. Doubtless it would bunch upon itself should he try to slide backward out of the tunnel. Suddenly Baden felt very much like a wooden cork in a bottle of his father’s mead.

Yet, if he could not go back, then he would go forward.

There was no longer enough room to bend his arms in the constricting shaft. Baden found himself on his back, face pressed against the ceiling. The tunnel began to slope downward. Slightly at first, then more steeply. The dwarf-child felt his face grow hot as blood rushed to his head.

Then, with a suddenness that took his breath away, the stone was…gone. Baden’s hands touched only air for the briefest of moments before he slid outward into air. He fell. With a mixture of childhood desperation and innocence, Baden covered his whiskers with both arms in order to protect them from the impending impact.

He need not have worried. Only a few dizzying heartbeats passed before he plunged into cool water. Then, of course, did Baden first feel terror. Dwarves do not swim.* He sunk like a stone, felt his boots hit rock, and then the current gripped him. Baden shot forward in a cocoon of frothing bubbles.

The dwarf-child was losing the battle to hold his breath. His small chest burned for air. He clawed at the passing rocks to no avail; the current was remorseless. Finally, when he could no longer control his own body, Baden opened his mouth as wide as an infant cave sparrow and swallowed only more water.

His boots caught on the stony ground one last time. He somersaulted forward and slammed his forehead onto jumbled rock. He reached out, found stone, and pulled. He thought of his mother, his father - his new beard - as he clung to the rock beneath the rushing water. Slowly, ever so slowly, he crawled. The current pressed him against the streambed, the weight of the entire mountain seemed to be upon his back.

His head broke the surface. He breathed. The dwarf-child, panicked and nearly drowned, gasped huge mouthfuls of air. Long moments passed wherein Baden could do nothing but simply lay shuddering from the exertion. Slowly he regained his composure, opened his eyes.

And found he was not alone.

There was a stench about the small, rocky beech. He had never smelled it before, but it was a cloying scent – like an unwashed dwarf too long in the mud of a live cave.

***

Serpent scent. He knew that now. And here, forty years and more later, fatherless, he smelled it again. The aroma reeked of tragedy. Baden clung to the windswept crags of the mountain known as Borbidon’s Rest, just as he had clung to those smooth underwater stones as a child.

A stone’s throw above him was the clansman Raylin, his black cloak flapping in the evening winds like a dying crow. And above the ranger was the ledge. The same ledge that Amelyssan, with his exceptional twilight vision, had seen the winged shadow land upon in the pre-dawn hours.

The party had spent the better part of the day picking their way among the rocky folds at the base of Borbidon’s Rest. The great summit appeared to have a robe of pure rock thrown over it, bunching in masses near its base. Not until early afternoon had they located a fissure to begin the painstaking climb.

Amelyssan had utilized his magic – the elf nimbly darted upward like a Balantir ram, his feet and hands sticking to the rock from arcane power. But the other members of the party were not so fortunate. Certainly not Baden, who was having the hardest time of it. He could not stretch to reach handholds as well as his companions, could not contort his body like the half-troll. Even Kellus, in the heavy breastplate of his own dead father, seemed more capable than the dwarf during the arduous ascent.

Yet men will press ever forward with folly. They had reached the wyvern’s nesting ledge even as the sun disappeared behind the flat horizon of the Cormick plains so incredibly far below them. Shadows began to crawl along the rock. The wyvern would exit his hole soon - very soon. To hunt.

The bastard need not fly far to locate his meal this night, Baden thought, grimacing as he braced himself against the mountain for a short respite. We climbed all this way to let ye eat us all the more quickly, you barb-tailed lizard. Come and do your work, ‘lest I be forced to climb all the way back down.

Baden caught movement in the corner of his eye and craned his neck upward to better see Raylin. The ranger had a finger pressed to his lips. A sword was in his other hand, the dwarf noted with surprise, and the ranger gestured above his position with the tip of his blade.

“It comes,” Raylin mouthed soundlessly.

Baden meant only to think it, but the words issued from his mouth nonetheless, “About damned time.” The dwarf pulled forth his axe, gave but a fleeting moment of thought to the impossibility of hoisting his shield, and began the final few paces of the climb.




* Dwarves within Ostia Prim suffer a -10 Swim check penalty in addition to any normal modifiers due to their incredibly dense composition.

Amazing use of backstory Destan. I wanted to get to know the characters more and you certainly managed that with Baden.

It's always surprised me that so many stunning writers are in the Story Hour section while I'm forced to wade through the masses of FR, DL, and misc authors--who somehow support themselves on drivil--in search of something worthwile to read while not on the internet.

Thank goodness for Story Hours like these.

Man, great update! Keep rockin'.

Great writing. You truly have a way with words.
Keep up the good work.

Richard

PS. Thanks Piratecat for pointing your finger this way. DS.

Death on the Mountaintop

From his position below the wyvern’s nesting ledge, John was yet unable to see the creature. He could hear it, however, all too clearly. The sound of claw on stone foretold the serpent’s approach. John wedged himself further into a vertical crevice as dislodged pebbles began to cascade over the lip above him. Dozens of the stones splattered onto his steel cap like rain, sending a cacophony of pings and tings that seemed to reverberate across the entire Balantir Cor range.

Many thanks, Kellus, for allowing me to borrow your extra helmet. John grimaced as the last few pebbles finished their metallic drumbeat upon his head. What kind of an ass carries around a second helm, anyway? John promised himself to ask the former priest should they – unlikely though it seemed – survive the night.

A blanket of anticipatory silence settled about the mountaintop. Odd, but there was nearly no wind – even at such an altitude – though the air was frigid enough. John listened to labored breathing from above – the sound made Vath’s snoring seem pleasant in comparison. The bard wondered idly if wyverns had a decent sense of smell. An alerted, guttural hiss answered his unasked question. Lovely.

John frowned as he felt fear tickle his bowels. Dozens of pinpricks danced across his skin as his sweat beaded within pores. Courage, singer, courage. Handhold, foothold, and you’re over the lip. Better to die on flat ground than here, clinging to the mountain like a beetle. No tales are told of-

John suspected – no, he was certain – that his bout of self-encouragement would have eventually convinced him to move upward. Would have convinced him, that is, if Raylin hadn’t disrupted his silent rally. The ranger was already moving above him. John craned his neck to witness the fool pull himself over the ledge in one easy motion.

The hell with it. The Pellman was not about to let some mud-between-his-toes clansman garner all the glory; there were ladies’ embraces to be won. John was acutely aware of the relatively inglorious figure he cut, oversized helm askance on his head, as he slipped the rapier from his belt and scampered upward. He needed to get on even ground, and quickly. John grabbed a protruding rock, took one final breath, pulled himself over-

And froze. A pair of hooded eyes, black and large as onyx dinner plates, regarded him but for an instant before returning to Raylin. The ranger was moving sideways, swords drawn, shoulders squared to the beast. What in the name of Beshaba are we doing?

A gray-green blur rushed past John from behind. Vath leapt toward the wyvern but was batted aside, almost casually. John watched, fascinated, as the half-troll’s body flew through the evening air and slammed against the rocks near the cave mouth behind the wyvern. Not good.

Raylin stepped beneath the monster’s outstretched arm – the same arm that had tossed Vath. Both his blades struck home. Swords cut through scale. Green-amber blood the color of snot splattered onto the stones.

The wyvern moved backward like a cat, eyes focused solely upon Raylin. John, rapier in hand and buckler raised, circled to his left, away from the ranger. The bard saw an opening and took it. He lunged forward beneath a leathery wing. For a moment John thought his rapier’s tip would be unable to pierce the beast’s hide, but the thrust slipped between two scales. John withdrew his weapon and continued to move.

His come-lately companions began to gain the ledge. John was nearly at the rear of the beast now, apparently forgotten. Raylin moved forward, gaining the ground that would allow his companions to safely reach the ledge. John watched Baden, followed by Kellus, pull themselves over the lip. The wyvern lashed out – claw, claw, bite – yet Raylin blocked the attacks directed at his vulnerable comrades. The ranger’s defense was successful, but he bled for it.

The three of them – mailed dwarf, bleeding clansman, and somber-faced priest – now presented a unified front to the wyvern who – dared John hope? – seemed taken aback by the number of intruders now upon its ledge. The creature continued to slowly give ground, the tips of its wings dragging rearward along the stone. A grisly trail of odd-colored blood stained the ground between the combatants. The battle was far from over, however. With feline speed and cruelty, the wyvern halted its retreat and tore at Raylin with another barrage of tooth and talon.

In the interim, John too was moving. He had managed to drift into the shadows beneath the cave entrance. A brief survey of his companions was enough to let the bard knew Raylin was near collapse. His chain shirt was visible beneath a freshly-rent cloak. Two bloody lines, trails left from the beast’s talons, ran down the ranger’s arm from shoulder to wrist. And another wound – concealed to John’s vision – sent a slow current of blood down Raylin’s left leg.

The serpent seemed content to ignore John and most of his fellows. It was the cat; it had chosen Raylin to be the mouse. The beast’s head – easily the size of an overripe pumpkin – pulled backward, the slender neck arched like a bent bow. “Raylin, ware his bite!” John lunged forward from the shadows but stumbled on an unseen rock. His thrust skittered harmlessly across scales.

John recognized the error of his warning too late. The wyvern was cunning; it did not stretch forward to bite the ranger. Instead, the barbed tail shot over its winged shoulders like an arcing catapult shot. The stinger pierced Raylin’s chest, near his collarbone, puncturing cleanly through the mail shirt. The clansman swooned – John saw the man’s eyes roll back as the color left his face. When the barb pulled free, Raylin dropped to both knees before falling forward onto his face.

First Vath, now Raylin. Gods be good, John swore, where in the blazing pits was the elf?

As if on cue, Amelyssan appeared. The elf clung to the vertical rocks above John, near the apex of the arched cave entrance. Arcane words crackled in the air and the same blue-grey bolt that had felled Edric slammed into the wyvern’s back with an audible snap. A roar tore the mountain air. The wyvern twisted his head backward to see the new threat, and Kellus and Baden – as one – stepped forward to land mace and axe against the beast’s hindquarters.

Amelyssan was out of reach, unless the wyvern took to wing. John found himself staring alone at the enraged serpent. He crouched, feebly raised his buckler, and prepared to dive aside should the wicked barb be sent his way. It was. John rolled to his left, heard the stinger strike the stone where he once stood. The Pellman came up on one knee and stabbed the tail. Ichor sprayed onto his face, momentarily blinding him.

John dragged a shaking hand across his eyes, fighting to see through the viscous fluid. The wyvern was thrashing about madly. John had thought the elf was at a safe distance; he had thought wrong. The barb missed Amelyssan by the slimmest of margins, but the impact was enough to shake the stones above the cave. The horadrel did all he could to maintain his precarious perch, but – magic notwithstanding – rolled down the mountainside in the ensuing rockslide.

Before John could think better of it, he stepped forward, shielding the elf’s supine form. The wyvern raked his face with a grasping claw. The brunt of the force was absorbed by his steel cap – May the gods bless Kellus’ largesse! – though the helm was knocked from his head and sent bouncing across the stone. John reached one hand downward to steady himself, palm pressed against Amelyssan’s chest, and readied himself for the death blow.

It never came. Baden stepped forward in the confusion and swung his crescent axe in an upward arc. The wicked edge opened the wyvern from naval to armpit. A curtain of intestines spilled out, appearing verily like the colorful festoons of Pell during Midsummer Festivals.

The wyvern was as good as dead, John knew. Nothing could survive such a blow. But the battle was not yet over. It only became a question as to whether the party could survive the last few seconds as the beast’s wound rhythmically spurted out its lifeblood. John saw Kellus trot jerkily toward the fallen ranger, watched him as he knelt – his back to the wyvern – and press healing hands against the clansman’s side.

Should I live, John vowed, I will write a song to let others know of this day.

The wyvern continued to retreat toward the darkness of the cave, one hind leg hanging limply, entrails following its body like a perverse wedding gown. Yet its other leg – the good leg - lifted and came down upon the dwarf. John cried out as he saw Baden crumple, pinned within the cupped talon like a bird within a cage.

The Pellman stepped over Amelyssan toward the serpent, even as the elf murmured something and grabbed his shin as he passed.* Suddenly – everything was slow. John felt a warmth rush through his system as Amelyssan released his hold. Slower, slower. His senses grew acute – he watched, as if in a trance, as the wyvern’s flank heaved for each gasp of air. Somehow he knew – knew with each and every fiber of his being – where the wyvern would next move. It was the easiest thrust he had ever made. The point of his rapier slipped between two of the wyvern’s ribs, burying the blade to the hilt.

The wyvern’s shriek ripped him from his trance. The beast’s jaws opened wide as if to swallow the moon that had only now begun to peer downward at the tableau. A claw knocked John off his feet. His head – his helmetless head – bounced off rock and the world swam.

One of them would die, if not more. John felt warm blood rush upward beneath his hair like a mountain spring. The wyvern was near death, certainly, but it would be the easiest thing in the world for it to tear its teeth into the pinned Baden or the prone Pellman. The head pulled back for just such a strike.

And Vath, the half-troll devotee of Ilmater, once more entered the fray. The monk had regained his feet during the madness. He sprinted across the stone, bared feet soft upon the rock, and loped up the wyvern’s deadly tail. The half-troll wrapped one massive arm around the beast’s slender neck and gripped its chin with his other hand. Vath pulled, slowly, the muscles in his arms bulging beneath his gray-green hide.

The wyvern released Baden and frantically tried to reach the monk with either claw. To no avail. The half-troll forcibly swiveled its head, degree by degree, inch by inch. Vath’s face was contorted with the effort. Long moments passed. All John could do was stare upward in amazement.

Crack.

And then, as if the puppeteer had simply dropped the strings of his serpent doll, the wyvern’s body went limp. It fell to the side as Vath let loose his hold and rolled free. The beast’s great body settled with a dull thud.

No, John thought as blackness fought to overcome him, I am not worthy to write this song.





* Customized first level arcane spell Horadrel's Strike. As True Strike, except the conferred insight bonus is +10 and the range is Touch.

Edited: Had to change the spell, since I blew it during the game.

Bravo! I bet the heroes really feel like heroes after that.

That in mind, I hate to be a spoiler but...

The first level arcane spell True Strike.

Click to expand...

Is a Range: Personal spell
Something that I'm sure I could miss in the heat of things as well.

John

Bah!

Greybar, you are, of course, correct.

I think this calls for a little revisionist history. Since I can't change what happened in the story, I'll change the OOC comment at the bottom.

I'm sure that won't be the last thing I fudge up.

Thanks for the kind words, though.

Take care,
Destan

Woo Hoo! DM fiat! Way to swing that all-power. [grin]

Actually I'm sure there is a good balance point in the middle, and trading off Range:Touch for +10 instead of +20 is probably a good place to start. If it gets nuts in a few more sessions, you can fiddle it again until it works.

Besides, it made for good drama, and that's worth a bit of rule-bending in my book.

John