Menu
News
All News
Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
Pathfinder
Starfinder
Warhammer
2d20 System
Year Zero Engine
Industry News
Reviews
Dragon Reflections
Columns
Weekly Digests
Weekly News Digest
Freebies, Sales & Bundles
RPG Print News
RPG Crowdfunding News
Game Content
ENterplanetary DimENsions
Mythological Figures
Opinion
Worlds of Design
Peregrine's Next
RPG Evolution
Other Columns
From the Freelancing Frontline
Monster ENcyclopedia
WotC/TSR Alumni Look Back
4 Hours w/RSD (Ryan Dancey)
The Road to 3E (Jonathan Tweet)
Greenwood's Realms (Ed Greenwood)
Drawmij's TSR (Jim Ward)
Community
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Resources
Wiki
Pages
Latest activity
Media
New media
New comments
Search media
Downloads
Latest reviews
Search resources
EN Publishing
Store
EN5ider
Adventures in ZEITGEIST
Awfully Cheerful Engine
What's OLD is NEW
Judge Dredd & The Worlds Of 2000AD
War of the Burning Sky
Level Up: Advanced 5E
Events & Releases
Upcoming Events
Private Events
Featured Events
Socials!
Twitch
YouTube
Facebook (EN Publishing)
Facebook (EN World)
Twitter
Instagram
TikTok
Podcast
Features
Top 5 RPGs Compiled Charts 2004-Present
Adventure Game Industry Market Research Summary (RPGs) V1.0
Ryan Dancey: Acquiring TSR
Q&A With Gary Gygax
D&D Rules FAQs
TSR, WotC, & Paizo: A Comparative History
D&D Pronunciation Guide
Million Dollar TTRPG Kickstarters
Tabletop RPG Podcast Hall of Fame
Eric Noah's Unofficial D&D 3rd Edition News
D&D in the Mainstream
D&D & RPG History
About Morrus
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Menu
Log in
Register
Install the app
Install
The
VOIDRUNNER'S CODEX
is coming! Explore new worlds, fight oppressive empires, fend off fearsome aliens, and wield deadly psionics with this comprehensive boxed set expansion for 5E and A5E!
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
DMRob's as yet unnamed storyhour
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="DMRob" data-source="post: 4637996" data-attributes="member: 6642"><p>And thus begins the background stories. All the players knew to start with was that by hook or crook, they were going to start out in jail cells, stripped of gear and manacled up.</p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 15px">Mark Fletherson, Human Ranger</span></p><p></p><p>Black and Golden Arrows</p><p></p><p> “Black arrow you have never failed me, and yet I have always been able to . . .” A hard slap on the back of his head caused to boy to drop the scroll he had been surreptitiously been reading at the hut’s only table. </p><p></p><p> “Stop reading that dribble” the boy’s father admonished.</p><p></p><p> “Pa, it is not dribble. I was reading the part about the famous archer who . . .”</p><p></p><p> “Lives in a fantasy world where all Orcs are evil, all Halflings are brave and all Elves are noble. “ The man retrieved the scroll from where it had fallen beneath the boy’s bench. “Dribble and a waste of good daylight.” He said as he rerolled the scroll and placed it on the mantel piece. “The real world is not nearly so black and white, there are many more shades of grey, and other colors. Which you would know already if you had spent your morning reading your lesson about mountain fauna instead of pouring over some useless dribble.”</p><p></p><p> “Yes, Pa” the boy responded quietly, his eyes focused on the floor.</p><p></p><p> The man sighed and sat down opposite of his son. “At least you are reading. But if you want your archery lesson this afternoon you must first finish Father Spivey’s scroll and be able to recite to me the five most common fauna located in the Cloud Peaks, how and when they can be found, and any healing properties they might have.”</p><p></p><p> The boy looked at his father’s great bow leaning near the door, and then at his own smaller training bow nearby. He could almost feel the rasp of the bow string against his fingers and the vibration run through his hand and arm as the arrow sailed towards the hay filled target. He then looked at the five gold painted arrows hanging on the wall. Golden arrows that proclaimed that his father was an archery champion five times over. “Can I also go with you to the tournament tomorrow?”</p><p></p><p> The man almost said ‘of course’ but then stopped himself and adopted a sterner expression. “That depends on whether you have done your chores and whether you have finished your essay about the hibernation patterns of the black bear” he said.</p><p></p><p> The boy searched beneath his stack of parchment and proudly produced an ink splotched and smeared document. “I just finished it this morning.”</p><p></p><p> His father took one look at the words scrawled in no particular order over the parchment and groaned at the prospect of trying to read that jumble of symbols. “At least he is writing.” the man consoled himself.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>Five Years Later</p><p></p><p> “Name” asked the man without looking up, quill poised to write.</p><p></p><p> “Mark Fletcherson” replied the applicant, his pubescent voice unsuccessfully concealing his anxiety. The man dutifully started to scratch the name on to the list of competitors. He stopped as he started to write the second name.</p><p></p><p> “Fletcherson?” The man looked up and the youth. Paused while he glanced at his face and archery gear and then asked. “Are you Thomas Fletcherson’s boy?”</p><p></p><p> “Yes, sir.”</p><p></p><p> “Well, what a surprise.” The man wiped his hands on his worn jerkin and stood up extending his hand to the youth. “A pleasure to meet you, Mark. The name is Alfred Tanner. How is your father?” Mark accepted the handshake. Behind the youth, the line of tournament competitors grumbled and shuffled their feet at the delay. Alfred glared at them . “Fletcherson. Better get familiar with that name folks.” he shouted to the line of competitors. “This young man’s father, Thomas Fletcherson, won this tournament countless times, and odds are that his son here is going to walk home with the Golden Arrow today.”</p><p></p><p> Flushed with embarrassment at the unwanted attention, Mark quickly replied “Last I heard, Pa is well, and is still posted along the northern border.”</p><p></p><p> “Ah, that would be Stoneridge Castel. An absolute hellhole in the middle of a wasteland. Let’m have it I say, but then nobody listens to me. “ Alfred sat back down picked up his quill and finished writing Mark’s name on the competitor’s roll. “That will be two coppers to enter, son.” Mark complied. “Best of luck to you.” Alfred said as Mark gratefully took his leave to hopefully lose himself in the crowd, but the newly made Great Bow on his shoulder would make that a difficult task.</p><p></p><p> That evening, Mark placed the Golden Arrow on the wall near his bed. He had won easily, once he had mastered his own nervousness. Part of his victory was due to countless hours of practice under his father’s watchful eye. But mostly, his victory was because there was no real competition. The war effort had pressed almost every able body man into service. Men who were every bit as skilled as Mark or even as skilled as his father, were now shooting at targets much more dangerous than a grass stuffed bullseye. </p><p></p><p> Mark, sat down at the hut’s only table, and rummaged through the stacks of scrolls and parchment that covered the table, stopping only when he found his father’s last letter. Received more than a season ago. He quickly scan the parchment again, for any indication of his father’s whereabouts. But the terse message gave no clues. Still, Mark took some comfort in its familiar lines and tone: </p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p> Son, </p><p></p><p>I am fine. Miss you every day. Keep up with your studies. Will write again when I can. </p><p></p><p>Love Pa.</p><p></p><p> Keep up with your studies meant continue reading the endless pile of scrolls and parchments on plant lore, animal lore, and the healing arts that Mark dutifully plowed through several hours a day. His father did not have to admonish Mark to continue his archery practices. The bow was his passion. He only wished that he could somehow tell his father of this first tournament victory. </p><p></p><p> Outside the wind blew through the trees and an owl hooted. Mark was moving for his bow and quiver before his conscious brain even could register why. “Too early”, he thought as his mind finally caught up to his reactions. “Too early for the grey breasted owl to be hooting.” Mark slung his quiver and opened the trap door to the root cellar. He slid down the ladder. A small tunnel off of the cellar would let him appear about 25 paces to the south of the hut. A second owl hoot sounded as Mark closed and secured the trap door. He wished his father was here.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>Two Years Later</p><p></p><p> Mark moved quietly through trees as he kept pace with the head of the enemy patrol. Just around the next turn they would hit the ambush. Stoley had instructed Mark to take at least two prisoners. One as an example, and one to pry for information. </p><p></p><p> Suddenly, the patrol stopped. The leader pulled some kind of map from his belt, opened it and began to study his surroundings. The enemy scout came back to the leader, looked over his shoulder, and made some comments that the leader apparently found unhelpful. With a glare, the leader silenced the scout. The leader summoned his second in command and his centurion. After a quick conference, the centurion ordered the troops to take a break. The leader, his second in command, and the now chastised scout conferred in hushed tones while referencing the map. </p><p></p><p> Mark sat down to wait. He knew from two days of tracking this patrol, that the rest period would last at least 10 minutes. He allowed his conscious mind to drift while, his sense kept track of his surroundings. </p><p></p><p> Only seventeen winters old, Mark was a seasoned veteran, a survivor of nearly two years of bloody campaigns and skirmishes. Originally, the draft only applied to boys over sixteen, but the war was not going well, and so the conscription age was lowered to fifteen. Rumor was that even some girls were being drafted, but that was hard to believe.</p><p></p><p> Mark was conscripted not three weeks after the deserters turned bandits made their clumsy encirclement of his hut. Mark did not kill any of them on that evening, he simply did not have the stomach for it. A few well placed arrows quivering in a trunk a hair’s breath from gaunt faces frightened the desperate and starving men away. His father had taught Mark how to shoot and how to hunt but not how to kill clumsy starving men in cold blood.</p><p></p><p> Stole, his militia commander, had completed that part of Mark’s education. As a result, Mark’s well placed arrows had killed many a man in these last 20 months. A skill he used to take pride in, was now something that he used for king and country with no emotion. Mark killed men, not to different from himself, but with the distinction of being born in another land, serving another lord.</p><p></p><p> The centurian barking commands brought Mark back to the present. He watched the patrol put itself into a semblance of a parade ground formation and continue toward the ambush and their death. With practiced ease Mark noted the location of the patrol’s leader, second in command, and scout. Perhaps, at the end of the day, Mark would present Stoley with three prisoners to question. </p><p></p><p> It would be a long shriek filled night. Mark missed his father.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 15px">Rune, Warforged Artificer</span></p><p></p><p>The small village was in the foot hills of some mountain that he had never been told the name of, it wasn't Rune's job to know the lay of the land his job was to repair that which was in disrepair and all the knowledge that such a job requires.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>When he first arrived in the village square there were a large number of people working on the local tavern and inn which had recently been the scene of lightning produced fire. Many of the villagers had been hurt trying to put the fire out and there were few of the others that seemed to know what to do in order to fix the building.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>As Rune approached the called out to the crowd, "pardon me but it seems that you could use some help repairing this establishment." As the villagers turned some of them took a step back from Rune as if they had seen a monster. Which Rune contemplated for a second… that was true in their eye a 6'2'' metal individual was a monster, but what did he expect it's not everyday that a warforged walks into town.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>A man of the village or was it a woman, Rune could never seem to get it straight the whole gender thing confused him except for the dwarves that was easier because the males had big furry tails growing out of their faces and the females didn't, stepped forward and asked, "what could you get out of helping us?"</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>To which Rune replied, "it's my job to repair that which is in disrepair."</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>At that Rune walked forward and began to inscribe symbols on the ground around the building. If his calculations were correct it would take at least ten or twelve rituals in order to repair the damage to the building and once there were all set he began to flood the rituals with the formulaic magic that was built into him. Once the magic had done its job the people of the village seemed to have a much less frightened look to them although some still looked at him as if he had caused the fire in the first place. What could he do but the job he was created for? After a decade of life Rune finally found a place to settle down.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>One year after he came to the village and he was still having problems telling people apart just that morning he mistook Mrs. Appleseed for one of the children that she teaches, and that was the problem when dealing with the little people. As Rune headed to his work shed and home he noticed riders coming into the center of town.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>After speaking to one of the riders a villager pointed towards him and the group quick moved to where he was. The leader spoke with a commanding voice, "By order of my lord I'm to bring Rune to the estate of the Duke."</p><p></p><p>Rune replied, "My good sir, I'm unable to aid you in completing your orders for my job is not finished here."</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>The leader snarled back, "I'm a woman you walking pile of scrap." And with a sneer she added, "If you don't cooperate we'll be forced to eliminate your reason for staying."</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>It didn't take in-depth calculations to understand her meaning so Rune made up his mind.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>"Alright, you may take me to your lord, but you'll have to use your own power to get me there." He said and with that he turned off his consciousness.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>When Rune's optic faculties reestablished themselves he discovered that not only was he in a poorly maintained prison cell but his robes had been taken from him. Just like the humans… or which ever of the flesh races to find it acceptable to remove his clothing, but if the same were to happen to them they would be appalled.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>As he looked around he noticed that not only were the bars of this cell almost rusted through but the lock was nearly falling out of the door. After a few minutes of calculations Rune walked over to the door, and calling upon one of the formulas he knew of quick repairs, restored it to a functioning whole once more.</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>As the cell became like new Rune heard a gruff voice call out, "Why did ja do that now it'll be even harder to escape from?"</p><p></p><p> </p><p></p><p>Rune answered, "It's my job to repair that which is in disrepair."</p><p></p><p>And after a short pause he added, "By my calculations such an attempt on my part would fail despite success with a dilapidated cell." And with that he was silent.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="DMRob, post: 4637996, member: 6642"] And thus begins the background stories. All the players knew to start with was that by hook or crook, they were going to start out in jail cells, stripped of gear and manacled up. [SIZE="4"]Mark Fletherson, Human Ranger[/SIZE] Black and Golden Arrows “Black arrow you have never failed me, and yet I have always been able to . . .” A hard slap on the back of his head caused to boy to drop the scroll he had been surreptitiously been reading at the hut’s only table. “Stop reading that dribble” the boy’s father admonished. “Pa, it is not dribble. I was reading the part about the famous archer who . . .” “Lives in a fantasy world where all Orcs are evil, all Halflings are brave and all Elves are noble. “ The man retrieved the scroll from where it had fallen beneath the boy’s bench. “Dribble and a waste of good daylight.” He said as he rerolled the scroll and placed it on the mantel piece. “The real world is not nearly so black and white, there are many more shades of grey, and other colors. Which you would know already if you had spent your morning reading your lesson about mountain fauna instead of pouring over some useless dribble.” “Yes, Pa” the boy responded quietly, his eyes focused on the floor. The man sighed and sat down opposite of his son. “At least you are reading. But if you want your archery lesson this afternoon you must first finish Father Spivey’s scroll and be able to recite to me the five most common fauna located in the Cloud Peaks, how and when they can be found, and any healing properties they might have.” The boy looked at his father’s great bow leaning near the door, and then at his own smaller training bow nearby. He could almost feel the rasp of the bow string against his fingers and the vibration run through his hand and arm as the arrow sailed towards the hay filled target. He then looked at the five gold painted arrows hanging on the wall. Golden arrows that proclaimed that his father was an archery champion five times over. “Can I also go with you to the tournament tomorrow?” The man almost said ‘of course’ but then stopped himself and adopted a sterner expression. “That depends on whether you have done your chores and whether you have finished your essay about the hibernation patterns of the black bear” he said. The boy searched beneath his stack of parchment and proudly produced an ink splotched and smeared document. “I just finished it this morning.” His father took one look at the words scrawled in no particular order over the parchment and groaned at the prospect of trying to read that jumble of symbols. “At least he is writing.” the man consoled himself. Five Years Later “Name” asked the man without looking up, quill poised to write. “Mark Fletcherson” replied the applicant, his pubescent voice unsuccessfully concealing his anxiety. The man dutifully started to scratch the name on to the list of competitors. He stopped as he started to write the second name. “Fletcherson?” The man looked up and the youth. Paused while he glanced at his face and archery gear and then asked. “Are you Thomas Fletcherson’s boy?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, what a surprise.” The man wiped his hands on his worn jerkin and stood up extending his hand to the youth. “A pleasure to meet you, Mark. The name is Alfred Tanner. How is your father?” Mark accepted the handshake. Behind the youth, the line of tournament competitors grumbled and shuffled their feet at the delay. Alfred glared at them . “Fletcherson. Better get familiar with that name folks.” he shouted to the line of competitors. “This young man’s father, Thomas Fletcherson, won this tournament countless times, and odds are that his son here is going to walk home with the Golden Arrow today.” Flushed with embarrassment at the unwanted attention, Mark quickly replied “Last I heard, Pa is well, and is still posted along the northern border.” “Ah, that would be Stoneridge Castel. An absolute hellhole in the middle of a wasteland. Let’m have it I say, but then nobody listens to me. “ Alfred sat back down picked up his quill and finished writing Mark’s name on the competitor’s roll. “That will be two coppers to enter, son.” Mark complied. “Best of luck to you.” Alfred said as Mark gratefully took his leave to hopefully lose himself in the crowd, but the newly made Great Bow on his shoulder would make that a difficult task. That evening, Mark placed the Golden Arrow on the wall near his bed. He had won easily, once he had mastered his own nervousness. Part of his victory was due to countless hours of practice under his father’s watchful eye. But mostly, his victory was because there was no real competition. The war effort had pressed almost every able body man into service. Men who were every bit as skilled as Mark or even as skilled as his father, were now shooting at targets much more dangerous than a grass stuffed bullseye. Mark, sat down at the hut’s only table, and rummaged through the stacks of scrolls and parchment that covered the table, stopping only when he found his father’s last letter. Received more than a season ago. He quickly scan the parchment again, for any indication of his father’s whereabouts. But the terse message gave no clues. Still, Mark took some comfort in its familiar lines and tone: Son, I am fine. Miss you every day. Keep up with your studies. Will write again when I can. Love Pa. Keep up with your studies meant continue reading the endless pile of scrolls and parchments on plant lore, animal lore, and the healing arts that Mark dutifully plowed through several hours a day. His father did not have to admonish Mark to continue his archery practices. The bow was his passion. He only wished that he could somehow tell his father of this first tournament victory. Outside the wind blew through the trees and an owl hooted. Mark was moving for his bow and quiver before his conscious brain even could register why. “Too early”, he thought as his mind finally caught up to his reactions. “Too early for the grey breasted owl to be hooting.” Mark slung his quiver and opened the trap door to the root cellar. He slid down the ladder. A small tunnel off of the cellar would let him appear about 25 paces to the south of the hut. A second owl hoot sounded as Mark closed and secured the trap door. He wished his father was here. Two Years Later Mark moved quietly through trees as he kept pace with the head of the enemy patrol. Just around the next turn they would hit the ambush. Stoley had instructed Mark to take at least two prisoners. One as an example, and one to pry for information. Suddenly, the patrol stopped. The leader pulled some kind of map from his belt, opened it and began to study his surroundings. The enemy scout came back to the leader, looked over his shoulder, and made some comments that the leader apparently found unhelpful. With a glare, the leader silenced the scout. The leader summoned his second in command and his centurion. After a quick conference, the centurion ordered the troops to take a break. The leader, his second in command, and the now chastised scout conferred in hushed tones while referencing the map. Mark sat down to wait. He knew from two days of tracking this patrol, that the rest period would last at least 10 minutes. He allowed his conscious mind to drift while, his sense kept track of his surroundings. Only seventeen winters old, Mark was a seasoned veteran, a survivor of nearly two years of bloody campaigns and skirmishes. Originally, the draft only applied to boys over sixteen, but the war was not going well, and so the conscription age was lowered to fifteen. Rumor was that even some girls were being drafted, but that was hard to believe. Mark was conscripted not three weeks after the deserters turned bandits made their clumsy encirclement of his hut. Mark did not kill any of them on that evening, he simply did not have the stomach for it. A few well placed arrows quivering in a trunk a hair’s breath from gaunt faces frightened the desperate and starving men away. His father had taught Mark how to shoot and how to hunt but not how to kill clumsy starving men in cold blood. Stole, his militia commander, had completed that part of Mark’s education. As a result, Mark’s well placed arrows had killed many a man in these last 20 months. A skill he used to take pride in, was now something that he used for king and country with no emotion. Mark killed men, not to different from himself, but with the distinction of being born in another land, serving another lord. The centurian barking commands brought Mark back to the present. He watched the patrol put itself into a semblance of a parade ground formation and continue toward the ambush and their death. With practiced ease Mark noted the location of the patrol’s leader, second in command, and scout. Perhaps, at the end of the day, Mark would present Stoley with three prisoners to question. It would be a long shriek filled night. Mark missed his father. [SIZE="4"]Rune, Warforged Artificer[/SIZE] The small village was in the foot hills of some mountain that he had never been told the name of, it wasn't Rune's job to know the lay of the land his job was to repair that which was in disrepair and all the knowledge that such a job requires. When he first arrived in the village square there were a large number of people working on the local tavern and inn which had recently been the scene of lightning produced fire. Many of the villagers had been hurt trying to put the fire out and there were few of the others that seemed to know what to do in order to fix the building. As Rune approached the called out to the crowd, "pardon me but it seems that you could use some help repairing this establishment." As the villagers turned some of them took a step back from Rune as if they had seen a monster. Which Rune contemplated for a second… that was true in their eye a 6'2'' metal individual was a monster, but what did he expect it's not everyday that a warforged walks into town. A man of the village or was it a woman, Rune could never seem to get it straight the whole gender thing confused him except for the dwarves that was easier because the males had big furry tails growing out of their faces and the females didn't, stepped forward and asked, "what could you get out of helping us?" To which Rune replied, "it's my job to repair that which is in disrepair." At that Rune walked forward and began to inscribe symbols on the ground around the building. If his calculations were correct it would take at least ten or twelve rituals in order to repair the damage to the building and once there were all set he began to flood the rituals with the formulaic magic that was built into him. Once the magic had done its job the people of the village seemed to have a much less frightened look to them although some still looked at him as if he had caused the fire in the first place. What could he do but the job he was created for? After a decade of life Rune finally found a place to settle down. One year after he came to the village and he was still having problems telling people apart just that morning he mistook Mrs. Appleseed for one of the children that she teaches, and that was the problem when dealing with the little people. As Rune headed to his work shed and home he noticed riders coming into the center of town. After speaking to one of the riders a villager pointed towards him and the group quick moved to where he was. The leader spoke with a commanding voice, "By order of my lord I'm to bring Rune to the estate of the Duke." Rune replied, "My good sir, I'm unable to aid you in completing your orders for my job is not finished here." The leader snarled back, "I'm a woman you walking pile of scrap." And with a sneer she added, "If you don't cooperate we'll be forced to eliminate your reason for staying." It didn't take in-depth calculations to understand her meaning so Rune made up his mind. "Alright, you may take me to your lord, but you'll have to use your own power to get me there." He said and with that he turned off his consciousness. When Rune's optic faculties reestablished themselves he discovered that not only was he in a poorly maintained prison cell but his robes had been taken from him. Just like the humans… or which ever of the flesh races to find it acceptable to remove his clothing, but if the same were to happen to them they would be appalled. As he looked around he noticed that not only were the bars of this cell almost rusted through but the lock was nearly falling out of the door. After a few minutes of calculations Rune walked over to the door, and calling upon one of the formulas he knew of quick repairs, restored it to a functioning whole once more. As the cell became like new Rune heard a gruff voice call out, "Why did ja do that now it'll be even harder to escape from?" Rune answered, "It's my job to repair that which is in disrepair." And after a short pause he added, "By my calculations such an attempt on my part would fail despite success with a dilapidated cell." And with that he was silent. [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
DMRob's as yet unnamed storyhour
Top