Hammerhead
Explorer
Hey, if any spammers want his email address, I can sell it to you.
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JollyDoc's Rise of the Runelords...Updated 12/22
- Thread starter JollyDoc
- Start date
Hey, if any spammers want his email address, I can sell it to you.
JollyDoc
Explorer
Hey, long time reader, first time poster here
I've been telling a friend of mine that occasionally DMs for a small group about how entertaining your Story Hours are, and how much you guys accomplish each session. I've been a part of (too many) games (like last Saturday) that I could sum up as: equipped party, landed on beach, killed T-Rex, killed 3 Terror Birds, wandered through jungle, Orlangu taunted party, session over. It doesn't seem like a rewarding way to spend 6 hours on Saturday sometimes.
There appears to be a remarkable efficiency to both the combats and the role play encounters. Each entry is an entertaining and event filled recount of your previous game sesison, that rarely seems to include a session like "spent hours buying equipment." This led us to wonder, does the story-telling make the sessions seem so full, does your group "narrate" a lot of the role-play encounters, or are you all just a bunch of finely tuned machines that won't allow any time to be wasted? Any tips you could pass on?
Thanks, and I'm looking forward to the next installment.
Well, I'd like to say we are the latter, but we've had our share of action-lite sessions. I try to keep the action rolling by encouraging equipping of characters, doling out gold, etc be done during the week, outside game time, so that when the players show up on Sunday they can just tell me, "I bought so and so while we were in town," or "When I leveled I took such and such feat."
Granted, my group is not heavy on role-players. That's not to say they don't enjoy non-combat interactions, but they don't want to act out every scenario at the market place or the inn, nor every cross-country journey. There have been many times when I say, "The two-week trip from Turtleback Ferry to Magnimar was uneventful." When role-playing does come up, it's usually directly related to the adventure plot, in which case it's interesting, and the group gets into it...such as the scenarios with the pit fiend and Barl Breakbones. Bear in mind, I do embellish and add a fair amount of artistic license to these updates, but everything is based on real events in the game.
I guess the bottom line depends on what kind of group and DM you have. If they are detail oriented, then you may very well bog down in the tedium. Us? We like action. If our fingers aren't rolling dice for prolonged periods, we get twitchy. So, that being said, I run my game to suit me and my players, and our style is not for everyone, but we have fun, and we focus on the aspects of the game that we enjoy most.
Yikes, that's pretty scary. I assume the Strong Arm bracers allow the larger-than-normal Great Bow? Anyway, as soon as you are possibly able, take the Vital Strike feat. With the pre-req of BAB +11, using Vital Strike means with Many Shot and Rapid Shot you'll have 3 attacks per round, with 2 arrows for the first attack, and each arrow will have a base damage of 4d8. Assuming nothing else changes for your bonuses (though I'm sure it will), that gives you a damage potential of 16d8+56, or about 128 damage. Tasty!
JollyDoc
Explorer
Well, the ship was actually in the adventure, and it did mention that inside were strange maps of no known seas, and sheet music of indecipherable origin. I added the actual sea wyvern part myself. Afterall, Mandi is living in Korvosa, last we heard, and she had to get to Golarion somehow...
JollyDoc
Explorer
Don't worry. This travesty is already in the works...at least until I sunder his bow!!!
YES! SOMEONE ELSE THAT HAS SEEN THE VISION. Way ahead of u man I got that planed and a lil more nasty to bring about as well. The only crutch of this build is the to hit rolls not only do the dice gods hate mine but with all the -to hit being consistant can be tough, but i have a remedy planed out.
JollyDoc
Explorer
MAGNIMAR
Wesh drifted, a feeling of infinite peace suffusing his mind. He at felt at once alone and a part of the Infinite. He understood everything now. All of his questions had finally been answered, and now there was only eternity to ponder the previously unfathomable.
‘Wesh.’
That voice…familiar on some level, yet remote, distant.
‘Wesh, can you hear me?’
He didn’t want to answer. To answer would mean acknowledging an end to his sojourn. Yet, he also knew that to not answer would be…wrong. How, or why, he wasn’t sure, but he simply knew it as fact.
‘I hear you,’ he answered.
‘Then you must listen,’ said the increasingly familiar voice. ‘Soon, you will be called. You need not come, but I think that you might want to. You are needed. Now more than ever. Know this, however… the one who will call you will be unknown to you. He will also seem…sinister. Do not trouble yourself with this. He calls you on my behalf, and my word you can trust. Do you know me now?’
Wesh thought on this for what seemed like a nanosecond, but also millennia.
‘Yes, I know you,’ he replied at length. ‘You are the Reaper…’
________________________________________________________
“So that’s my report, Lord-Mayor,” Dexter finished, folding his hands on his lap as he sat in Grobaras’s office.
“I see,” the Lord-Mayor said solemnly. “Ogres, you say. Led by a stone giant? Did you find a connection?”
“It’s still under investigation,” Dex said diplomatically.
Grobaras nodded. “So, in the meantime, will the people of Turtleback Ferry be garrisoning Fort Rannick?”
“Not exactly,” Dexter replied. “Stewardship was granted to us by Mayor Maelin. We will make arrangements for its garrisoning.”
Grobaras nodded again, this time with a small smile. Frankly, he was glad to have responsibility for the rural fort taken off his hands. Then, just as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanished, replaced by another solemn frown. This one, however, Dexter felt was especially forced.
“There’s the matter of my nephew,” he said.
“Yes,” Dexter sighed. “As I said, he died heroically. I owe him my life. I hope you understand our decision to inter him at Fort Rannick. It seemed appropriate that he should be buried where he fell.”
“Of course, of course,” Grobaras said. “My brother will understand. Still, his sacrifice cannot go unheralded. I know! I will erect a statue of him! I will commission the finest sculptors, and the most exotic materials. To be sure, you and your companions will be guests-of-honor at its unveiling.”
Dexter nodded once. “I’m sure Max would have been…honored.”
“It’s settled then,” Grobaras said, rising from behind his desk. Dexter rose as well, the implication that the meeting was concluded obvious. “Well, thank you again for your service to our city, and please express my gratitude to your companions as well. Rest assured, should we find ourselves in dire straits again, you will be the first we call upon.”
Dexter paused at the door, and turned back to the Lord-Mayor.
“Your Honor, there is one more small thing…the matter of our fee…”
______________________________________________________
Sinclair loved Magnimar. He’d never seen anything like it. To be sure, he’d heard stories about the human cities, but he always thought they were embellishments perpetrated by his more boastful cousins. Yet here he was. His mother would never believe it. It would be impossible for any gnome to succumb to the Fading in such a place! He would never be able to see or do everything in his whole lifetime! Still, he had to try and remain focused on the reason he’d come in the first place. His mother had always said he was a hot-head, never thinking before he acted, and easily distracted. This time would be different, he vowed. This time the stakes were much, much higher. If what he’d learned about the giants preparing for war was true, then it was not only the humans who were in danger, but his own people as well. He had to help his new friends stop the war before it started, and that was exactly what he intended to do, but first…perhaps just a little sightseeing wouldn’t hurt…
_______________________________________________________
Duerten silently fumed. He stood in the church courtyard overseeing the drilling of the new recruits, though truthfully, his underlings could handle it. No, the real reason he was out there was so that he could keep an eye on the Father. Frankly, he was worried about Draton. The priest had taken on the rehabilitation of Barl Breakbones with religious fervor, and Duerten didn’t like it one bit. It was bad enough they’d spared the murdering giant in the first place, but now here he was, living in relative luxury, getting three meals a day and a soft place to lay his bald head at night. Worse, he was being taught the Word! What was the world coming to? For all they knew, more giants were even now on the march towards Varisia, and here they were sitting on their hands and trying to convert one of them, when there were hundreds more on the way! Yes, Duerten knew that the Lady taught that everyone deserved a chance of redemption, but the dwarf believed that particular teaching was open to interpretation. For example, he personally believed that salvation could be had in the hereafter, when the evildoers of the world stood before Judgement. Duerten sighed. When Reaper and his friends decided to pull out of Magnimar and head to the Iron Peaks, he didn’t know what he was going to do. Where did his loyalty lie, with his friend or to his Faith? Bah, he thought. Time to think about that later. For now he’d work out his frustrations on Cruemann. As usual, the layabout hadn’t shown up for drill…
_____________________________________________________
Speaking of crises of faith…Cruemann was rapidly finding himself reverting to old habits. Ever since his return to Magnimar, he’d spent less and less time at the temple. He knew his duty, but more and more frequently, he’d felt the siren call of the city’s entertainment districts pulling more strongly at him. Worse, he found he felt little guilt about it. In truth, he found his moral compass deviating further and further from the teachings of Father Draton. First with the pit fiend, and then with the giant. If the Father’s decisions had been the right ones, why did Cruemann feel so conflicted about them? He sighed and ordered another tankard. Why couldn’t there be a god who just espoused drinking and having a good time…?
______________________________________________________
Adso waited. He was no longer comfortable in the company of so-called civilized people. He was no longer one of them. Inside, he was still who he’d always been, but others couldn’t see inside. They didn’t want to…not when the first thing they saw was what was on the outside. He’d taken to walking about with his cowl drawn close around his face, especially during daylight hours. The sun hurt his eyes. All he wanted was to leave this place and be on with their mission, but Reaper said he needed time. Something to do with Fort Rannick. So in the interim, the monk kept to himself, alone and aloof, waiting. He was starting to understand why Luther had returned to the monastery…
______________________________________________________
“So that’s it?” Avaxial asked. The pit fiend looked much more…impressive than the last time Reaper had seen him. He towered above the necromancer, and beneath his crimson flesh, muscle rippled. A sword of crackling energy hung at one side, while a coiled whip of flame hung on the other.
“You seem surprised,” Reaper replied, cocking one eyebrow.
“I…expected more of you,” the devil rumbled. “You struck me as more…ambitious.”
“Not everything is as it seems,” the mage shrugged. “I did not come to this decision lightly. Rest assured, this request is not being made for totally unself-serving reasons.”
Avaxial chuckled. “That’s more like it.”
“There is one more small thing, though,” Reaper said. Avaxial looked expectant. “Could you…ah…do something about this?”
He held up his hand, which still displayed Asmodeus’s brand on the palm.
“What?” the fiend asked. “You don’t like it? It’s all the rage in Cheliax.”
“Yes, that’s the problem,” Reaper grimaced. “We’re not in Cheliax.”
Avaxial sighed. “As you wish. Now, our business is complete…for the time being, but I suspect we may meet again, mortal. I look forward to it.”
In a column of flame, the pit fiend vanished. Reaper released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Finally, everything was in place, and his plans were beginning to show fruit. Upon returning to Magnimar, he had made his report to his handler within the Church. During the debriefing, he had spoken of his intent to move his personal base of operations to Fort Rannick. To this end, he had requested, and been granted permission to recruit from the Faithful in order to properly garrison the fort, which would be renamed the Citadel at Journey’s End. It was his assertion that this move would position him more centrally within Varisia, and would allow him to extend the arm of Pharasma even further outside the walls of Magnimar. Specifically among Reaper’s request for conscripts was a young priest named Thufir, an old associate who had proven invaluable to the necromancer on numerous occasions. It was to Thufir that he gave the task of rounding up other volunteers, and his faith in the cleric proved to be well-placed. Within a matter of two weeks, Thufir had recruited over thirty guardsman, three skilled artisans, another trio of acolytes, and one seneschal as well as a seasoned guard captain. Once all was in readiness, Reaper instructed Thufir to lead the contingent east to the fort, saying that he would join them soon. Once there, Thufir was to raise Pharasma’s banner above the battlements. Of course, Reaper would reassure his own travelling companions that the fort was their home as well, but until they were willing to expend their own resources to keep it manned, the necromancer would surreptitiously refer to it in possessive terms, and would encourage his followers to only call by its ‘true name.’ Over time, the name would change by force of will, if nothing else, and likewise, true ownership would change by force of perception as well…
Wesh drifted, a feeling of infinite peace suffusing his mind. He at felt at once alone and a part of the Infinite. He understood everything now. All of his questions had finally been answered, and now there was only eternity to ponder the previously unfathomable.
‘Wesh.’
That voice…familiar on some level, yet remote, distant.
‘Wesh, can you hear me?’
He didn’t want to answer. To answer would mean acknowledging an end to his sojourn. Yet, he also knew that to not answer would be…wrong. How, or why, he wasn’t sure, but he simply knew it as fact.
‘I hear you,’ he answered.
‘Then you must listen,’ said the increasingly familiar voice. ‘Soon, you will be called. You need not come, but I think that you might want to. You are needed. Now more than ever. Know this, however… the one who will call you will be unknown to you. He will also seem…sinister. Do not trouble yourself with this. He calls you on my behalf, and my word you can trust. Do you know me now?’
Wesh thought on this for what seemed like a nanosecond, but also millennia.
‘Yes, I know you,’ he replied at length. ‘You are the Reaper…’
________________________________________________________
“So that’s my report, Lord-Mayor,” Dexter finished, folding his hands on his lap as he sat in Grobaras’s office.
“I see,” the Lord-Mayor said solemnly. “Ogres, you say. Led by a stone giant? Did you find a connection?”
“It’s still under investigation,” Dex said diplomatically.
Grobaras nodded. “So, in the meantime, will the people of Turtleback Ferry be garrisoning Fort Rannick?”
“Not exactly,” Dexter replied. “Stewardship was granted to us by Mayor Maelin. We will make arrangements for its garrisoning.”
Grobaras nodded again, this time with a small smile. Frankly, he was glad to have responsibility for the rural fort taken off his hands. Then, just as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanished, replaced by another solemn frown. This one, however, Dexter felt was especially forced.
“There’s the matter of my nephew,” he said.
“Yes,” Dexter sighed. “As I said, he died heroically. I owe him my life. I hope you understand our decision to inter him at Fort Rannick. It seemed appropriate that he should be buried where he fell.”
“Of course, of course,” Grobaras said. “My brother will understand. Still, his sacrifice cannot go unheralded. I know! I will erect a statue of him! I will commission the finest sculptors, and the most exotic materials. To be sure, you and your companions will be guests-of-honor at its unveiling.”
Dexter nodded once. “I’m sure Max would have been…honored.”
“It’s settled then,” Grobaras said, rising from behind his desk. Dexter rose as well, the implication that the meeting was concluded obvious. “Well, thank you again for your service to our city, and please express my gratitude to your companions as well. Rest assured, should we find ourselves in dire straits again, you will be the first we call upon.”
Dexter paused at the door, and turned back to the Lord-Mayor.
“Your Honor, there is one more small thing…the matter of our fee…”
______________________________________________________
Sinclair loved Magnimar. He’d never seen anything like it. To be sure, he’d heard stories about the human cities, but he always thought they were embellishments perpetrated by his more boastful cousins. Yet here he was. His mother would never believe it. It would be impossible for any gnome to succumb to the Fading in such a place! He would never be able to see or do everything in his whole lifetime! Still, he had to try and remain focused on the reason he’d come in the first place. His mother had always said he was a hot-head, never thinking before he acted, and easily distracted. This time would be different, he vowed. This time the stakes were much, much higher. If what he’d learned about the giants preparing for war was true, then it was not only the humans who were in danger, but his own people as well. He had to help his new friends stop the war before it started, and that was exactly what he intended to do, but first…perhaps just a little sightseeing wouldn’t hurt…
_______________________________________________________
Duerten silently fumed. He stood in the church courtyard overseeing the drilling of the new recruits, though truthfully, his underlings could handle it. No, the real reason he was out there was so that he could keep an eye on the Father. Frankly, he was worried about Draton. The priest had taken on the rehabilitation of Barl Breakbones with religious fervor, and Duerten didn’t like it one bit. It was bad enough they’d spared the murdering giant in the first place, but now here he was, living in relative luxury, getting three meals a day and a soft place to lay his bald head at night. Worse, he was being taught the Word! What was the world coming to? For all they knew, more giants were even now on the march towards Varisia, and here they were sitting on their hands and trying to convert one of them, when there were hundreds more on the way! Yes, Duerten knew that the Lady taught that everyone deserved a chance of redemption, but the dwarf believed that particular teaching was open to interpretation. For example, he personally believed that salvation could be had in the hereafter, when the evildoers of the world stood before Judgement. Duerten sighed. When Reaper and his friends decided to pull out of Magnimar and head to the Iron Peaks, he didn’t know what he was going to do. Where did his loyalty lie, with his friend or to his Faith? Bah, he thought. Time to think about that later. For now he’d work out his frustrations on Cruemann. As usual, the layabout hadn’t shown up for drill…
_____________________________________________________
Speaking of crises of faith…Cruemann was rapidly finding himself reverting to old habits. Ever since his return to Magnimar, he’d spent less and less time at the temple. He knew his duty, but more and more frequently, he’d felt the siren call of the city’s entertainment districts pulling more strongly at him. Worse, he found he felt little guilt about it. In truth, he found his moral compass deviating further and further from the teachings of Father Draton. First with the pit fiend, and then with the giant. If the Father’s decisions had been the right ones, why did Cruemann feel so conflicted about them? He sighed and ordered another tankard. Why couldn’t there be a god who just espoused drinking and having a good time…?
______________________________________________________
Adso waited. He was no longer comfortable in the company of so-called civilized people. He was no longer one of them. Inside, he was still who he’d always been, but others couldn’t see inside. They didn’t want to…not when the first thing they saw was what was on the outside. He’d taken to walking about with his cowl drawn close around his face, especially during daylight hours. The sun hurt his eyes. All he wanted was to leave this place and be on with their mission, but Reaper said he needed time. Something to do with Fort Rannick. So in the interim, the monk kept to himself, alone and aloof, waiting. He was starting to understand why Luther had returned to the monastery…
______________________________________________________
“So that’s it?” Avaxial asked. The pit fiend looked much more…impressive than the last time Reaper had seen him. He towered above the necromancer, and beneath his crimson flesh, muscle rippled. A sword of crackling energy hung at one side, while a coiled whip of flame hung on the other.
“You seem surprised,” Reaper replied, cocking one eyebrow.
“I…expected more of you,” the devil rumbled. “You struck me as more…ambitious.”
“Not everything is as it seems,” the mage shrugged. “I did not come to this decision lightly. Rest assured, this request is not being made for totally unself-serving reasons.”
Avaxial chuckled. “That’s more like it.”
“There is one more small thing, though,” Reaper said. Avaxial looked expectant. “Could you…ah…do something about this?”
He held up his hand, which still displayed Asmodeus’s brand on the palm.
“What?” the fiend asked. “You don’t like it? It’s all the rage in Cheliax.”
“Yes, that’s the problem,” Reaper grimaced. “We’re not in Cheliax.”
Avaxial sighed. “As you wish. Now, our business is complete…for the time being, but I suspect we may meet again, mortal. I look forward to it.”
In a column of flame, the pit fiend vanished. Reaper released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Finally, everything was in place, and his plans were beginning to show fruit. Upon returning to Magnimar, he had made his report to his handler within the Church. During the debriefing, he had spoken of his intent to move his personal base of operations to Fort Rannick. To this end, he had requested, and been granted permission to recruit from the Faithful in order to properly garrison the fort, which would be renamed the Citadel at Journey’s End. It was his assertion that this move would position him more centrally within Varisia, and would allow him to extend the arm of Pharasma even further outside the walls of Magnimar. Specifically among Reaper’s request for conscripts was a young priest named Thufir, an old associate who had proven invaluable to the necromancer on numerous occasions. It was to Thufir that he gave the task of rounding up other volunteers, and his faith in the cleric proved to be well-placed. Within a matter of two weeks, Thufir had recruited over thirty guardsman, three skilled artisans, another trio of acolytes, and one seneschal as well as a seasoned guard captain. Once all was in readiness, Reaper instructed Thufir to lead the contingent east to the fort, saying that he would join them soon. Once there, Thufir was to raise Pharasma’s banner above the battlements. Of course, Reaper would reassure his own travelling companions that the fort was their home as well, but until they were willing to expend their own resources to keep it manned, the necromancer would surreptitiously refer to it in possessive terms, and would encourage his followers to only call by its ‘true name.’ Over time, the name would change by force of will, if nothing else, and likewise, true ownership would change by force of perception as well…
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