D&D 5E CB's Stonefast IC -- COMPLETE


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OOC: Yes, I recall from our last discussion, [MENTION=61026]tuxgeo[/MENTION], that Guran can by default jump a 5' pit. When I call for such rolls in the future, feel free to just say something like "Guran Strength/Athletics X, he should automatically jump it." If there's a particular reason why he can't (not that I can imagine one, but you never know), I'll pipe up. Sound good?


Roscoe kicked in the door, splintering one of the wooden planks on the outside. The door banged open. A wall of scent accosted Roscoe and Spec--vomit, by the smell of it. In the center of the western wall of this room stands a statue of a dwarf dressed in robes, holding a hammer high above his head. At his feet is a small basin, with a running fountain in the middle of it. Here and there vomit splatters on the floor confirmed the initial smell. Half a beat later, the pair noticed a secondary scent. Beer!

OOC: For marching order, I've got Roscoe, Spec, ____, ____, Fulrgim. Third position in the marching order will be whoever posts next, Colden or Guran. Or feel free to speak up with your preference.
 

OOC: @CB: Yes, sounds good!
On the matter of marching order, I'm fine with Colden going before Guran if that's desired.
(It's a loopy Sunday for me today.
 


OOC: Beer? Well, Fulgrim is totally about to wreck this marching order...


Fulgrim's nose twitched. "Are those hops I smell? My word, is it beer?!?" The dwarf shouldered his way past the others in front of him and turned into the room. He sniffed with gusto, searching for the source of the smell.

OOC: Perception? [roll0]
 


OOC: Hmmm... beer and vomit in an ancient dwarven ruin. Common sense tells me no, but my backstory tells me hell yes. Backstory wins!


Eyes lit up at the discovery, Fulgrim immediately cupped his hands in the brew and sipped deeply. Is this the lost brew of the Ironfist pariahs?

OOC: So, I imagine there's going to be a saving throw involved. Here's a D20, add modifiers as necessary.

[roll0]
 


Fulgrim scooped up a handful of what appeared to be dwarven stout and drank it down. He was mistaken about it being dwarven stout, however; it wasn't. His esophagus tingled pleasantly, and a gentle fizzing at the back of his throat gave the lie. This was no stout. Oh, no, not a stout, indeed. He felt all vestiges of aches and pains wash away. His back straightened, ironing out a particularly irksome kink that had been bothering him between his shoulder blades for the past two days. He felt very, very, very good. Surely, this must be one of his kin's precious lost recipes? He couldn't place it.
 


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