ForceUser
Explorer
Charred. Singed. Blackened. Cripsy-fried.
Last night my gang and I played our weekly game, in which the group consists of:
4 Fighter/2 Wizard/6 Bladesinger (yours truly)
13 Psychic Warrior
14 Cleric
14 Druid + tiger companion
13 Psion (Seer)
a 13th level fellow who's a strange admixture of paladin, rogue, and shadowdancer
7 Paladin/4 Fighter (cohort)
6 Wizard/5 Elemental Savant, Air (cohort)
In our campaign, we have an evil dragon problem. A long time ago, the elves and the good dragons cast a powerful ritual spell intended to cause the evil dragons to stop breeding. It worked, for the most part; reds, blacks, blues, and whites began to dwindle away as centuries wore on. For some reason, though, the ritual caused the greens to proliferate instead of die off, and now they're everywhere and causing big problems for hated enemy numero uno, the elves. In the thick of things, the party gets wind of a "former dragon lair" that may contain relics, books, or objects that could help answer some pressing campaign questions.
Heh.
So off we went, teleporting to the nearest human city and hoofing it from there up into the mountain jungles, following a map drawn by an NPC friend who had joined us. We found the valley where the cavern lay rather easily. We spotted some large pavillion tents and closed to investigate.
Hey, ogres! Woot!
It should be noted at this time that we'd been locked in roleplay-only sessions for several agonizing weeks, while the seer-diplomat tried to avert an impending civil war (yawn) and the cleric was excommunicated from his church for consorting with arcane spellcasters, stripped of his clerical powers, and forced to find a new avenue to the divine (snooze). Whatever. It had been weeks, and we fighter-types had been itching to kick some butt again. I found myself hoping that these were leveled or templated ogres.
They weren't. We made short work of them, much to my chagrin ("Argh, you mean I wasted a haste spell on normal ogres?" "Yesssss....!" chuckled the DM...bastard). Our eagle-eyed seer then noticed the cavern entrance, and we rushed up to investigate (it was almost 10 pm on a weeknight, and we wanted to cram in as much adventuring as we could before we had to break for the night - metagame thinking at its finest). So after a cursory inspection of the entrance, we waltzed right in, expecting to find an empty cave with some interesting relics conveniently stashed in a corner.
Instead, we found a 10' tunnel that extended 80 feet or so to...a billowing cloud of magical fog. Huh? As always, the paladin/rogue/shadowdancer and I, with our Evasion and tremendous AC respectively, inched forward to investigate this unusual fog cloud.
And suddenly, a thunderous column of scathing flame roared down the convenient 10'-wide tunnel. The shadowdancer evaded the brunt of the fire, as did the other two tanks caught in the blast.
Me? I rolled a 5 on my Reflex save, and even with my impressive +15 Reflex, a 20 didn't cut it.
"You take 81 points of damage! Make a Fort save or die." announced the DM.
"HOLY SH*T!" announced the group, in stereo.
I made my save, but I had 13 hit points left. Roasted. Flambe'd. Sizzled.
The dragon, an adult male red, was dead three rounds later, much to its surprise. It was, after all, only a CR 10 beast, and we are some fearsome sons of bitches. But damn.
That's all. That's my story. Scott, you're a rat bastard.
Last night my gang and I played our weekly game, in which the group consists of:
4 Fighter/2 Wizard/6 Bladesinger (yours truly)
13 Psychic Warrior
14 Cleric
14 Druid + tiger companion
13 Psion (Seer)
a 13th level fellow who's a strange admixture of paladin, rogue, and shadowdancer
7 Paladin/4 Fighter (cohort)
6 Wizard/5 Elemental Savant, Air (cohort)
In our campaign, we have an evil dragon problem. A long time ago, the elves and the good dragons cast a powerful ritual spell intended to cause the evil dragons to stop breeding. It worked, for the most part; reds, blacks, blues, and whites began to dwindle away as centuries wore on. For some reason, though, the ritual caused the greens to proliferate instead of die off, and now they're everywhere and causing big problems for hated enemy numero uno, the elves. In the thick of things, the party gets wind of a "former dragon lair" that may contain relics, books, or objects that could help answer some pressing campaign questions.
Heh.
So off we went, teleporting to the nearest human city and hoofing it from there up into the mountain jungles, following a map drawn by an NPC friend who had joined us. We found the valley where the cavern lay rather easily. We spotted some large pavillion tents and closed to investigate.
Hey, ogres! Woot!
It should be noted at this time that we'd been locked in roleplay-only sessions for several agonizing weeks, while the seer-diplomat tried to avert an impending civil war (yawn) and the cleric was excommunicated from his church for consorting with arcane spellcasters, stripped of his clerical powers, and forced to find a new avenue to the divine (snooze). Whatever. It had been weeks, and we fighter-types had been itching to kick some butt again. I found myself hoping that these were leveled or templated ogres.
They weren't. We made short work of them, much to my chagrin ("Argh, you mean I wasted a haste spell on normal ogres?" "Yesssss....!" chuckled the DM...bastard). Our eagle-eyed seer then noticed the cavern entrance, and we rushed up to investigate (it was almost 10 pm on a weeknight, and we wanted to cram in as much adventuring as we could before we had to break for the night - metagame thinking at its finest). So after a cursory inspection of the entrance, we waltzed right in, expecting to find an empty cave with some interesting relics conveniently stashed in a corner.
Instead, we found a 10' tunnel that extended 80 feet or so to...a billowing cloud of magical fog. Huh? As always, the paladin/rogue/shadowdancer and I, with our Evasion and tremendous AC respectively, inched forward to investigate this unusual fog cloud.
And suddenly, a thunderous column of scathing flame roared down the convenient 10'-wide tunnel. The shadowdancer evaded the brunt of the fire, as did the other two tanks caught in the blast.
Me? I rolled a 5 on my Reflex save, and even with my impressive +15 Reflex, a 20 didn't cut it.
"You take 81 points of damage! Make a Fort save or die." announced the DM.
"HOLY SH*T!" announced the group, in stereo.
I made my save, but I had 13 hit points left. Roasted. Flambe'd. Sizzled.
The dragon, an adult male red, was dead three rounds later, much to its surprise. It was, after all, only a CR 10 beast, and we are some fearsome sons of bitches. But damn.
That's all. That's my story. Scott, you're a rat bastard.
. Seriously, though, 81 points is a fine start from the dragon's perspective.
