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Post by exile on Apr 5, 2008 18:41:36 GMT -5
Damage (I'm guessing here, its a small improved weapon so 1d4 seems appropriate):
[dice=4][rand=24885705655678852857644943933370386872349576266285159611237211592]
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Post by Stix on Apr 5, 2008 20:05:01 GMT -5
Genasi Fort save
[dice=20+4][rand=98538685753700144865884969043753327058000771081662876855140892115]
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Post by Stix on Apr 5, 2008 22:51:21 GMT -5
"I think we've, ah... we've got s'm bread left," the barman says to John, righting himself and clearing his throat noisily before making for the kitchen with what sobriety he can muster.
(Sounds good to me.)
Hadrian's mug connects with his aggressor's shoulder, staggering the much larger being, who drops to his knees unexpectedly. With a puzzled look, the genasi coughs, gags, and topples over sideways, wide-eyes and gurgling out a froth of dark blood and darker bile.
All across the front end of the establishment, a few others have collapsed on the floor as well, and many more are looking ill. The sporadic fights are becoming increasingly violent, and heated words are escalating.
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Post by exile on Apr 6, 2008 10:31:11 GMT -5
Hadrian watches the earth prince topple over with grim satisfaction, but his expression suddenly transforms to annoyance as the man begins to wretch. He had no desire to add a death to his conscience, especially one so ignoble as through aspiration or pneumonia.
“Hells,” he mutters, letting his now empty ale mug fall from his grasp. Stooping low, Hadrian positions the genasi on his side and sweeps his mouth clean of the bilious emesis. Wiping his hands across the man’s shirt, the significance of the red tinge about the Bleaker’s digits dawned on him.
A bleed resulting from the peripheral injury Hadrian had inflicted would have been most unusual, differences in planar anatomy not withstanding. A chronic bubber might rupture his esophagus over time, but this berk didn’t look the type; a tear was more likely if anything, but then again froth suggested an altogether different mechanism.
Hadrian sat back on his haunches to consider the situation, arms draped over his knees. Something about this picture didn’t fit. The sounds of heated words competed with the moans of the violently ill for his attention. Was it coincidence alone that so many had been brought to the edge by drink just at this moment?
The aasimar’s gaze strayed to his fallen mug and his eyes came into abrupt focus. Quietly he began to cast.
(Casting Detect Poison, looking in turn at the ale, and the genasi.)
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Post by john on Apr 6, 2008 16:13:19 GMT -5
John stands up, the disorder in the room turning things ugly in a hurry, and suddenly regrets his own drink quite a bit as people begin to get ill and violent. "This is... bad." He comments, his mind flashing into what it calls fight-time almost immediately. "Wraith, might be time to get the boy out of here. Now." His hand doesn't stray to his sword, not yet, and unfortunately no-one here knows John well enough as a warrior to know how close he is to striking out at someone, this sudden turn of events having quite unnerved him.
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Post by exile on Apr 6, 2008 18:15:22 GMT -5
Hadrian let out a low whistle as the divination came into effect. “My, my,” he muttered. “It would seem I’m not off my mark then.”
Chanting quickly, he invoked the spell a second time in the hopes of identifying the substance which had been used. Hadrian was not of a mind to sound the general alarm until he knew what he was dealing with if it was at all possible to avoid doing so.
Second casting attempt,
Wisdom check, DC 20
[dice=20+2][rand=2093386902083587530564766886625653041770790306549011607296970711]
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Post by exile on Apr 6, 2008 18:16:02 GMT -5
(I think that deserves a 'praise Odin')
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Post by exile on Apr 6, 2008 21:02:35 GMT -5
Shaking his head quietly, Hadrian rose to his feet. The information he had gleaned was grim indeed, especially considering the establishment he was in. To think he had brought the poisoned draught up to his lips, only to be mercifully spared its ill effects by the fallen genasi. No, that wasn’t quite correct. His ale hadn’t detected as poisonous he recalled; he had ordered something more esoteric. It must be the house draft, Hadrian reasoned, and worryingly wondered at how many patrons would have been afflicted by now.
But what could he do? To shout it out would almost certainly start a riot, if not worse. Doing nothing at all would result in the deaths of more than he cared to think about, and Hadrian knew well that his own magic was of no benefit in this circumstance. Worst of all, the longer he waited to act, the sicker people would become.
Scrubbing his hands through his hair, Hadrian shut his eyes tight. He needed to think. He needed options. Part of him wondered if what he really needed was a miracle. Opening his lapis eyes once more, Hadrian took stock of his situation. He was out of time and he knew it, but at least he could make an informed decision.
(I need a better sense of what Hadrian’s surroundings look like currently, I suspect this is going to go south very quickly if its not handled right. Is Hadrian aware of the other PCs yet? Where are the Pony’s staff? What exits are readily apparent? Arbitrary rolls to follow:
Spot
[dice=20+3]
Listen
[dice=20+3]
Search
[dice=20+4]
Raw Int.
[dice=20+4][rand=08200899863359695171038819749181468429668360620484322546483688469]
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 6, 2008 21:23:22 GMT -5
"What in the nine hells...?" Wraith exclaims in alarm; not only had the increased racket in the room drawn her attention, but now John was yelling at her to get out of here. She draws Aerin to her, covering his eyes with her hand as all around them, the drunken merrymakers topple over, retching and vomitting blood. The fighting spreads as more and more get sicker it seemed.
But how? How was it possible when before, many were merrily singing and drinking their cares away? She wracked her brain, frantically searching for answers. It couldn't be pneumonia, or the foul smoke belched into the air of the Ward itself. Black Lung struck far more insidiously than this, and it didn't show these kinds of symptoms so suddenly. And what were the chances of so many falling ill, with exactly the same symptoms, at the same time, and the same place?
Though it was possible, it was also unlikely.
Maybe it was the Abyssal Pertussis then? That struck swiftly, with devastating results... and if it had somehow slipped beyond the constraints of the Hive, it would spell disaster for all in the Cage; and any who of the infected who slipped through the portals and carried it elsewhere.
Panic rising, Wraith pulls her child even closer and wends away from the table. Her wide purple eyes scan the chaos all around her... and fall upon the retching berk that has toppled over at her feet, mere moments before she stepped on him.
She recoils in horror, pulling Aerin back with her. "Merciful Apollo, what's happening here?" She gasps.
The fallen man beseeches her with outstretched fingers, coated in his own bloodied spume, and he vomits again.
[Is it possible for Wraith to determine what's going on with a Knowledge/Medicine check?]
Knowledge/Medicine
[dice=20]
+13[rand=5763365032088661736028317382787215235763599028858704190330957328]
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Post by Stix on Apr 7, 2008 11:59:08 GMT -5
(The Red Pony is a relatively small taproom; the only staff anyone's seen so far is the barman.)
Hadrian spies the fire in the hearth -- and, seated near it, Wraith, with her son (presume Hadrian's seen him before) and John (familiar from the Blood Pit a few weeks ago).
The din of pained groans is punctuated sharply by a clatter and a heavy thud sounding from the kitchen. A small scuffle -- just a two-man fist-fight -- breaks out just a few paces away.
Of the workmen near the front door (the only exit), five set to barring it, then barricading it as best they can with their fellow barely-alive revelers. Three more stand protectively nearby, eyeing the other patrons with suspicion. One of them points toward Wraith and John's table, commenting something to his nearest fellow, who begins to nod.
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Post by exile on Apr 7, 2008 16:13:14 GMT -5
As if the situation wasn’t dire enough…
Hadrian curses under his breath and sets out through the crowd as quickly as he can manage, endeavoring to reach his friend and her unexpected company before the leatherheaded vigilantes. Drawing up to Wraith and John’s table, he presses his hands flat against the knife scarred surface and leans in close.
“Please tell me you cutters haven’t had the ale tonight,” he exclaims hurriedly. “Someone’s mixed in a draught of rat poison, I’m sure of it; nasty stuff that thins your blood till you’ll bleed out from a simple cut. Drink enough and you’ll start bleeding out every orifice.”
Glancing back quickly towards the barred entry, he presses on with renewed urgency. “And what’s more, I think you’ve been marked for it. Do you think you could calm this lot with a song? The more they swing at each other, the more of them will wind up penned in the dead book by morning. But if it can’t be helped, then we at least should get out of here. I’m thinking the kitchen might be our best bet.”
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Post by john on Apr 7, 2008 17:34:33 GMT -5
John grumbles, " I did. Drink the ale." He makes a spitting sound and wonders if he's about to have a very, very bad day. Or if he's about to cause one for several other someones. He's very angry about being treated in such a dishonorable fashion. Food is... FOOD. To taint it or drink is just... wrong. He'd kill a man in cold blood with a sword, but he'd never poison someone's food. After all, one can never be sure when you'll be short a bite yourself.
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 7, 2008 21:48:31 GMT -5
Wraith glances from Hadrian to John, to the bashers quickly barricading the door, and back again. Beside her, Aerin starts to sob, and buries his face in his mother's cloak. She draws him close, tries to soothe him with a gentle touch, but even she is shaken visibly by this horrid turn of events.
Her gaze focuses on the Aasimar's face, and like a kick to the gut, the severity of the situation dawned on her. She knew they'd been poisoned, somehow, but not the type of poison used. Rat poison. Her gut clenches, squeezing the bile into the back of her throat. Her eyes drift back to the table where, she realises throughout her exchange with John, she hadn't touched the ale at all. Neither had her son. A small blessing indeed.
But what about the rest of these sods? And what of those now levelling accusing stares her way. This was going to get ugly indeed....
"No, I didn't touch the ale. Just the food. The same goes for my son." She rakes a hand through her hair, wracking her brain for a solution to this dilemna. The only obvious way out was blocked, and that mob looked angry at best. Placating them wasn't going to be easy, but at the same time, she couldn't stand around and let them die, either. Not when she had the chance to try and save as many as she could.
Calming herself with a deep breath, she decides on a plan that hopefully will work. If not...
"I can try to placate them with a song. But I'll also need your help." She gestures at both Hadrian and John. "I'm sure you know what to do if any berk gets too close to me." She nods at the Taker. "Andyou can assist me in trying to calm them, and treat them as best we can. First I'll have to try and gauge how much time we have left."
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Post by exile on Apr 8, 2008 22:22:57 GMT -5
“I don’t know if treating them is an option as it stands, Wraith. Its certainly beyond the ken of my art, sorry cutter.” This last comment is directed at John.
“Perhaps you have some other tricks up your sleeve, but the best I can suggest is to stop them bloodying up each other long enough for the poison to eventually work its way out of their systems. I suspect many are too far gone to save regardless.”
Hadrian edges back behind John with a wary eye turned towards the crowd. “Hold your blade as long as you can, Taker. Every cut will count for more. And to be safe, consider this one on the house.”
The Bleaker begins to cast.
(Casting Shield of Faith on John, +3 deflection bonus to AC for 6 minutes. Readying an action to cast Sleep on the four closest aggressors should anyone approach. Keep in mind I’m using two standard actions to accomplish both of the above, so if they rush us this round, I won’t have the readied action in effect yet.)
Initiative (I know you haven’t declared a combat yet, but just incase it matters):
[dice=20+1][rand=88022547686809358586151390808019070297086826088489583915869644792]
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Post by john on Apr 8, 2008 22:54:45 GMT -5
"If you know my creed, you'll know I can't. What's the going rate on what you just cast?" John looks vaguely annoyed he had a spell cast upon him without requesting it first, but he'll have to bite his tongue and pay him as soon as it's decently possible.
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Post by exile on Apr 8, 2008 23:08:39 GMT -5
“I don’t think that now’s the time to haggle, cutter, but if you must know, ordinarily it runs for twenty gold. I’ll cut you a deal though, because you’re about to stand between me and a bunch of mean looking, drugged up sods. So to put it in terms you’re more likely to relate to, I’m investing in my own future. If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you pay me to patch you up when this is over.”
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 8, 2008 23:34:56 GMT -5
Wraith grits her teeth throughout the whole exchange, drawing Aerin closer to her as the child's sobbing grows louder and more distressed. "Now's not the time for haggling over spell prices or ideals, cutters." She hisses through gritted teeth. Thinking over how she could resolve this as peacefully as possible, with as little loss of life, she decides on her only course of action. It seemed simple enough. In fact, the core concept meshed into a neat little package with the Dead's deals; shedding one's emotions to attain True Death. And the same ideal could be applied here. Hadrian was right. Nothing else would work. There were far too many to treat, and her skills, though vast, were next to useless here. Desperate situations called for desperate measures. [Wraith casts Calm Emotions.  ] |
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Post by Stix on Apr 10, 2008 12:59:05 GMT -5
“ I don’t think that now’s the time to haggle, cutter, but if you must know, ordinarily it runs for twenty gold. I’ll cut you a deal though, because you’re about to stand between me and a bunch of mean looking, drugged up sods. So to put it in terms you’re more likely to relate to, I’m investing in my own future. If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you pay me to patch you up when this is over.” (This argument generally does fly among Takers -- as long as Hadrian's getting something out of it, it could be called a fair transaction. The finer interpretation of the faction's philosophy is up to John, of course.) Among those who are already on the floor and retching, complexions begin to blacken with spontaneous bruising. Eyes redden as capillaries rupture under the stress of vomiting. Those who've been in fights likewise show worsening and quickly-spreading contusions. One of the men from the work crew by the door approaches -- a tall, soot-smeared human with biceps like soup bowls and legs like tree trunks, showing a small but very dark bruise on his jawline. He looks none too happy, but doesn't show any open hostility. " We think someb'dy poison'd th' bub," he forces out in a gravelly, slurred voice, " and mos' eyes're parked on you bashers. Know anything about it?" (Calm Emotions works in a 20' radius; the Pony's floor space is about 60' x 50'. From her current vantage point in the corner, Wraith can affect about ten patrons, but she could get nearly the whole place if she were to center herself in the room. However, that involves drawing a lot of attention to herself, and being a tiefling Dustman who's blatantly casting a spell in a room full of dying people probably won't soften any hearts. Your call.) |
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Post by john on Apr 10, 2008 20:21:27 GMT -5
And John responds by doing just that, arranging himself so that the more squashable members of the group of folks who have either approached or attached themselves to him are safely behind his short little wall of flesh and iron. He just glares at the bubbers and grates, "No. Now see to yourself, you're obviously hurting. I will be too in a few moments. I drank it too."
His flat brown eyes give the bubber the thousand-yard stare of a harshly-used soldier, trying to cow him before he has to start spilling blood and getting himself in trouble.
[dice=20+11]
Intimidate[rand=853979461627032644606703528307999871561291072801743499527784194]
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Post by Uathach Blackmantle on Apr 11, 2008 6:03:54 GMT -5
[Wraith stands in the corner behind John. It would be silly of her to draw unwanted attaention to her like that.  ] [The following assumes she casts her spell first.] Wraith levels the approaching bubber with the best dispassionate gaze she can muster, and says softly and calmly - though she was anything but calm inside; "Listen to John here, cutter. I'm aware of how suspicious this looks, but we had nothing to do with this. Truthfully, we've been poisoned ourselves." She gestures at John, Hadrian, herself, her boy, and the remaining patrons. "And about the only thing we can do is try to remain calm. Otherwise, if the fighting doesn't stop, all of you will start haemorrhaging from every orifice." She would say more, tell them exactly what had caused this, but that wasn't going to calm any tensions. In fact, it would probably secure her as the culprit in their minds. No one wanted to hear that they were going to die horribly, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Glancing about the room again, and the fallen patrons contorting on the floor in what was surely a horrifying death, she wracks her brain for a solution. Surely, if a cure couldn't be obtained, then there must be something around here she could fashion into a crude purgative... Something she hoped wouldn't kill the poor sods. Knowledge: Medicine [dice=20] +13[rand=6854193094708278674091949833540554173916703204973878071634210008] |
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