XCrawl: Fame! Glory! Sponsorships!

[Quincunx]

OOC Here

 

Alveus Canidus, Provincia Rio Grande, Imperium Americanum Superior:

 

If you stood on top of the plateau as the sun set--or maybe sat, hiking up here took the wind out of most folks--you could watch red-brown dust plumes rise behind vehicles as they rode towards you. After awhile, you might even begin to pick out which clouds puffed up from a six-horse stagecoach or a mule cart or an off-rail steam trailer, but that's not fun and the sun is in your eyes. Look down instead, into the dry riverbed. Dogstongue. It's the city in the middle of not-a-lot. If it was next to anything else, it'd be a town, but oh no, Dogstongue is a city. 'Least it is for those folks coming in for the carnival. . .

 

*****

 

The topmost layer of a series of posters glued to the side of the hot-dog stand:

 

KOBOLD KOWBOYS

Small and weak and scaly,

Restin' only rarely,

Ridin' 'cross the prairie,

Rawhide!

Don't underestimate 'em,

Don't taunt or mock or bait 'em,

Or they'll take it out of your hide. . .

 

Scrawled along the bottom of the poster, and across several adjacent ones:

 

Kobold BBQ. Catch 1 wild kobold, scale + skin + gut him + stuff with onions + cornmeal. Put on BBQ. Done when he smells like jalapeño. Serve with refried beans + beer.

 

*****

 

Bored local human teens, sunburnt umber, working their way around the carnival rides:

 

"It's not gonna happen."

"Sure it will. After dark! You think they'll party in the middle of the day?"

"It's almost dark now and I don't see any crawling."

"They've got bleacher seats. What d'they need bleacher seats for? A circus? A concert?"

"That would rock. . ."

"Yeah. . .No band'll perform out here if they've got Apollo right over there, though."

They look involuntarily towards the temple (and concert venue).

"I'm telling you, nothing else fits. This IS an underground crawl!"

"If they're crawling, where are they keeping the monsters?!?"

 

*****

 

Inside the Magicology Mansion:

 

(prerecorded) "Watch and wonder as the Wonder Wizard lassos the wily werewolf!"

"Bor-ing. It's just a clockwork. I can see her gears."

"This is lame. There's no MAGIC in here."

Something skitters in the background of the animatronic scene.

"ROPE TRICK!"

A rope snakes across the ground, catches the two halflings by the ankles, and hauls them upside-down. Scaly laughter drowns out their cries of surprise. Whatever skittered before, speaks now in a drawl.

"Ain't no magic? Gonna lay a bet on that, tenderfeet? How about. . .whatever's in your pockets? Shake 'em, boys!"

The rope jiggles, and so do the two boys. Coins and candy, and someone else's skill-game prizes, fall to the floor.

 

 

*****

 

A half-elf couple, with bandanas tied over the tops of their ears and authentic Gnomeskin™ blue jeans, trying to knock down a tower of cans with one baseball:

 

"Hah! My turn. Three for a dollar. . .thanks."

"Why didn't you say you wanted three? We could've gone five for two dollars."

"You fail at math."

She pitches and misses.

"And you get in my way."

"Bull. There could've been a barn between you and the cans, and it would've have been in your way."

The gnome chica running the booth waggles her finger in a no-no fashion at him as she pitches and misses again.

"Ok, the barn might have been in the way that time."

"Sister, could you look the other way for a moment while I 'accidentally' throw this at his fat head? . . .Oh my gawds. Do you even speak English?"

The gnome chica shakes her head. The half-elf girl spins around dramatically and shouts to the passers-by.

"Heroes? Any heroes here? My baseball for a REAL hero!"

"That's just low. C'mon, you know I'm anemic. I swear I'd be in the crawl right now, if I wasn't anemic. . ."

[The Big Pointy One]

"That's just low. C'mon, you know I'm anemic. I swear I'd be in the crawl right now, if I wasn't anemic. . ."

 

She harrumphed and just shoved her arm holding the ball randomly into the crowd into the first passerby. Her hand stopped abrubtly as if hitting a brick wall. The person she had inadvertently smacked in the chest wasn't very tall, standing only a few inches higher than she, but had a lean muscular build that suggested years of physical conditiong and training. On his chest was a tattoo in writing she couldn't read, partly because it was in Latin and partly because it was partially obscured by a light purple vest that was currently hanging open. (In fact, it looked like it wasn't meant to be closed from the trim.) He wore loose black leggings that were cinched to his waist with a thing white silk rope. Oddly, he wasn't wearing any sort of foot wear so his feet looked pretty dirty. He didn't really have any hair except for some stubble that implied he had recently shaved it off; but between the stubble and his eyebrows, she figured he had black hair. He looked blankly at her for a moment then sidestepped around her and continued on his way. She looked back to her date for a moment, partially stunned then looked back. On the back of the fellow's vest inside a white-bordered circle was the profile of a dignified looking woman from the shoulders up, with her right index finger lightly pressed against her pursed lips. Beneath was some writing similar to that tattooed onto his chest; someone slightly more educated would recognize the dignified-looking woman as Muta, the Goddess of silence.

 

Nabeshin Hitsurugi was from a small monastery in the mountains. Their sect was devoted to only one thing: enlightenment through personal improvement. They believed ardorous labour and harsh physical training hardened the body and the soul. When not training their bodies, the monks devoted their time to silent meditation and contemplation. Initiates took a vow of silence upon commencing their training; masters rarely spoke. It wasn't required that anyone worship any deity in the pantheon, however it was easier politically to say they were devoted to Muta. In Spanish they were referred to as 'La orden del puño silencioso' or 'The Order of the Silent Fist'. The monk made his way over to the registration table for the XCrawl, and handed over some signed papers. His monastery was sponsoring him; the masters of past ages had agreed that the Crawl was an excellent way to test one's self not only physically, but also mentally. Not really certain what to do next, Nabeshin simply walked over to the side of the table, sat down and closed his eyes. He began to meditate silently. This wasn't about money. This wasn't about pride. To Nabeshin, this was just another test. When he 'won' (and he was confident enough in his ability that victory was the only logical outcome) he was gonna give all but a tiny amount of the prize money to whomever seemed to deserve it the most.

[Mardrax]

"Señorita? Señorita? Tres pelotas por favor."

The man who had walked up beside the couple rapped his fingers on the large wooden box he'd set down by his right leg. The couple turned their heads toward the newcomer as he tossed a few coins on the counter separating the customers from the gnome, who didn't really pay attention to the man up to the moment she'd heard the coins ringing, but was paying full attention now.

She cocked an eyebrow in wonder as she first saw him, but that look turned into recognition after a second or so more. She was a rough feet away from him another second later, and probably would have been against him had that same counter not been separating them.

"Guer... Guer... Señor?"

A rapid conversation in spanish shot between the two as the half-elven couple just wondered where this next stranger had come crawling from. His outfit wasn't remarkable at all. In fact, he was just wearing a pair of plain black jeans over standard issue army boots, with a black t-shirt covering his chest. His face however, was obscured by a greenish, jaguar-shaped mask, followed by a hood that seemed to be made entirely of jaguarfur, reaching to just below his shoulders. A mouth in a wide smile was just visible below the mask.

 

He had a large wooden case beside him, reaching from the ground to just above his hip. The chest was about as wide as his chest, and was painted all black apart from the corners which had a coating of metal on them. The paintjob however was barely visible through the ammount of stickers and written "I love you"'s and "te queiro"'s on it.

 

"Here!"

The couple looked up from their gazing as two balls came flying toward them. The girl picked up the ball that was directed at her from the ground and stood up, then looked at her date, who had firmly caught his. The balls had an autograph on them, unintelligible apart from the first and last letters, G and O. They looked at the gnome girl who had a simmilarly autographed ball in hand and looked a million times happier than before.

The man, in the meantime, had walked away from the stand and headed for the registration table, the case carried along with him. The elven couple just saw his back dissapearing in the crowd, as the letters "Aeon" which were printed on the back of his shirt was obscured by someone walking by.

 

He walked up to the registration table and tossed a small folder on it, then walked up to the stocky man beside it, set his case down and rapped his fingers on his head.

"Wakey wakey mister. It's no fun being that silent when there's introductions to make"

He stuck out his hand in greeting.

"You can call me Guerrero, and I guess we're in this together."

Edited October 4, 2006 by Mardrax

[Quincunx]

Loudspeakers attached to booth-tops squawk and wheeze like old men. "Sundown, sundown's in half an hour, folks," announces a genial male voice, "and we'll be closing our rides and skill games early tonight. Come to the roller coaster and get your seats before the show begins, and I hope to see all of you there." There's a few seconds of the usual carnival music, then another voice cuts into the tape and repeats the instructions in Spanish. All along the row of skill games, operators fold down the shutters and start counting the money from their tills; one gnome chica at the baseball-pitching booth is trying to do the work one-handed, since she hasn't yet set down her autographed baseball.

 

At the registration table, another female gnome (this one old enough to have laugh lines, although her hair is youthfully short) pushes back her chair and scoops up the trio of folders. "That's all Ah need from you before we begin, so come along with me. We've got some lockers ready for your backpacks and your weapons," she tells the hometown heroes. "The blessin's going to happen fifteen minutes after sundown, and you need to be ready then. Now we'll have introductions right after the blessin', and unlock the weapons. . .Follow me," and with that steps behind the barrier which hides the "backyard" of the Magicology Mansion.

[Quincunx]

The bleacher seats creak dangerously, overloaded as they are. It looks like the entire rural population of Rio Grande Province has squeezed itself onto the tiers: prairie families in dust-brown old fashions sharing bottles of cola and picnic food from portable iceboxes; solitary cattlemen dressed in half-cured cowhide, turning the air blue with enthusiastic curses; southern mountain families wearing native dyes, brilliant despite the dust, and cheering with scraps of many languages; townsfolk in trendy clothing without a speck of dust, gazing wide-eyed at the ruckus all around them; even, in the highest tier of seats, a tiny pool of silence around a group of blanket-wrapped, silver- and turquoise-laden strongmen. The segmented oval of bleacher seats encircles the Flight of the Fruitbat roller coaster, facing a blank wall of white plastic sheeting which has been unfurled from the top of the track and pinned to the wooden supports, except for clear plastic sheeting under one of the turns. At sundown, as the fair's local employees shut down their stations and squeeze into their reserved seats, enormous spotlights power up and rise from within the oval; the crowd drops into whispers (but thousands of whispers are not silent) while the spotlights fix themselves onto the white panels.

 

Atop the clear sheeting, eight prismatic lights flare into existence, and the disappointed crowd on that end erupts in screaming and cheering, except for the silent strongmen. That set of bleachers trembles as its load rises to their feet, climbs atop parents' shoulders, strains to watch the lights circle lazily around the top edge and come to rest in the elevated hands of a very short, gray-haired fella in sheepskin hat and Gnomeskin™ denim. His image appears now, projected on every panel: he's dressed more suitably for a northern winter than this venue, dripping with sweat, speaking into his collar microphone, and completely inaudible. The crowd stops cheering one by one as the dancing lights wink out, and the gnome's speech, circling around much like his lights did, rises from hidden loudspeakers:

 

". . .so enthusiastic, I never hear sound like that back home. My home's a long way north of here, in Alberta province. Lovely place, flat place. Very flat place. People say that if you stand on a chair and stare off into the distance, you can see the back of your own head. It never worked for me, but what do I know, I'm a gnome." He passes his hand over his head, smiles a little. "I couldn't tell you what keeps drawing me back here, year after year, might be the food, or the scenery, or the warmth and devotion of the Rio Grande people. Yes, that's it, the devotion they show their gods and their heroes. Show our heroes how much you support them." Spotlights throw beams at the base of the platform, on the Hometown Heroes, as the screens display each of them in turn.

[Mardrax]

The screens turn white for a split second as the first spotlight flashes on. A portion of the crowd that was looking at the live figures from the wrong angle is temporarily blinded, staring straight into the thousands of watts of light being reflected straight at them.

A second later, the figure had spotted the camera and turned his masked face straight into it. A brilliant smile visible on the part of his face that wasn't covered. He carried a guitar on his back, which was barely recognisable as such because of its bizarre shape. It had things jutting out of it that some might call spikes, apeared to be made of metal, and polished to an extremely high shine for the occasion. He lifted the guitar into the air by the neck and just threw his other arm up with it. He bellowed a guttural cry, which was lost in the uproar of the audience but clearly audible from where he was standing, which was enough.

He wasn't performing for them. He never had.

The fans though, loved him for it, as this crowd's reaction proved yet again.

 

They knew him as Guerrero. Lead vocalist and guitar player for Miknemi. A band wildly popular among parts of the youth, especially the spanish speaking parts. A band avidly despised by the vast majority of adulthood for the sheer ammount of noise they brought to stage. Anyone coming to their shows however, soon forgot about the noise as the first "sacrifices" to Bacchus were called upon.

 

He stands there, revelling in the attention from the crowd for those few short seconds before the spotlights mercilessly would swing to his neighbour. He wonders why the crowd loves him. Was it his way of playing? Was it the image of upholding ancestral traditions? Was it just the booze? How would he fare tonight? Would he even step out alive?

 

He scans the crowd, trying to look for a familiar face. Trying to look for that familiar face.

Rows upon rows of madly cheering people. A group of calmly sitting ones.

Must be part of his party. Some party that would be.

 

But suddenly he spots them, right in front of the monks. Four people sitting next to eachother, equally calm as the monks, but starkly contrasting with their white robes. All clad in black, one with a face equally white as the robes behind him.

 

Did that person just raise a hand at me? Could that be her?

 

He hangs on to the thought, answering it positively in his mind, and waiting for the spotlight to swivel to his side to shake off what little stagefright he seemed to be experiencing.

Edited November 18, 2006 by Mardrax

[Quincunx]

Once again, the gnome's voice disappears under a wave of cheers and only meanders back into everyone's attention once he returns to everyone's view, ". . .and you show your gods support, and I support mine. My god isn't too well-known down here. Goddess, I should say. I understand the Lady of the Orchards doesn't have too many sacred places in the middle of the desert, and so. . .well, I bring one of them along with me, wherever I go. Please welcome Pomona, the Lady of the Orchards."

 

The heroes' spotlights ascend the platform's supports. Somehow, in the middle of the dusty fairground where old telephone poles once were, a dozen stout trees have sprung into existence: walnut trees, chestnuts, oranges and apples. Children's clamor takes over the crowd noise, questioning, as the spotlights level off at the top of the platform, sixty feet in the air, illuminating the gnome and just missing three others of roughly the same height.

 

"I'm Fordforton Tnalauss, humble servant of Pomona--just call me Ford--and welcome to tonight's festivities. Oh my, how could I overlook it. Our heroes are at the base of Pomona's Preserve and we're at the top of it. Odéle, sugarplum, could you lower the harnesses down to them?" One of the less visible figures steps into the spotlights: a female gnome laden with ropes and harnesses, who steps off of the platform and into the topmost branches of a chestnut tree before beginning to lower one of the harnesses. The other two bound out of the shadows, each one heading for a different gnome, and a few among the audience scream as the spotlights glint off of horns and hooves!

 

"What's this, eh? Up to the top of Pomona's Preserve just like that?" shouts the satyr nearest to Odéle, snatching the harnesses she holds in her hands. Half of the screens flash away from Fordforton to show a close-up of the satyr, fur on his hands shining black against the pale silk ropes.

 

"She didn't even let Vertumnus in until he'd paid some dues, and he was a good man," adds the other, with his red-furred arm wrapped around Fordforton's upper body, multiplied across alternating screens. "Nothing unreasonable," he continues, as bland as Ford himself, "just good, hard work."

 

"Catch," adds the first satyr, tossing a dagger to the female gnome but leaving his hip flask on his belt. "Nothing unreasonable at all. No weapons. Give us some harnesses, Miz Odéle. We'll play with them a little, let them earn their way to the top. No malice."

 

The second satyr removes his pipes and drapes the neck-cord over Fordforton's head. "Keep those for me, would ya. They're not meant for heroes." He releases the gnome and buckles the harness which the other satyr throws to him, canters to the other edge of the platform and ties both ropes to the trunk of the orange tree, then grasps one rope in either hand and leaps!

 

Fordforton scrambles to the point from which he leaped, but the spotlights overrush him and illuminate the satyr's descent. He lands on his hooves half-way up the tree trunk and, suspended parallel to the ground, takes a bow with ropes in hand. Atop the platform, the gnome fumbles with his collar microphone, "A slight change in the night's festivities, but I think it's suitable, much better than shedding blood right away." A fashionable half-elf stands up in the nearest bleachers and boos, but his girlfriend pulls him down to his seat by his ear. "They're right, you know, Pomona will be pleased. Those harnesses are quite safe. It's impossible for you to fall freely so long as you can hold one of the ropes." Now each set of screens shows the same series of images, left to right: red satyr standing on the orange tree trunk, black satyr rappelling down the chestnut tree, and each earthbound hero as he straps himself into a harness. "If any of you touch the ground again, I want you to stop fooling around immediately!"

 

OOC:

 

The platform is twenty feet in diameter and supported by twelve trees which are sixty feet high, which puts their trunks approximately five feet apart. Each satyr has rappelled to thirty feet above the ground, the black one at three o'clock relative to the platform, the red one at nine o'clock. (Think of the overhead view as a clock-face.) The spaces between the tree trunks have been filled with clear plastic panels, making a giant cylinder. Your harnesses dangle above the ground at one o' clock from an apple tree, six o'clock from a pecan tree, and eleven o'clock from a pear tree.

 

I'll want climb checks every round: one for half-speed vertical climbing, plus an additional one to attempt clambering up at full speed. Horizontal movement is full speed. You can charge horizontally, or up to ten feet up or down from your current elevation. Roll for initiative.

[Gyrfalcon]

The screen flashes to a whipcord lean man, hazel eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the spotlight. Much less flamboyant then Guerrero, his clothing was well made but unornamented, the only exception his green cloak, a pair of crossed wands stitched with thread that glimmered in the spotlight, riding over a black crescent moon that drink in the light greedily. From the thrown-back hood of his cloak, a pair of green eyes glimmered in the spotlight for a moment.

 

"And here we have Xander, a promising young magus from the Mage's College in Clearwater, give him a round of applause folks!" The crowd applauded politely, nothing like the wild cheering that had greeted the masked Guerrero, but that was fair enough - Miknemi was well known, even in the Mage's College, while Xander was a complete unknown. Right now, at least.

 

His eyes scanned the crowd as the spotlight moved away from him, and they widened fractionally as he saw a few old friends from school sitting in a line, waving and giving him exaggerated thumbs up. Grinning, Xander waved back before turning to look up at the platform as the two satyrs made their challenge.

 

A sense of curiosity tinged with sleepiness touched his mind, and he willed back a comforting thought to Aliq, his familiar. "Don't worry yourself, Aliq, it's nothing." he said confidently as he strapped on the climbing harness, securing his quarterstaff under his pack, slanting across his back.

 

"We'll make it to the top in no time, you'll see." he said, giving the ropes a tug and the apple tree before him before beginning his climb.

 

OOC: Xander is starting at the 1 o'clock position.

 

Initiative (1d20+2=19)

Climb Check #1 (1d20=10)

Climb Check #2 (1d20=9)

[The Big Pointy One]

Following Xander's introduction, the spotlight swings over to the somber monk Nabeshin who was standing silently near the edge of the stage. He hadn't said a word since arriving; he just seemed to stand around in contemplation. The announcer's voice rung out over the crowd, "Next up is Nabeshin Hitsurugi from the Nogales region of the southern Rockies. A member of the obscure Order of the Silent Fist, Sir Hitsurugi isn't here for your money *or* your adoration, no no, he's just here for himself... how selfish is that?"

 

The crowd mutters a bit, not really sure how to react. A few people clap and one person cheers, but uin general, they don't really know if they should get excited over this competitor or not. Of course, it made little difference to Nabeshin. He briefly scanned the crowd and noticed a tan figure in an earth-coloured robe with a long, flowing white beard; this man was one of his masters from the monastery, no doubt in attendance to view and rate Nabeshin's performance. Mentally, he shrugged and made his way over to the pear tree and got ready to climb.

 

OOC: From the OOC Thread:

 

Die roll for Nabeshin

1d20-> [5] = (5)

1d20-> [1] = (1)

 

First die: Initiative Second die: Climb Check roll.

 

Dex gives me a 6 on initiative, Str gives me a huge 2 on my climb... wow, off to a rough start.

I guess he'll just go for the regular climb up the pear/11:00 o'clock tree. He isn't really proficient in climbing anyways. Also, next rolls I make will be formatted better.

[Wyvern]

Meanwhile... under the heights of the Flight of the Fruitbat, under the platform that tops the circle of trees, under the slanted roof of the Magicology Mansion, under the lowly mechanical "Flamethrower Gnome vs. Firemage" exhibit, under the pipes and sewerlines of the Mansion's not-so-magical restrooms, under the IQ of your average XCrawl fan, under even underdog status, there sits a circle of most despicable reptilianoids. King Kowboy, the shortest and ugliest of the bunch, adjusts the plastic Sheriff Star on his filthy cowpoke rags and takes a stand on a plastic head leftover from a shortlived "Half-orc vs. Enchantress" exhibit. A midget amongst his kobold brethren, The King was highly respected for his outstanding number of warts and bad-ass Country Western attitude. He was their natural leader, and had been ever since Konquistador Kowboy had inexplicably hung himself using one of King Kowboy's ropes.

 

"Listen up, ya hounddawgs." King Kowboy gave a loud whistle that silenced the obnoxious chatter between kobolds. He tapped a foot on his stand until all the beady eyes were focused on him. "That's right varmits. It's time that another meeting of the Klassic Kobold Kowboys come to order. Let's start'er up. Kelvin Kowboy, the science report."

 

A kobold with a broken pencil impaled in his ear lifts himself to his feet.

 

"Szienz report iz: toilet water good drink this week, many in bathroom for show. Pipes hot. Plastic cool."

 

"Thank'ye." King Kowboy adjusted his cowboy hat as Kelvin Kowboy went back to licking himself. "Killa Kowboy, the trap report."

 

A one-eyed kobold hacked up a fish bone before standing up.

 

"Trapses set in mansion: low rope snagger, tripwire rope, cross tangle rope, high diver rope, instant lasso rope, triangle death rope, super spinner rope, spider rope, rope support rope, toilet seat rope, torch rope, lamp rope, rope museum coiler, novelty show rope, hidden rope shoelace, ankle kicker rope, elfy masker rope, twister rope, backup idiot rope, backup gnome rope, ropey soap, longer homing rope, giftshop bargain bin rope, twistyflex rope, triple rope bagger, shorter homing rope, human-proof rope, rope of hope, sweet-seeking rope, dope rope, ceiling whirler rope, bull steerer rope, wrist clapper rope, rope keeping janitor tied."

 

"Good. Katcher Kowboy, the victim report."

 

"Victim report for last five month: 3 victim. One escape before we rob."

 

"Hunh." King Kowboy scratched his cheeks and tried to think for a minute, but decided to pass over to a better report instead. "Alrighty. Now everyone's favorite. Klinger Kowboy, the booty report."

 

"Thankee." A chubby kobold struck a thumbs up in the corner. "We bag 6 piece of candy, 8 chewy copper coin, and one half of firework! Kilo Kowboy eat other half."

 

"Yeeeeeeeehawww!" King Kowboy waved his hat around as kobolds cheered over the new booty, then coughed to himself as the shouting faded. "Now that y'all have seen success, let's talk dirty business. The XCrawl has come to Rio Grande, and it's 'bout to be the Time of the Kobold. I want y'all to take a look at this."

 

King Kowboy pointed to a list propped up next to the head. A makeshift toilet scroll listed the races applicable to XCrawl: Dwarves, Elves, Gnomes, Half-elves, Halflings, and Humans. Many of the kobolds scratched their heads and stared, illiterate.

 

"The Kobold ain't listed anywhere here, and it ain't listed in none of them dictionaries either. Heck, I couldn't even find 'Kowboy' in the dictionary! Well, I says they've ignored us for too long. And the time to show what the kobold is made of is now."

 

King Kowboy pointed at Keeper Kowboy, who rolled the toilet scroll down a bit to reveal an elaborately doodled plan.

 

"See this rope?" King Kowboy held up one end of a rope. The rope trailed up to a pipe on the ceiling, where it went too high for eyes to follow. "Just today, Krazy Kowboy braved the bright world to tie the other end of this to one of those roller coaster rides that all them landwalkers are so fond of. They shish-ka-bobbed ol' Krazy up there, but I heard he done right before they caught him. This lil' rope's gonna be our ticket straight up to XCrawl, and there ain't gonna be a soul in the stadium who won't know the strength o' the kobold by the time we're through."

 

King Kowboy snorted proudly and rubbed his star.

 

"Operation XCrawment will begin in 02:00 hour."

[Mardrax]

A small, red piece of plastic twirls to the floor as Guerrero sticks whatever candy was in there in his mouth with his lefthand. His right hand working deliberately to tie himself into the only leftover harness without entangling it with the few straps holding his guitar to his back.

 

Waiting for the other two to finish, he takes a few steps back and looks up at the two satyrs hanging there, on oppsite ends op the plastic and wooden cylinder. As if two of those tricksters could prove any obstacle to his reaching that platfom. Especially with these ropes they so conveniently draped down for them.

He took a quick look around, finding a camera that was currently on-screen and flashing a wide smile into it from beneath his jade coloured jaguar fangs before turning his attention back to the satyrs.

 

Stuffing the hard bit of candy in the inside of his cheek, he shouted: "Hey you guys! Yeah! That's right! You, and you. If you to give us a hard time climbing up that platform, you should try stopping me down here!"

And he took a few steps forward again.

 

 

OOC:

Guerrero is using a diplomacy check to try to get the satyrs headed towards the ground. Ofcourse, I roll a 1 for that, so blame Fortuna for that, and having a high charisma to hopefully soften that a bit.

Otherwise, he is waiting to see if there is any response from them. If there isn't, he stays on the spot until next round, to probably climb up then. If they respond the way he's hoping, (faint hope at best, but roll low tzim, roll low ) and they move down, he'll wait for them to hit the ground, then start climbing up himself. (readied climb action in case they touch the ground) If that's the case, but they don't touch the ground until the next round, he'll use the second climb roll as well and that'll be his second round then as well

If they respond otherwise, there's always IRC.

 

1d20-> [13] = (13) Initiative

1d20-> [1] = (1) Diplomacy <- w00t! I have the first 1!

1d20-> [4] = (4) Climb

1d20-> [16] = (16) Climb2

 

totals:

Initiative 16

Diplomacy 12

Climb 6

Climb2 18

[Quincunx]

Xander hauls himself up easily using just one rope, leaving the other for safety, to the slow cheers of the crowd. The black-furred satyr leers down at him, wraps both ropes around his hands another time, and turns towards Xander's tree, but Guerrero's shout gives him pause.

 

"Hey you guys! Yeah! That's right! You, and you. If you to give us a hard time climbing up that platform, you should try stopping me down here!"

 

"That doesn't sound like putting in good, hard work to me," calls the black-furred satyr. He has to raise his voice over Guerrero's shrieking fanbase. "I'd rather work with this guy up here," he adds, and points his horns horizontally. Red laughs, pulls himself vertical, holds out his arms, and lets go of both ropes; they play out between his thumbs and index fingers, and he free-falls for a crowd-stopping moment--or appears to, on the screens--before grabbing hold of the ropes again. Black drums his hooves on the chestnut tree's trunk, then races horizontally across the panels and halts on the apple tree--Xander's!

 

Nabeshin watches the black-furred satyr appear around the edge of Pomona's Preserve and finishes buckling his harness in haste. He grabs hold of one rope, tugs mightily--and it breaks free of his harness and dangles in his hand. The children in the crowd, especially, think this is the best joke they've seen all day.

 

 

OOC:

 

Someone requested harness details. There are two iron buckles, with open DC 20. The two silk ropes are threaded through pulleys on the harness itself, and anchored to the harness. (well, not on Stick's harness any longer. . .)

 

Initiative: Black-furred satyr 7, red-furred satyr 11

Climb: Black-furred satyr 11, red-furred satyr 5

Diplomacy: Black-furred satyr 20, red-furred satyr 6

 

(1 o'clock) Xander 19 (15 ft.)

(6 o'clock) Guerrero 13 (0 ft.)

(9 o'clock) Red-furred satyr 11 (20 ft.)

(3 o'clock) Black-furred satyr 7 (30 ft.)

(11 o'clock) Nabeshin 6 (0 ft.)

[Round One, Actions Taken to Here]

 

(I might not need the initiative list, but I've seen another PbP DM use it to good effect when people with high initiative posted quickly.)

[Gyrfalcon]

Xander looked up at the black-furred Satyr thumped its hooves firmly against the tree that Xander was climbing, blocking the young magus' way up. Always willing to improvise if going his current route was going to lead him straight into the arms of a satyr, Xander gathered his legs under him and pushed off, holding tight to his rope as he swung away from the tree and to the side in a wide arc, landing with a legs-braced thump against the tree to the right of the one Guerrero was harnessed to.

 

"You might want to start climbing, it'll only get harder!" Xander shouted down as he started pulling at his ropes again, trying to get up even with or higher then the Satyr who had tried to block his ascent the first time.

 

OOC: Move action to the side at full speed (20' with equipment), so he should go from the 1' tree to the 5' tree if I'm thinking correctly.

 

Climb check to pull himself up with his second move action:

Satyr Ascent, Round 2, Climb Check #1 (1d20=7)

 

Hm... too bad, no movement I suspect, but at least he didn't fall to the ground again... unless the Satyr does something. *laughs*

[Mardrax]

Shrugging, Guerrero sat down into the harness, planting his feet against the almond tree and lifts a foot to start climbing upwards. Distracted by Xander's swing, he looks up as the student lands on the tree beside him.

 

If that overly stuffed backpack hadn't been weighing him down, he might just as well have landed on me, and he's just as far from that horned half-man than he was before. At least that rope he's swinging from might get in the way of Blacky there.

 

A voice tore him out of his thoughts: "You might want to start climbing, it'll only get harder!"

He has no idea how hard things might become if he lands on my back next time he does that.

Guerrero shrugs the words and thoughts off and resumes climbing.

 

OOC:

Two climb actions, the first probably failing.

Satyr Ascent, Round 2, Climb Check #1 and 2 (1d20=6, 1d20=15)

The first makes for 8, the second for 17 total.

 

Your thinking seems accurate.

20 foot diameter means a roughly 62 foot circumference, means 12 5 foot sections.

Edited December 1, 2006 by Mardrax

[Quincunx]

Between two heroes, the red-furred satyr looks back and forth before deciding on the moving target, Guerrero. He copies the other satyr's rope loops and leaps off of the orange tree, but does not make a broad jump, and thumps back down to bark at the same point. "You're climbing, not skipping rope!" floats down from the top row of the bleacher seats, along with a shower of laughs.

 

The black-furred satyr tips his head back and laughs. "That's the way!" he shouts, and holds the ropes with a slack grip. He kicks out from the tree and swings clockwise around the preserve, playing out line and dropping to Xander's level--

 

--but he kicked vigorously, and sails past Xander on the outside as the ropes play out, too far, too fast. Xander's cameras also grab the chance to follow the inglorious descent, and the twin trails of dust his hooves raise when he skids into the ground. Xander's cameras rise up to him again, while the satyr's set point straight upwards, to Fordforton leaning over the edge of the platform. "I told you all, stop fooling around when you hit the ground!" he calls, hands cupped around his mouth, heedless of the microphone and of the renewed jeering from the top bleachers. "Now haul yourself back up here and don't tempt Pomona's temper."

 

OOC:

 

A retroactive change to Xander's climbing height in round one--I forgot to account for his encumbrance.

 

Climb: Black-furred satyr 1, red-furred satyr 3

 

(5 o'clock) Xander 19 (10 ft.)

(6 o'clock) Guerrero 13 (15 ft.)

(9 o'clock) Red-furred satyr 11 (20 ft.)

(-- o'clock) Black-furred satyr 7 (- ft.) [Out]

[Round Two, actions taken to here]

(11 o'clock) Nabeshin 6 (0 ft.)

[The Big Pointy One]

Sighing as one of his support ropes hits the ground, Nabeshin pulls out his nunchaku. He bites down on one of the handles, then gives the remaining rope a strong tug. Satisfied, he grabs the rope with both hands and attempts to climb up the hard way.

 

Climb check: 1d20+1=9

Edited December 3, 2006 by The Big Pointy One

[Gyrfalcon]

Xander pressed himself against the plastic panel as the Satyr whipped by, the end of one rope slapping against Xander's upper back and drawing a startled hiss from within his hood. "Oh calm down, you weren't even harmed." he chided, glancing back over his shoulder and chuckling softly as the Satyr struggles to his feet on the ground. Shaking his head, he tightened his grip on his ropes and begins hauling himself upward, confident that the other Satyr would find someone else to play with for now.

 

 

OOC: Making two climb checks... dice, don't fail me now!

 

Satyr Ascent Round 3, Climb Checks #1 and 2 (1d20=11, 1d20=14)

 

Good dice. *pats them*

[Mardrax]

In mid-climb, Guerrero looks up, right into the eyes of the satyr that just set his sights on him.

Taking two more steps, he watches the satyr make what would probably be the least effective maneuver of the evening.

 

So it's me you want, huh?

 

He turns his body ninety degrees on the rope. His left shoulder facing the ground, he braces and runs straight at the the red-furred satyr. Opening his mouth, he utters another guttural cry, this one with words in it that would probably be audible to anyone used to it.

 

"Then have me!"

 

OOC: One charged bull rush with ofcourse, another bad roll, come on Tzim, bodge it

 

Satyr Ascent, Round 3 Bull Rush 1d20=6

 

Including the charge bonus that makes 10 still :\

Provided you do roll badly, I'm taking him along the extra 5 feet

[Quincunx]

Nabeshin clambers up the rope the hard way, with the camera zooming in for a closeup of his face; the grimace around the nunchaku is an eloquent expression all of its own. Once his foot slips, stripping off a bit of bark, but he regains his footing and slowly ascends while Xander, on the other side of the preserve, ascends twice as quickly on his twin ropes. The red-furred satyr looks backwards and down at Nabeshin's upwards crawl and grins. He turns to face the pear tree, sets a hoof on the intersection of plastic and tree, feels the vibration, and whirls around again to headbutt Guerrero--but the jaguar-masked man has already impacted with him, and the satyr's rear hoof has no traction on the plastic. He slides across the plate to the next tree trunk, just above and to the right of the monk; while the crowds roar, Nabeshin looks up and judges distance. . .

 

OOC:

 

Climb: 3

Satyr's AoO: 6

Strength: 7

 

 

(5 o'clock) Xander 19 (30 ft.)

(9 o'clock) Guerrero 13 (20 ft.)

(10 o'clock) Red-furred satyr 11 (20 ft.)

(-- o'clock) Black-furred satyr 7 (- ft.) [Out]

[Round Three, actions taken to here]

(11 o'clock) Nabeshin 6 (15 ft.)

 

Stick, you have a possible AoO there. At the moment, I can't get into your sheet, so without knowing your attack bonus, I won't roll for you.

[The Big Pointy One]

As he slowly makes his way up, Nabeshin notices Guerrero bump the satyr and send it flying in his direction. He judges for distance, tightens his grip on the rope and sends up a silent prayer to Muta that he doesn't muck this up. Letting go of the rope with his left hand and dropping the nunchaku from his mouth simultaneously, he snags the nunchaku and swings away...

 

 

 

OOC: I hope I don't have to roll to catch the nunchaku... anyways, I'm assuming I *do* have to make some sorta use rope/climb check so I'll go ahead and do that. Also, I can't seem to find where my character sheet was linked... but I found the actual thing... anyways. here's that link:

 

Nabeshin

 

Attack Roll (1d20+2=22)

 

Critical!

 

Critical check (1d20+2=4)

 

Maybe not.

 

Damage (1d6+1=6)

 

Not too shabby.

 

Climb/use rope check (1d20+1=18)

 

If it *is* a use rope check, tack on another 2. Apparently I have 2 ranks in use rope. Regardless of which ability it is, I do have the +1 in (relative stat) for both. Weee....

Edited December 13, 2006 by The Big Pointy One

[Gyrfalcon]

Xander blinked in surprise at Guerrero's spirited charge towards the red-furred satyr, and listened to the rising roar of the crowd as the masked man actually shoulders the Satyr along in his charge, while the quiet monk below him... Nabeshin was his name? Swung back on one arm, bringing a pair of sticks chained together from mouth to hand and swinging at the off-balance satyr.

 

The young mage frowned for a moment as he considered the growing fight around the bed from him, but there was little he could do from his current position and he wanted to avoid bloodshed in what was supposed to be a non-lethal struggle. Shrugging his shoulders, he set himself a bit more firmly and kept climbing, keeping an eye on his two companions in this struggle in case they might need his help.

 

OOC: Two move actions to attempt to keep climbing up the tree.

 

Satyr Ascent Round 4, Climb Checks #1 and #2 (1d20=6, 1d20=9)

 

Doesn't look like he manages to move at all... guess he should focus more on his own climbing!

[Mardrax]

Pressing a foot against the satyr to keep some distance between them, Guerrero uses his hand that hadn't just rushed into the red-furred wall in his way to unclasp one of the straps holding the guitar to his back. He immediately grabs the neck in the same hand, driving its body upwards towards his biggest anoyance of the moment.

 

OOC:

Satyr Ascent, Round 4 Climb d20+2=14, Attack d20+4=24, Damage d10+2=10

Satyr Ascent, Round 4 Crit Confirm d20+4=15+4=19

 

 

Making the same climb check Stick was to attack.

Making the same attack roll too it seems. Crit. Seems confirmed a bit better though.

Would make for 20 damage total, fully lethal, not in any mood to tone it down. Like he said: "have me".

[Quincunx]

A few people chuckle when Nabeshin loses his jaw-grip on the nunchaku, but they cut off as soon as he grabs them again and sweeps them into the red-furred satyr's lower ankle. Instead the crowd roars for first blood as the satyr loses its footing and dangles by its harness ropes (Xander, surprised by the noise, nearly does the same, as his backpack tries its best to jump off of his back), and before the first wave of noise dies out, jumps up and yells as Guerrero's guitar lands squarely between the satyr's horns. Its eyes roll back in its head, its entire body goes slack, and the ropes play out quietly as it sinks to the ground.

 

[Placeholder. Restarting computer...]

[Quincunx]

Odéle sprints to the top of the tree which has the red-furred satyr's body at its base and gestures, while the cameras all lock on the victorious Hometown Heroes ascending the preserve. Xander has the head start on his companions, the female gnome reaching out her hand to assist him, but Guerrero overtakes him in the final few feet and leaps onto solid ground. "Welcome Guerrero, the lead singer of Miknemi!" cries Fordforton; the sections of the bleachers seated in front of his close-up take up the chant of Guerrero! Guerrero! Nabeshin's bleachers pick up the idea a few seconds later, and Xander's cut in as the female gnome helps them across the flat semicircle of roller coaster track, through the leaves, and onto the platform itself. Fordforton lets the crowd wear itself out as the black satyr rises, unhooks the flask from his belt, and tosses it in Xander's direction as the tree's leaves begin to glow all around him. "Fordforton!" Odéle shouts, while the verdant light races along the roller coaster's track and transforms each wooden support into a new tree, "what've you done?!"

 

"Nothing, applecake," he replies, turning to watch the light complete its circuit, and strolling over to one of the platform's trees as the glow dwindles. "The fellas were right, Pomona is pleased," he says into the microphone, and reaches out for one of the fruits which is still illuminated. "She's given us some goodberries. Fine things, goodberries. Squeeze the juice from one and give it to an unconscious man, and he won't bleed to death. Why, it might even bring him back to consciousness." He picks the fruit, which ceases to glow the instant its stem snaps, and tosses it to Nabeshin. The gnome looks down at the end of the motion and catches sight of the pipes; he removes them and proffers them to Guerrero. "Believe these are yours by right. . ."

 

"Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Tonight's festivities have been blessed by Pomona and sponsored by Gnomeskin™ Denim Company, who have generously provided us with several pairs of Bayou Blue Adventurer's Pants for tonight's heroes." A spotlight alights on Odéle, who strikes a pose to show off her own pair of cargo pants, and the satyr in the shadows hauls a crate up to the top of the platform. "Bayou Blues are the #1 brand for North and South America monster trappers, with their +1 riveted construction and many handy pockets," Fordforton continues, and gazes at Odéle as she unsnaps, unzips, and un-velcros a legion of pockets, "and the Rio Grande Trappers' Association has donated a special item for tonight's festivities as well as a Young Trapper's Knapsack for each of our heroes--what's this, my sweet almond?" he asks, unclipping his microphone and holding it out to her.

 

Odéle pulls a foot-long iron rod out of a long pocket on her left pants leg, hand-over-hand. "Ah believe it's a sunrod, Fordie. There's a note wrapped around it," she drawls, and uncoils the paper like a scroll. "It says. . .says you'd better read this instead," recites the female gnome, after releasing the note and letting it coil itself. She hands the sunrod to Fordforton horizontally and pulls the scroll open again, tapping the paper and explaining, "It's a magical note, just read this line right here, but take that microphone back first." He obeys, and the speakers echo the message which recites itself, "Burning y'all's lamp oil is not always the best solution. Semper pear-rattis and best of luck, Rio Granday Trappers' Association."

 

" 'Semper paratis', always be prepared, good advice for our hometown heroes," Fordforton echoes. "Rio Grande Trappers' Association has sponsored the next event, and they have told me that it is going to be a solo challenge!" He waves the sunrod for silence after giving the crowd some time to vent. "Will our hometown heroes decide which one will be accepting the challenge while I share some details with our audience?" He and Odéle kneel on the platform while the spotlights glide horizontally downwards, throwing their lights in between the tree trunks. Odéle lifts a hatch in the center of the platform while Fordforton strikes the sunrod against the hatch, igniting it. The crowd gasps as the spotlights duck under the platform, revealing a glittering fish-tailed gnomish mermaid as she snatches the sunrod. The spotlights array themselves around the tank to illuminate all the water while the mermaid sinks down to the bottom of the tank with hardly a flicker of her tail. "It's a simple challenge, just swim down and retrieve the sunrod in order to claim the knapsacks for your entire team."

 

OOC:

 

400xp for conquering Pomona's Preserve.

[The Big Pointy One]

Looking to the tank briefly, Nabeshin shrugs and takes a step towards the tank. Although he hadn't really done much swimming during or before his training, he did know how to swim a little bit. Plus, this was as good as a chance as any other to try and improve his skill. Unless any of the other party members object, Nabeshin begins to remove his vest as he takes another step towards the tank...