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Bobby
Posted by the GM
The Wounded World
Boring, but Great, Feats
Pathfinder Advice: Seven Boring, But Brilliant, Feats for Your Character
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Orest's Vision
*Warning: this story is pretty long... not at all sorry lol*

The blinding red and yellow light of flames danced before five year-old Orest, mocking and punishing him as they lapped at the crude wooden panels of his now destroyed home. Come out! Mama, Papa, please come out! Please. Orest's whole body shook uncontrollably as streams of hot tears trailed down his ash-covered cheeks. He couldn't tear his eyes from the flames, his gaze riveted on the space that used to hold the front door. Every breath a gasp as he fought to remain in control, he waited, hoping, praying to see his mother and father emerge carrying his baby brother from the building. All he could see was flashes of color through the never-ending tears. "Mama!" he cried. Orest's knees buckled under him and he collapsed, tumbling to the ground. He lay curled in a ball on the ground, screaming, gurgling through the tears and mucus that threatened to drown him. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, staring at the dying flames, but eventually the panic subsided and numbness took over. Unfamiliar arms lifted him from the dirt road and carried him away from the home he would never know again. Mama. Papa. Olir. No.

Orest had spent most of his life simultaneously avoiding his past and trying to make up for it. His life as an orphan hadn't been easy, and he quickly learned that he had to take what he could get or he wouldn't get anything at all. He hated the life he lived and dreamed of a better future, to achieve greatness and prove that he was worth something. Fortunately, Orest's gifts came very naturally to him. When he was young, the workers at the orphanage quickly became exasperated with his never-ending tales of epic wars and unknown lands. In school, he found fantastical ways to explain why he had not prepared his homework assignments. Later, he used his silver tongue in service of the local gang, to gain their trust as he climbed their ranks and influenced the community in their favor. Orest thrived in these circumstances, finding that even when he got himself into sticky situations, he found it enjoyable (and often easy) to talk his way out of trouble. His past drove him to strive for greatness, no matter how he got there or where he ended up. This was his one chance for glory and happiness.

Orest skipped through the house, waving the paper bird his Papa had made for him through the air and imagining it soaring through the sky. Mama bent down and kissed his forehead. She led him to the table and helped him climb into his chair. Fixing the strands of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes, she smiled at Orest, "Stay here while I get your baby brother ready for supper." She then crossed to the bedroom at the back of the little house. Orest continued making bird sounds and flapping the bird across the table in front of him as he patiently waited for supper. Papa walked over to the cooking fire and poked at it until the embers glowed brighter. He lifted the lid from the pot, the smell of stew wafting through the room. "Smells great, Avira," he called to Orest's Mama. "Thank you, dear," she called back from the bedroom. "Could you bring another log from around back?" Papa turned toward the door, tousling Orest's hair as he passed by. Orest turned to the cooking fire. I'm going to help like Papa, he thought. He scooted out of his seat, still holding his paper bird. He walked over to the fire, feeling the heat on his face and arms. He picked up the stick Papa had used to tend the fire. Bending forward, he poked at the fire like he had seen his Papa do. The embers began to twinkle brighter. He smiled and poked harder, wanting to do even more helping. One of the logs fell over to the side, hitting the supporting pole and causing the pot to swing to the side. Orest scrambled backward, dropping his paper bird into the fire pit as he fell to the ground. He scrambled forward, picking the paper from the fire. He stood up to inspect the damage. One wing was on fire! He blew on it, but the flame grew larger, and he dropped it in front of him. The bird landed on the rug, still aflame.

It had been a few days since the performance with the lights and the, well, powers. Orest still had trouble believing he could summon metal from his poems, much less the psychological warfare that he rained down on his enemies. What would that feel like? He mused to himself. There was a particular song that had Orest especially curious. The parable from which he composed the piece spoke of an evil king in a far-off land. This king had begun his reign as a righteous man, but slowly he allowed the thirst for power to consume him. He executed countless innocent subjects, eventually earning him the title "The Red King." Even his closest advisors became fearful of his erratic nature. In their despair, they sought out anyone who could help tame the king's temper. A powerful sorcerer promised to alter the king's mind, and they gladly accepted. As the king slept, he was shown a vision of his life should he choose to be a better man and king, the man he used to want to be. This children's parable had always resonated with Orest, and he composed a song from it that had become a favorite of the local children. It was the magical effects of this song that Orest wished to understand. After having discovered it, and using it in battle, his curiosity had grown to almost incomprehensible heights. Orest had seen a moment of clarity when the spell took hold of his opponent. His face had glowed and relaxed into a wistful smile, almost as if he had been completely at peace. Orest could still see that look of wonder and peace. What would that feel like?

Orest just stood staring at the paper bird. The paper was almost completely consumed, and tears began to pool in his eyes. Papa had made that for him, and he was going to be so upset when he found out that Orest had destroyed it. In an instant, the straw rug caught on fire, growing ever larger, and soon the rug was covered in yellow flames. Orest screamed, "Papa!" Moments later his Papa came bursting through the door. The flames had spread to the table, and Orest just watched in horror as everything before him caught fire. There was no pathway to the exit. Everything before him was ablaze. Orest's father threw down the log, running toward him. He burst through the flames, gathered Orest in his arms, and carried him outside. Kneeling down, he put his hands on Orest's shoulders. "Stay here. Don't come any closer. I'll be right back, I promise." His father ran back inside. Frozen with fear, Orest watched as the flames grew ever greater inside their small home.

Orest bolted upright, covered in sweat. He gasped for air, still partially convinced he couldn't breathe through the smoke and fire that plagued his dreams. As he awoke fully, he calmed himself. That's it. I can't take it anymore. He threw on a tunic, and stalked toward the door. He practically ran out the back door and into the small wooded area behind the Elven garden restaurant next to his house. Being almost four o'clock, no one was anywhere to be seen. Orest stopped in his favorite spot, a small open area where he liked to work on new poems and songs. He paced as he contemplated the possible repercussions of what he was considering. He was reasonably confident that his mind was stronger than the thug he had faced in the tavern. He may also be able to stop the spell's effects, because he had the power to stop some of his other abilities on command. He had no evidence that it would work here, though. In all honesty, he had no idea what to expect. He knew the effects the mind could have on a person's life. He lived with the daily reminder of that fact. Not knowing, however, would frustrate him for the rest of his life. Steeling his resolve, he closed his eyes and began to sing. He decided to sing through the entire song, rather than just the line of enchantment, imagining the king and the turmoil and despair he wrought upon his subjects. Orest kept his voice low so that he wouldn't wake any potential witnesses, but he gave his heart and soul to the performance. He laid them there in that shadowy garden, as an offering to whatever god was responsible for these gifts he had received.

As the last note of his song echoed through the trees around him, the world began to grow faint. The edges of his vision blurred and dimmed, and before him a speck of glowing light appeared. Orest squinted to try and make out what it was, but in seconds it grew closer and larger. He stumbled back a step and threw his hands in front of his face as the light engulfed him. After a few seconds, Orest looked up at the world in front of him. He gasped as he recognized the house he lived in as a young boy. He heard the fire crackling in the fire pit and smelled the welcoming fragrance of warm bread in the oven. He even heard familiar footsteps on the front porch. He darted around the corner into the shadows of the hallway, worrying he'd be seen. His father came in the front door, a tired smile on his face. "Papa!" a boy called. Orest turned to see his younger self running into his Papa's arms and throwing his arms around his neck. His Papa grinned and hugged him tight, then plopped him down and told him to wash his hands for supper. Young Orest trotted off toward the washroom.

Watching from the hallway, Orest held his breath and tried to stay perfectly still as the boy walked straight past him. Young Orest hadn't seen him. He hadn't even looked in his direction. When the little boy came back out, he was carrying a familiar paper bird. Orest's heart sunk in his chest, and he couldn't swallow for the lump in his throat. He ached to cry out to the boy, to warn him, to stop him. As the scene continued, Orest just stood there, watching helplessly as his worst nightmare was reenacted before his eyes. He watched his mother walk past him to the bedroom, and his father exit for the firewood. He walked slowly into the kitchen, staring at his younger self with dread and shame. He waited for the boy to leave his seat, knowing that all would end in tragedy. As he stood there staring, tears in his eyes, a noise startled him and he jumped. The front door closed and his father crossed to the kitchen, placing the log into the cooking fire. Orest rubbed at his eyes, not believing what he saw.

The world grew dim a second time, and this time Orest was able to prepare. He braced himself against the wall behind him as he waited for the light to appear. He closed his eyes at the brightness, but as his eyes adjusted, he glanced around him to see a house he did not recognize. A teenage boy burst into the house, a younger boy trailing behind him. "Orest, wait for me!" he called after the older boy. Teenage Orest replied, "Come on, Olir! We have to hurry if we want to be there in time!" Orest watched in wonder as his little brother ran after his younger self. His mother called from the kitchen, "Boys! Make sure you take something to eat with you this time. Last time you went to see the storyteller, you went hungry and regretted it!" Orest ran toward the sound of his mother's voice. There she was, packing food in a satchel that was obviously meant for the two boys. She was humming something quietly. Orest stepped closer, listening intently. Melancholy washed over him. She was humming the lullaby she sang to him every night as a child. He looked at her, tears threatening to form in his eyes.

As he reached out his trembling hand to touch her, the corners of his world darkened around Orest. This time, he was transported to a very familiar place. He was standing in his bedroom, the master bedroom of the house he bought in the Wings district. The visions must be over, he thought. Exhausted, he started to walk toward the bed when he heard footsteps. He grabbed the dagger from his waist, donned his fighting stance, and prepared for combat. A young woman walked into the room, ignoring Orest as she continued to dry her hair with her towel and sat on the edge of the bed. "Honey!" she called. "Are you finished working for the night? It's getting late." Orest was incredibly confused. Who was this woman in his bedroom? Something was very off about all of this. He took a closer look at the room. At a glance, this room looked as it always had. The mahogany wood headboard that he'd had specially carved with two doves, the dresser he'd bought from a visiting merchant, and his favorite reading chair were all in their respective places. If he looked closer, however, he noticed a few additions to his purchases. There was a lilac blanket across the foot of the bed, vases of white lilies on the nightstands, and a few picture frames on the dresser. The curtains were a lilac that matched the blanket and rug, as well as the decorative pillows propped up next to the headboard. He'd never seen these things before, and he certainly would never have bought them himself. "I'll be right there," called a disorienting voice. His voice. He walked out into the main room. There he was, sitting at a desk with papers sprawled out in front of him. One glance told Orest they were the stories and poems he had recently collected. His other self tidied the desk, stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "Honey?" the woman called again. Orest watched himself, fascinated by the expression of joy and contentment that washed over his face as he chuckled, rising to join his wife. Happiness suited him.

Sudden darkness swallowed Orest. After a few seconds, his eyes began to adjust. He was back in the restaurant garden, standing exactly as he had before the visions began. Exhaustion poured over Orest, and he fell to the ground. He was nauseated, and there was a faint ringing in his ears. The ground seemed to blur in front of him, and it took him a moment to realize that he was crying. Tears streamed down his face unbidden, falling to the hard ground. Gut-wrenching pain washed over him. What has my life become?
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Skagg
Posted in Flameweaver
I won't be like him. Not now. Not ever.
And with that thought Skagg left the only home he had ever known and the only person that had ever cared for him. As he crept through the shadows and snatched what he thought he would need for his travels a few tears slid down his cheeks. Angrily he wiped at his tears, “I have to be tougher than this. Tougher than everyone. Won’t let anyone get the drop on me again.” He slipped over the wall with his bag stuffed with two loaves of bread an apple and an old map of Calimshan. His trusty skinning knife tucked in his belt and his tears banished the young boy left the town of Teshburl forever. His plan was to travel east to the capital Calimport to make his fortune. “It shouldn’t take long to get there” he thought “it’s only an inch on the map, he would probably get there by nightfall. “ He walked and walked and walked that day. Farther than he had ever walked before and still no Calimport, no town, no people. Skagg slept that night under a large tree and dreamed of his mother. Her saw her smiling face looking down on him as she gently brushed his hair out of his face. “It’s time for you to go to bed” she whispered and began to softly sing to him as he drifted off to sleep. Unfortunately she wasn’t quiet enough. Gallows burst into the room in a drunken rage. “WHAT’S ALL THIS” he screamed. “Making a pansy of the boy you are.” Gallows smacked his mother in the face knocking her to the ground. Her lip split wide and tears were streaming down her face. Gallows then turned his focus on Skagg “ Time to toughen the boy up” he said and smiled that horrible smile of his. He balled up his fist and…

“No!” cried Skagg and curled into a ball. Only the blow never fell on him. He opened his eyes and realized that he had been dreaming. He rubbed his eyes and tried to banish the dream from his thoughts. He had to get far away from this place maybe that would help with the dreams. He ate the apple and gathered his meager belongings. The scraps of leather which served as his shoes had begun to fall apart and there just wasn’t enough of them left to fix. He tossed them aside and started walking barefoot. Which was fine for a time, until he developed cuts and blisters on his feet. He stopped at a small stream and washed his wounded feet and wondered again just how far away Calimport really was. Exhausted he choose to stay by the stream and let his tortured feet soak in the cool water for the day.

He awoke with a start, and a pain in his neck. “Don’t move boy, I wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise.”
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Epic × 3!
The Death of Vinz Clortho
A bright light? My spirit floating above my body? An overwhelming sense of peace and calm? Naw man, it’s all bullshit. There’s nothing. It’s like somebody blew out a candle.

My brothers and I answered Gozer’s call. The Travellers made haste to storm the Witchtomb of Paar-Kraat, the Minister to the Order of the Black Flame. Hidden away in the Rotting Lands, rumors of his depravity and unholy obsession with the living dead had spread to our peaceful freehold. Upon discovery of maggot filled zombies in chains feeding on the meat of the weak and the old, we laid siege to their ebony towers and set their blighted banners ablaze. Battle hardened and reckless, we thought we had won the day. “Laud thee, oh Zuul,” we cried in triumph.

Onward, conquest was nearly at hand. The air was thick with the stench of death and the battlefield soaked in the blood of the Order’s disciples. Through the cacophony of ringing steel, a storm erupted. Upon a blackened steed with eyes of flame, snorting clouds of crimson mist and fog, the Minister raised his bloody scepter to the tumultuous sky and with a howl, like the voice of hell; the ground itself shook with a brontide like no other. Midst the deafening crash, bestial warriors appeared from the darkness. He had spawned a nightmarish undead legion into battle. Our theater of war was now besieged and sullied with flesh hungry cadavers, their stagnant blood now flowing free. As the only ranking Keymaster, I screamed at the top of my hoarse lungs “Fist First,” our rally cry. “Fist First,” came the retorts from the small pocket of brothers around me. With singing steel and clashing iron, the endless onslaught came, hundreds versus thousands. Strewn with the corpses of the virtuous dead, we fought to the last. Forced to my knees, as a scythe is raised above my head, I began to chant one of the ancient rites,

“Laud thee oh Zuul!
Reckless actions shirk tomorrow
Gutless glory ends in pain
Unsheathe the blade let loose the salvo
Laud thee oh Zuul!
The Travellers will prevail…”

And that’s when someone blew out my candle.
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Hiran
Posted by the GM
Forgotten Heroes
O Lamento de Grix
Grix não parava de resmungar.
“Aaaa, meu mestre, venha me buscar....”
“Aaaaa, Kayatara vai me enviar pra meu mestre e vou sofrrerrr...”
“Aaaaaa.....”
Todos sentiam uma raiva crescente com a voz irritante e os lamentos do pequeno demônio, e a vontade de soca-lo era unanime. Mas entre um resmungo e outro ele ia soltando algumas informações que talvez pudessem ter algum valor.
A viagem pelas montanhas atravessou Tarsakh e agora já era Mirtul e a primavera se aproximada do auge. A trilha permanecia fraca porém sempre visível. Apenas depois que o sol se escondia ficava mais difícil acertar o caminho.
Os novos companheiros permaneciam agrupados entre si, humanos com humanos, elfos com elfos e os anões isolados do resto. Assim caminhavam e assim iam dormir. Mas a cada dia todos iam aos poucos se socializando mais, afinal tinham curiosidade a respeito dos objetivos do grupo. Os anões eram os menos discretos, e perguntavam abertamente. Os elfos apenas ouviam, de longe, e timidamente perguntavam algum detalhe.
“aaaaaa....” os lamentos se seguiam, e o choro constante era incrivelmente irritante. Uma hora um dos anões até acertou um tapa no monstrinho que só reclamou mais. A única coisa que o silenciava de vez em quando era o olhar sério de Trice, que o fazia se encolher e resmungar mais baixo e nessas horas ele sempre falava algo diferente.
Depois de uns 3 dias era possível reunir uma boa quantidade de informação:
Grix é um quasit a serviço de um lorde do abismo chamdo Phelomat. O 110 nível do abismo é um grande cemitério de covas abertas, ocupado por demônios e mortos vivos. Ele é patrono de muitos mortais que o veneram e Kayatara é uma dessas. Grix foi designado, junto com vários outros demônios, a servir Kayatara conforme a necessidade dela. Os demônios do porte de Grix são espiões, e estão espalhados nas principais cidades de Cormyr espiando e então transmitindo a informação para o próprio Phelomat que abastece a drow.
Os quasits não conhecem bem o plano de seu mestre nem da drow, afinal são demônios inferiores, mas eles são intrometidos e sempre escutam um pouco mais do que deveriam. Eles pescaram que o plano para Arphoind Bleth não passava de uma cortina de fumaça para distrair as atenções dos nobres enquanto um jovem de Sembia resgataria a jovem donzela e se tornaria conselheiro real. Mas a drow mudou tudo e o próprio Phelomat ficou confuso.
Aparentemente Kayatara ficou entediada e decidiu que um ataque mais direto seria mais efetivo, por isso reuniu um bando de mercenários e invadiu Valkur´s Roar, mas com a ajuda de Phelomat, que transformou todos na cidade em mortos vivos. Para Crow Arsea ela dedicou especial atenção. Antes de mata-lo ela o amarou e o fez assistir sua mulher e filha serem torturadas cruelmente por quase 10 dias sem interrupção. E de vez em quando Kayatara dava ilusões de esperança apenas para aumentar a dor e a raiva dentro do Lorde Arsea, o governante de Valkur´s Roar.
Quando finalmente morreu, as forças malignas de Kayatara e Phelomat o transformaram em um Revenant, um morto vivo focado em vingança. Seu único desejo é matar. Quando tortorou a família dele, Kayatara usava a aparência de Raedra. Às vezes usava também a aparência de outros humanos e nobres de Cormyr.
Depois ela preparou o quadro com uma magia que o tornaria indestrutível e serviria de trava para todos os mortos vivos. Quando o quadro fosse destruído os mortos vivos seriam guiados pelos quasits, Grix e os outros, até Cormyr onde invadiriam cidades. No total, existem 230 wights além de Crow Arsea.
Kayatara invadiu
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