Immersive Ink

Tonneau wrote:"Ha ha! There can be no debts between comrades", Gustave replies, "At least, nothing that can't be settled over a good pipe. Err...if I may?", he adds, raising a hopeful brow as the dwarf lets fly with yet another plume of sweet-smelling blue smoke.

Dorgan will pass the pipe back with a smile. "You'll never pay fer a drink again, at least while I have coin jingling in me pocket, friend Gustave."

Josiane examines the Theraic Staff most carefully.

Is she of the opinion it can be used to lift Olaf's curse? She is conscious of the tremendous effort the Mother Most Holy had to expend to even partially heal the Undead wound...

doctorx wrote:Josiane examines the Theraic Staff most carefully.

Is she of the opinion it can be used to lift Olaf's curse? She is conscious of the tremendous effort the Mother Most Holy had to expend to even partially heal the Undead wound...

Olaf's dire wound is neither disease nor curse as such; the Theraic Staff cannot help him in that respect. Only The Holy Absolution can return his lost life-experience.

Josiane must contemplate what is best to do with the recovered artefacts.

She retires to a suitably green and pleasant arbour, preferably blessed with running water, with Hoot her only company.

She watches patiently for the signs...

"I must spend some time studying this orb to learn it's secrets," Ulric says. "It may be the means of contacting the Sisters and learning their fate. I'll want as much information as I can before we go taking on an army of goblins."

"Wen, how much time do you think our hosts will allow us to stay? It may take a few days to uncover the means to communicate through the orb. I assume they will want some compensation?"

When he has the opportunity, Ulric will visit the quartermaster in search of a good staff to serve as a walking stick (they walk so much) and a weapon (too many close calls where a good piece of oak would have been useful). He will also inquire as to what they have in stock for travel rations.

Ulric agrees that they should not sell the various items for the meager sum offered. He does not have any interest in taking any of them for himself, although he would like to examine the great book that was found in the Reliquary to see what information it contains.

Ulric will request the flask of oil from Rufus' possessions. Being the group lantern bearer, he goes through a lot of the stuff.

Torben

Torben remains silent after Rufus' funeral; he didn't know the hobbit all that well, but maybe they fought alongside each other in some past life?

He defers to the more experienced members of the company as they divvy up the treasure, preoccupied with the upcoming council meeting -- how many had he counted in the snork encampment? What weapons did the giants wield? How many of the warg raiders had they dispatched? And so on.

That being said, he will find use for Rufus' short bow, quiver of arrows, and hand axe. And if offered the holy cup, he would take good care of it. Maybe he could learn more about the gods from Josiane?

Wen would say to Ulric "Time is a funny thing to Elves, I should think it will be weeks or months rather then days before they even wonder about when we are leaving. They will want to talk at length about the situation in Ket have no doubt. So anything you can learn about the state of affairs inside Ket the better. Besides I think everyone is responding well to the rest. I think the group that sets out will barely the resemble the group that stumbled into the forest. I wish he had more funds for spell book Ink, Josiane should study the Holy Book at length perhaps there spells and rituals she might be able to use."

Armando approaches the Elven Quartermaster with all the dignity and bearing he can muster in his present, frankly shabby, disheveled and somewhat crapulous state. "Shir! — ahem — Sir! As you may plainly see, my once-fashionable cloak is hic nearing the term of its utility and, candidly, I can no longer bear the stench of it. I hic intend to acquire a fine Elven cloak to replace it, should you be willing to accept my coin for such an item.

"In addition I shall be most hic interested in a dagger of exquisite workmanship — indeed a silvered one would be most prudent, for the countryside is thick with lycan—hic—thropes, as surely you're aware."

Eris wrote:"All very good ideas!" Olaf nods, "Our mission isn't over until we can report back to the Sisters and return their artifacts, but until we do, we might as well make use of them. Especially, if the use aids in their cause."

"Our mission isn't over until we return the artifacts to the sisters and they make you whole again," Dieter says to his comrade. "Remember that. If it were merely a matter of returning their trinkets, I wouldn't be concerned about time."

Highbough 2.0 realizes he has been relying too much on his spear of late and neglecting his skills with a blade. He finds an out-of-the-way corner where he can practice his sword-forms or kata. Though non-magical, his sword is nearly as old as he is and perfectly balanced for its strong-but-frail wielder. With each disciplined thrust and cut, he mows down an invisible humanoid warrior. These thoughts of righteous goblin-slaughter (the Elves have a word for this) he feels no need to hide from eavesdropping telepaths!

He completely ignores the rest of the party bickering over petty pocket change and religious baubles. His only mind is toward the pending meeting with the Elfish War Council. Though he feigns aloofness, he realizes as the senior Elf of the fellowhip, the fate of the party is in his hands (if not the entire fate of Ket itself). Young Wen, child of of peace, has a bright future, if he doesn't through his life away foolishly, but Highbough realizes he is both the more charismatic (Cha 14 vs 12) and experienced in time of war. As for the humans and other non-Elfs, Highbough wouldn't listen to them himself in this situation, so he doesn't expect the Wood Elfs will, either. If the war for Ket is to be his final legacy, then so be it, the burden is on him. It is a pity history will never know the true nature of its architect, he sighs, thinking eighteen! nineteen! twenty! as he counts the imaginary victims of his goblin-slaughter.