The armorer also approaches, though perhaps more forward in his own. He doesn't know much about draconic anatomy, and so does his best in a basic examination. He says nothing, only whistling his strange tune as he circumnavigates the great creature, his search for wounds, abrasions, burns, and the like less than apparent. Though his intentions are pure in essence, his appearance may understandably be unnerving to the dragon. Nevertheless...
[I rolled Medicine, but would you rather I utilized Nature or Perception. And is there any tool usage to consider?]
((It depends. What is Broma trying to achieve in his inspection? Is he trying to figure out how injured it is, for example, do you want its HP? For the flavour of his backstory, and his ongoing mission from the scientific order he belongs to and how you choose to interact with the dragon, none of the suggested rolls will be too relevant and I'm very happy for you to write what he thinks of his findings and things like that without a roll because that's more about Broma's objectives and what he gets from his adventures, which to my mind you have complete agency in.
But intimidation, for example, might be a roll if that's what you're trying to do. If you're trying to help the dragon heal, or you want to learn something from the dragon in particular? Knowing what will help us figure out if a roll is necessary, and what for, and which one/tools.
So yeah. TL;DR. What are you rolling medicine in order to achieve, exactly? I don't know what DC I'm setting/what it's for, essentially))
((It depends. What is Broma trying to achieve in his inspection? Is he trying to figure out how injured it is, for example, do you want its HP? For the flavour of his backstory, and his ongoing mission from the scientific order he belongs to and how you choose to interact with the dragon, none of the suggested rolls will be too relevant and I'm very happy for you to write what he thinks of his findings and things like that without a roll because that's more about Broma's objectives and what he gets from his adventures, which to my mind you have complete agency in.
But intimidation, for example, might be a roll if that's what you're trying to do. If you're trying to help the dragon heal, or you want to learn something from the dragon in particular? Knowing what will help us figure out if a roll is necessary, and what for, and which one/tools.
So yeah. TL;DR. What are you rolling medicine in order to achieve, exactly? I don't know what DC I'm setting/what it's for, essentially))
[OoC:To help. He is looking for injuries, after all. Think of it like the villagers. His primary goal is to test his theories, but his secondary goal is to treat them properly, so that his experiments are applied under the desired conditions. But he can't do anything unless he actually finds any sign of injury and if it's within his capacity to treat. Plus, there's no telling how the big girl might react, so it's just as much an OoC stall tactic to get the others in on this, calm her down or convince her that Broma's not the monster that he technically is.]
[TL;DR, he wants to provide medical aid while studying her on the down-low.]
[To find out the extent of the Dragon’s injuries, and also study it a little, I’ll include under your (Veterinary) Medicine check. DC 10 (12)]
Broma uses the dragon’s caution to his advantage. As he circles the dragon, it shifts, but he is always just a hair into its blind spot. The dragon snarls as it turns in a circle trying to keep everyone in its sight.
Its injuries are clear and multiple. Broma notices however that not all are new, and not all are consistent with the blunt trauma and Lightning discharges he observed the elementals to use. Yes, there are scales that are scorched, and, yes, some blood drips from its mouth where the blow of the air elemental landed fully. But that is not all of it. Three great rents, only partially healed, marr the dragon’s side
Broma wants to move closer. Inspection is a pillar of examination, yes, but only one. What could he learn from its blood, its tissues. Even now he can see that where its blood pitter-patters into the spring it crystallises, almost like red ice in appearance.
“What are you doing, little ones? I appreciate your aid if friends you are, but you are a strange sort, and this is sacred ground. I am sore company, and up to little more than to introduce myself as my mother taught me. You are in the presence of the ruined, prodigal, and forsaking daughter,
“Cirirlon.”
Broma deduces the dragon’s remaining hitpoints: 127
As his wildness falls away once more, Lorken turns to the dragon, takes in his companions' approaches and Cirirlon's guarded speech. Straightening up, he sketches a surprisingly formal bow.
"Well met, Cirirlon, the ruined, the prodigal, the forsaking." He treats each of her words as if they were honorifics. "This was a chance encounter, but a fortunate one, for now we have had the honour of fighting alongside you. I cannot speak for my companions, but I am content with that honour, and to leave you in peace, unless there is any aid you might have us offer you."
With each honorific Lorken calls out, Cirirlon's head sinks lower. She is fifteen feet long from snout to tail, her scales are silver like polished tableware and her eyes a brilliant blue. Her eyes close now as she gives out a terrible keen that begins low in her throat and then rises. Freezing tears begin to fall down her cheeks, misting with chill water vapor, and in one sinuous wave, she moves to the island with the luminous crystal at its centre. Surprisingly quick.
"Impotence, heart-break, and terrible fair-weather friendship. These are the height of my honours, my inheritance and all that now sits within my gift. I am grateful that you have preserved my mother's place of final rest, but you and all now in this world owe me no aid. I who have lost my home, my kobolds, my lair, and she who carved me from a silver-rich vein, and vainly taught me right from wrong, who planted wisdom in fallow soil and watched it wither."
"Forgive me, mother," she says, her voice quieter -- now merely deafening. "Forgive my failure against those villanous white dragons; would that I were with you, I know you would live still." She touches the tip of her long, scaled snout to the crystal, softly.
"Leave me," she whispers. "Perhaps our paths may cross again, perhaps not. However, it will be I who must offer you aid."
Capone shuffles over to her, pats her reassuringly, though, with the height difference he can only reach a toe. "I'm sorry you grieve, and sorry again that those elementals disturbed you. Sorry further for the presence of the white dragons, the vile cretins, for whatever harm they've caused you. We had the misfortune of seeing one just yesterday, Cryovain, truly barbaric creature." He adjusts his beard, and one final reassuring pat. Then heads over to the group.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
I'm probably laughing.
It is apparently so hard to program Aberrant Mind and Clockwork Soul spell-swapping into dndbeyond they had to remake the game without it rather than implement it.
"Cryovain!Betrayer. Usurper. Enemy of our egg-crafter! Vile creature! Hated foe!" Her roar shakes the trees all around the scale, birds flying free in terror at the sudden noise. Her tail flicks in agitation, whip like edge troubling the water and sending arcing sprays out across the opposite side of the spring. Her rage is brief. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, then breathes out gently -- without magic.
Turning her head to Capone, the dragon brings her face close to his, slowly. Her mouth comes to within a beard-hair's distance from his own, and she sways her head left and right, looking at him with one eye and then another. She sniffs gently; one long, steady inhale.
"Thank you for your kindness, undeserving as this one now is, strange, little hirsute man."
Waiting for the others to impart some manner of comfort to the great creature, Broma begins working in tentative earnest. He begins with the more grievous of wounds, cleaning away excess blood and irrevocably damaged flesh. He also begins work on a potent immuno booster, using a plethora of natural ingredients and available instruments he has on hand. At the same time, he works to collect various samples from the subject; anything he may discover would no doubt be useful, should other draconic entities be encountered, albeit in a much less friendly disposition. He does so all while maintaining his somewhat unnerving composure, whistling his strange tune as he works. The "eyes" of his helm stare unerringly, the detail of his treatment a testament to his ability. His whistle doesn't waiver once, even as his labors slowly paint his armor in blood. It's a strange sight, to be sure.
“I have no right to demand the aid of Chronepsis, or his abandoned aspects. Unless you can do what I cannot ask of my gods, I ask only that you leave me to my sorrow, little warlock. I deserve—“ She hisses suddenly, as Broma continues his work. “I deserve not curiosity, I deserve not distraction. I must mourn. I must feel nothing but grief. My mother deserves nothing less than my utmost sorrow.”
Her words are put into action as Broma works, ignoring the Artificer’s aid except where it stings. To all nearby the smell of strong spirits is clear in the concoction that he describes as an immune booster. It smears and stains to make the dragon’s new wounds an unpleasant brown. It also causes her to sneeze. The phlegm of a silver dragon’s deepest breathe strikes Broma full in their face. If not for their armor they would surely freeze.
Broma does not let a drop of it escape his vials. Nail clippings, the tartar of teeth, the blood of gum, scale, web and conjuctiva. Tears, saliva, enamel chips, and shed scab with tendrils of lingering coagulation.
An errant warty hair is snipped for his repository without the dragon noticing, and scales of course, from every part of the dragon where he can be sure to avoid its notice.
If only an eyeball had been lost. Or even just a nicating inner lid — though the mask is impenetrable and the armor thick, you have all known the Artificer for more than an hour now and the almost imperceptible quiver of his form makes his desire for more as clear as dawn.
There is little more to be said. You leave Cirirlon to mourn at her shrine, the gently pulsating shard of some arcane stone standing proud in the center of the spring water. Oskar Ninebough rejoins you, and the path leads ever onward into the vale.
Only three miles from your target, you find yourself reaching a descent that is clear of trees, clear of easy footholds. Grass and solid ground turns to scree and stone, absent of soil.
You reach it before you realise it. You've passed more than one unremarkable gash in the mountain side, shallow crevasses that are barely more than shadows or the sett of some burrowing creature. This one looks much the same as all those behind and all those ahead, except... the air is a little chiller, a little damper. Then you hear it, ever so faintly, like seeing a giant on a remote mountain, a thing very large but far enough away to be very small, a great crashing boom. A shuddering that rumbles and then fades.
You feel it through your feet almost as much as you hear it.
Oskar confirms that that is the clue he had been waiting for, the Wave Echo that gives the cave that the Lost Mine has been discovered within its name. From his pack he pulls a strange thing, a small piece of wood about a foot high. At its tallest point a small pair of carved stag horns have been roughly nailed, asymetrical on the left on their right. He secures it between two loose rocks, twisting it until seems like it will stand proud. Sister Garaele had given him the comission for this job, he explains, before he bows his head.
"Maid of Misfortune. Terrible and mighty Beshaba. Poor luck has haunted this place. We ask that you accept this honour and turn your eye to this place no longer, and take no interest in those who enter now. Please keep us from your touch."
After a moment of silence, he stands back.
"I'll be waiting at the top of the vale to guide you home. Please, bring Cathlette and her sister home. Or ..." his voice breaks for a moment, but he forces himself to continue, "or, please bring justice to their killers, I beg you."
At the front of the group, using hard gained essential Ranger skill, Alaina notices evidence of humanoid footsteps of various sizes heading down the entrance tunnel. Some are old, but some are certainly newer, certainly from within the last day or two.
There is no sign of anyone within the tunnel, and no sounds or clues that point to anyone present in the cavern it leads to. The ceiling of the tunnel is 10 feet high, and it stretches gently downward. From outside the mine you can see only partially the larger cavern that it leads to.
Do you enter immediately, undertake any preparations, or a rest?
Alaina speaks, "It is difficult to say with certainty. There's been traffic, mostly humanoid, some relatively recently. I'm ready to go right in but does anyone else want to take time before we enter to bandage up after that fight or prep for the coming ones?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Coriana - Company of the Grey Chain Wagner - Dragon Heist: Bards. DM - The Old Keep
His voice rings genial. "Ah, very good. Well then, in that case..." As the others make up their minds as to their next move, Broma quickly sets about searching for nearby stones to pocket. Twenty would be ideal, fifteen would be plenty, but ten would certainly suffice. Preparation is key in any expedition, and while he does not know the nature of his need for these stones just yet, he does not doubt his instinct in collecting them.
[Perception: 23]
Once he has finished, he addresses the others, his voice ringing clear and unchanged. "Now then, as Alaina has stated, we have a chance to be treated if wounded. I am unable to provide extensive care, but I will happily address any serious wounds I can in short order." His "eyes" shine the same cold hue as his armor, his appearance giving even his warmer words an air of impersonality.
Alaina stows her bow and approaches the dragon. "You doing okay?"
Coriana - Company of the Grey Chain
Wagner - Dragon Heist: Bards.
DM - The Old Keep
The armorer also approaches, though perhaps more forward in his own. He doesn't know much about draconic anatomy, and so does his best in a basic examination. He says nothing, only whistling his strange tune as he circumnavigates the great creature, his search for wounds, abrasions, burns, and the like less than apparent. Though his intentions are pure in essence, his appearance may understandably be unnerving to the dragon. Nevertheless...
[I rolled Medicine, but would you rather I utilized Nature or Perception. And is there any tool usage to consider?]
[OoC:To help. He is looking for injuries, after all. Think of it like the villagers. His primary goal is to test his theories, but his secondary goal is to treat them properly, so that his experiments are applied under the desired conditions. But he can't do anything unless he actually finds any sign of injury and if it's within his capacity to treat. Plus, there's no telling how the big girl might react, so it's just as much an OoC stall tactic to get the others in on this, calm her down or convince her that Broma's not the monster that he technically is.]
[TL;DR, he wants to provide medical aid while studying her on the down-low.]
[To find out the extent of the Dragon’s injuries, and also study it a little, I’ll include under your (Veterinary) Medicine check. DC 10 (12)]
Broma uses the dragon’s caution to his advantage. As he circles the dragon, it shifts, but he is always just a hair into its blind spot. The dragon snarls as it turns in a circle trying to keep everyone in its sight.
Its injuries are clear and multiple. Broma notices however that not all are new, and not all are consistent with the blunt trauma and Lightning discharges he observed the elementals to use. Yes, there are scales that are scorched, and, yes, some blood drips from its mouth where the blow of the air elemental landed fully. But that is not all of it. Three great rents, only partially healed, marr the dragon’s side
Broma wants to move closer. Inspection is a pillar of examination, yes, but only one. What could he learn from its blood, its tissues. Even now he can see that where its blood pitter-patters into the spring it crystallises, almost like red ice in appearance.
“What are you doing, little ones? I appreciate your aid if friends you are, but you are a strange sort, and this is sacred ground. I am sore company, and up to little more than to introduce myself as my mother taught me. You are in the presence of the ruined, prodigal, and forsaking daughter,
“Cirirlon.”
As his wildness falls away once more, Lorken turns to the dragon, takes in his companions' approaches and Cirirlon's guarded speech. Straightening up, he sketches a surprisingly formal bow.
"Well met, Cirirlon, the ruined, the prodigal, the forsaking." He treats each of her words as if they were honorifics. "This was a chance encounter, but a fortunate one, for now we have had the honour of fighting alongside you. I cannot speak for my companions, but I am content with that honour, and to leave you in peace, unless there is any aid you might have us offer you."
With each honorific Lorken calls out, Cirirlon's head sinks lower. She is fifteen feet long from snout to tail, her scales are silver like polished tableware and her eyes a brilliant blue. Her eyes close now as she gives out a terrible keen that begins low in her throat and then rises. Freezing tears begin to fall down her cheeks, misting with chill water vapor, and in one sinuous wave, she moves to the island with the luminous crystal at its centre. Surprisingly quick.
"Impotence, heart-break, and terrible fair-weather friendship. These are the height of my honours, my inheritance and all that now sits within my gift. I am grateful that you have preserved my mother's place of final rest, but you and all now in this world owe me no aid. I who have lost my home, my kobolds, my lair, and she who carved me from a silver-rich vein, and vainly taught me right from wrong, who planted wisdom in fallow soil and watched it wither."
"Forgive me, mother," she says, her voice quieter -- now merely deafening. "Forgive my failure against those villanous white dragons; would that I were with you, I know you would live still." She touches the tip of her long, scaled snout to the crystal, softly.
"Leave me," she whispers. "Perhaps our paths may cross again, perhaps not. However, it will be I who must offer you aid."
Capone shuffles over to her, pats her reassuringly, though, with the height difference he can only reach a toe. "I'm sorry you grieve, and sorry again that those elementals disturbed you. Sorry further for the presence of the white dragons, the vile cretins, for whatever harm they've caused you. We had the misfortune of seeing one just yesterday, Cryovain, truly barbaric creature." He adjusts his beard, and one final reassuring pat. Then heads over to the group.
I'm probably laughing.
It is apparently so hard to program Aberrant Mind and Clockwork Soul spell-swapping into dndbeyond they had to remake the game without it rather than implement it.
"Cryovain! Betrayer. Usurper. Enemy of our egg-crafter! Vile creature! Hated foe!" Her roar shakes the trees all around the scale, birds flying free in terror at the sudden noise. Her tail flicks in agitation, whip like edge troubling the water and sending arcing sprays out across the opposite side of the spring. Her rage is brief. She takes a deep, shuddering breath, then breathes out gently -- without magic.
Turning her head to Capone, the dragon brings her face close to his, slowly. Her mouth comes to within a beard-hair's distance from his own, and she sways her head left and right, looking at him with one eye and then another. She sniffs gently; one long, steady inhale.
"Thank you for your kindness, undeserving as this one now is, strange, little hirsute man."
Waiting for the others to impart some manner of comfort to the great creature, Broma begins working in tentative earnest. He begins with the more grievous of wounds, cleaning away excess blood and irrevocably damaged flesh. He also begins work on a potent immuno booster, using a plethora of natural ingredients and available instruments he has on hand. At the same time, he works to collect various samples from the subject; anything he may discover would no doubt be useful, should other draconic entities be encountered, albeit in a much less friendly disposition. He does so all while maintaining his somewhat unnerving composure, whistling his strange tune as he works. The "eyes" of his helm stare unerringly, the detail of his treatment a testament to his ability. His whistle doesn't waiver once, even as his labors slowly paint his armor in blood. It's a strange sight, to be sure.
[Medicine: 23]
Jayson gathered his stuff and approaches the group near the dragon playing a soothing tune on his flute. More to ease and comfort the dragons spirit.
“Hail might dragon. I’m glad we were able to help you with those terrible elemental creatures. Is there anything we can help you with?”
Mobile post no formatting
Signature
Levi Flint - DM - Mad Mage; Korvin - DM - Tyranny of Dragons; Player Lucan - The One Breath, Player Gildor Surion - Balder's Gate-Decent;
“I have no right to demand the aid of Chronepsis, or his abandoned aspects. Unless you can do what I cannot ask of my gods, I ask only that you leave me to my sorrow, little warlock. I deserve—“ She hisses suddenly, as Broma continues his work. “I deserve not curiosity, I deserve not distraction. I must mourn. I must feel nothing but grief. My mother deserves nothing less than my utmost sorrow.”
Her words are put into action as Broma works, ignoring the Artificer’s aid except where it stings. To all nearby the smell of strong spirits is clear in the concoction that he describes as an immune booster. It smears and stains to make the dragon’s new wounds an unpleasant brown. It also causes her to sneeze. The phlegm of a silver dragon’s deepest breathe strikes Broma full in their face. If not for their armor they would surely freeze.
Broma does not let a drop of it escape his vials. Nail clippings, the tartar of teeth, the blood of gum, scale, web and conjuctiva. Tears, saliva, enamel chips, and shed scab with tendrils of lingering coagulation.
An errant warty hair is snipped for his repository without the dragon noticing, and scales of course, from every part of the dragon where he can be sure to avoid its notice.
If only an eyeball had been lost. Or even just a nicating inner lid — though the mask is impenetrable and the armor thick, you have all known the Artificer for more than an hour now and the almost imperceptible quiver of his form makes his desire for more as clear as dawn.
Broma's actions do not escape Alaina's notice, and her disdain shows clear on her face to all. She refrains from speaking out, however.
Coriana - Company of the Grey Chain
Wagner - Dragon Heist: Bards.
DM - The Old Keep
Alaina approaches the opening in the rock cautiously, searching for tracks or any other clues to what lies within.
Perception: 20; Survival: 13.
Coriana - Company of the Grey Chain
Wagner - Dragon Heist: Bards.
DM - The Old Keep
The ring of Broma's cheery voice echoes behind her: "Any indication of our quarry?"
Jayson comments, “I hope the blessing is well received. I am hopeful for good luck in our task.”
Signature
Levi Flint - DM - Mad Mage; Korvin - DM - Tyranny of Dragons; Player Lucan - The One Breath, Player Gildor Surion - Balder's Gate-Decent;
Alaina speaks, "It is difficult to say with certainty. There's been traffic, mostly humanoid, some relatively recently. I'm ready to go right in but does anyone else want to take time before we enter to bandage up after that fight or prep for the coming ones?"
Coriana - Company of the Grey Chain
Wagner - Dragon Heist: Bards.
DM - The Old Keep
His voice rings genial. "Ah, very good. Well then, in that case..." As the others make up their minds as to their next move, Broma quickly sets about searching for nearby stones to pocket. Twenty would be ideal, fifteen would be plenty, but ten would certainly suffice. Preparation is key in any expedition, and while he does not know the nature of his need for these stones just yet, he does not doubt his instinct in collecting them.
[Perception: 23]
Once he has finished, he addresses the others, his voice ringing clear and unchanged. "Now then, as Alaina has stated, we have a chance to be treated if wounded. I am unable to provide extensive care, but I will happily address any serious wounds I can in short order." His "eyes" shine the same cold hue as his armor, his appearance giving even his warmer words an air of impersonality.