I’m playing Pathfinder. I’m a human monk (Unchained) in the Kingmaker game. I want to be a sort of very durable and survivable character. Does anyone have a suggestion or two? I’m looking for feats, traits, low level items that contribute to the longevity of a Player Character!
Hmm. Well, there was a fun build I did a while back, though I'm afraid a few of the pieces were broken by rulings since then. It wasn't quite an actual monk, though.
Basically, the idea started with getting dodge and crane style at first level, as a human. Style feats are a subset of feats that mostly involve unarmed combat, so it's pretty much what you might want. Each line of style feats is 3 feats long. Styles are (usually) mutually exclusive.
The Crane Style line of feats is all about fighting defensively. The first feat increases the armor bonus you get from fighting defensively by 1, and reduces the penalty to attacks down to -2. The second feat, Crane Wing, used to be automatically deflecting one attack that hits per round. Unfortunately, that got changed to a +4 bonus to AC, which goes away if that +4 bonus makes an attack on you miss, but it's still pretty nice. (From what I understand, the problem was people getting it early via Monk of Many Styles and being able to no sell any one attacker until level 6, which I'll talk about later). The third feat, Crane Riposte, reduces the penalty for fighting defensively to 1, and lets you counterattack when you lose that +4 bonus.
That's the main suggestion I have, but I'll leave the remainder of my build from before, in case of interest and because it had some things you might want to copy. Basically, I decided "nope nope nope, not putting up with not wearing armor" and got out of monk in favor of being an effective unarmed attacker as fast as I could. If you look, there's a monk archetype called Monk of Many Styles that trades in the normal bonus feats monks got for bonus style feats... ignoring the prerequisites. One level of that and another of a similar archetype for fighters called the Unarmed Fighter (you'd probably want this instead) gets you two more style feats, which is enough to get the whole Crane Style chain.
(If you have the space, there's also the Dragon Style feats, which increase the damage you do, but you probably don't have the Monk of Many Styles archetype available, which lets you use more than one style at once).
From there, I started moving towards Dragon Disciple, actually, which is pretty good for making tanky characters. Two levels in Ranger can get you Aspect of the Beast, which lets you get claws. I also picked up a fun little item, the gloves of arrow snaring (http://www.d20pfsrd.com/magic-items/wondrous-items/wondrous-items/e-g/gloves-of-arrow-snaring), which let you pretend you have a feat to block/grab arrows. Useful if you're low on feats.
From there, one level of sorceror is enough to qualify for Dragon Disciple, which means you can enter a prestige class that has a d12 hit die, natural armor boosts, strength boosts, and con boosts, and spellcasting. There are some nice low level spells on the sorceror spell list that can boost your AC or make sure you don't get hit, such as mage armor, shield, blur, mirror image, etc. Even if you're a standard unchained monk, it still might be worth getting a wand of those.
If you're feeling really cheeky, you can take the crossblooded archetype, which lets you take two bloodlines. Then, the Arcane bloodline can let you get a familiar, who can have the Protector archetype (http://www.d20pfsrd.com/classes/core-classes/wizard/familiar/familiar-archetypes/protector-familiar-archetype). Then your familiar can give you a +2 boost to AC (more, if you get them some benevolent armor).
The downside to this, of course, is that your class isn't listed as "Monk" on your character sheet. :P
Merely a stone’s throw away from Indigo Stronghold, a forgotten temple withers in the dark. In the early days, when the land was still barely broken, spring blooming into summer, the followers of Erastil had erected a small shrine, so they could find peace in his teachings. In its rough masonry and unshaped walls, barely more than boulders stacked together, could be found the vestiges of a less plentiful time.
Its purpose had been supplanted, both by the wooden Evergreen Cathedral for the populace, and a private and secure shrine inside the castle walls for its staff. Bereft of purpose, its worshipers and priests having moved elsewhere, the hall held only swirls of dust provoked by fleeting breezes as their guests.
Which had made it rather easy for its current residents to move in. The young men, garbed in yellow robes flecked in blood, quietly chanted1 around their summoning circle. The blood upon the floor, spilled from the still gurgling throat of a fresh lamb, formed arcane designs of great complexity, surrounding the three tentacles of the Yellow Sign, and the candles upon each tip blazed red in the darkness. And at their head, stood a man who held himself with the dignity of those who know none can oppose them (well, “know”), his robes patterned with spirals of red that endangered the eyes to look upon. The leader smiled. Well, smirked, really. Fascinating, how easy it was to pass unnoticed, when not wearing the Traditional2 robes and ceremonial daggers. It was almost as if Kanto expected its foes to be transparent in their malice, to cackle madly as they declared their mad schemes of conquest in the bombastic fashion of a tale of heroes.
Such would be their downfall, when the true King In Yellow, He Who Is Not to be Named3, struck down the false monarch who would claim his color upon his skin. The Yellow Sign4, burnt into the uneven stone floor, amassed a vermillion light around it as the cult poured power into it.
Their leader’s grin widened, as the time came for him to conclude the ritual, and he stepped forth. “Oh, Unforgettable one, hear our pleas! Your faithful servant, Abraxas5, compels you! Come forth from –”
“You’re doing this completely wrong, you know.” The formerly organized chanting cut off immediately and Abraxas reared back as the scarred spawn of devils6 faded into visibility in front of him, lounging in midair as the invisibility magic upon him dissipated.
“Molos, quit hovering over their magic circle! Need I remind you what happened last time? Could you please stop trying to get yourself killed?” A cleric joined Molos in sudden appearance, garbed in the pale green of Erastil and holding his symbol in her hand.
“Yeah, but look, Magda, they completely screwed up the outer runes. It’s more of an oval, really. And if they’re trying to summon Hastur, it should be glowing yellow, not red. ” Molos casually floated closer to the center of the summoning oval, with an exaggerated yawn.
“That just means they might summon something else, you idiot! Last time, it was the flying aquatic tentacle monsters, and before that, a giant swarm of monkeys!” Magda’s symbol cracked for a moment before repairing itself, as her grip on it changed from merely tight to crushing.
Molos casually glanced down for a moment. “Nope. They reversed the direction on one of the symbol’s tentacles, too. The worst this half-baked design can do is explode, and you know as well as I do that Misty does worse every couple of weeks. Remember that time he found a few mice in the larder7?”
The shade of puce that Abraxas had acquired was rather fascinating, really. Pulling out his ceremonial dagger, he started shouting. “Shut up shut up shut up! Hastur will smite all you fools! Those who defy us will share a most gruesome fate! Let this end, for this night, the stars are right! Unforgettable One, come forth from the Abyss!”
The vermillion light of the summoning oval became almost blinding for a brief moment, before abruptly cutting off, leaving nothing but a few scorch marks upon the floor (of the very finest craftsmanship).
“See, Magda? These guys are complete incompetents. They even got the name wrong: it’s the Unspeakable One, not the Unforgettable One. Honestly, I probably could have brought my bow, too; there’s no reason to hold it back when these idiots wouldn't even be able to use it.”
“Molos, I don’t care how much you like that bow; you’re not bringing an artifact that seals away the influence of Hastur with you to a cult of Hastur.”
“It’ll be fiiine, Magda! If they couldn’t even manage a simple circle, there’s no way they could unravel the protections on my bow8!”
Abraxas gazed numbly at the remains of his plan, as the two bickered. “Why? I did everything the Book of the Remembered said to do. I anointed the candles with the tears of a crying child9, I copied the runes from the book in blood and fire, I defiled the temple of a falsely benevolent god, so why did you fail me, Unforgettable One?”
Molos deigned to look at Abraxas after his plea. “Oh, if you’re using that book, it’ll be because I wrote it. Everything in there is only really useful for killing the user, but it seems you weren’t even capable of accomplishing that, which is kind of more awful than I ever expected from the reader, really...”
Abraxas’s expression twisted in rage, and he raised his ceremonial knife to stab at the loathsome tiefling in front of him. But Molos didn’t bother with more than a passing glance, or even stop talking, as his arrow struck the dagger and left nothing but a hilt.
“See? Cheap and weak, barely capable of cutting butter, I bet. Now, if you wanted to actually summon Hastur, you’d need to sacrifice a virgin to the Skull of Xastur upon the Yellow Sign on the third Starday of Kuthona. Also, you’d need a real Yellow Sign. And a virgin.”
Molos casually scanned the cowering cultists, and commented, “Given that you’re in a cult trying to bring about the apocalypse and get everyone killed, and thus probably don’t have anyone you love in the disaster area, I’m assuming that acquiring that resource will not be a problem.”
After several seconds of stunned faces, and as a few of them blushed and started shuffling, he started speaking again. “What? If you don’t want to get sacrificed by your oh-so-brilliant leader here, there’s always the brothels. Granted, there aren’t around here, since Menas still has that stick up his arse, and is sort of a monk, but that’s nothing a quick teleport can’t fix.”
Magda finally stopped staring and interjected, “Molos, we’re supposed to be arresting these people for defiling a temple of Erastil, not taking them out for a night on the town. Now, come on, we need to hurry this up before she gets impatient and –”
As the whumph of a massive weight landing assaulted everyone’s ears, a fine web of cracks spread across the ceiling, and a few pebbles and shards of rock clattered against the stone floor. Magda began swearing, as everyone’s eyes were forced upwards.
With a tortured screech, the rocks of the ceiling above gave, crashing down and admitting entry to Minognos-Ushad, the Mother of All Wyverns10.
“PUNY MISCREANTS! PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN IN FRONT OF YOU AND YOUR HANDS UP! SURRENDER AND BE DEVOURED!”
One of the Wardens hovering next to her leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“APOLOGIES! SURRENDER OR BE DEVOURED!”
Abraxas briefly attempted to flee, before a single claw pinned him to the ground. The rest of the cult, glancing at their (almost certainly former) leader, decided not to follow his example, and fell prone.
As the rest of the Wardens approached the cult with handcuffs in hand, the same Warden began whispering in the Mother’s ear yet again. Minognos-Ushad’s features twisted in revulsion for a moment, before she bellowed in a voice that no one would describe as whining11, “MUST I COMMIT TO SUCH FOOLISHNESS? THOSE ABOMINATIONS ARE FARCES WHOSE ONLY VALUE IS IN THEIR IMMOLATION!”
The Warden continued whispering in her ear, accompanying his words with a few wild gesticulations in the direction of the castle.
Minognos-Ushad let out a massive sigh, causing the half-destroyed hall to tremble, before she continued in her valiant efforts to deafen everyone in the district. “IN ACCORDANCE WITH OUR COMMUNITY OUTREACH POLICIES, INDIVIDUAL SATISFACTION SURVEYS SHALL BE DISTRIBUTED AMONG THOSE PRESENT! YOU MAY FILE THEM WITH YOUR LOCAL JAILOR UPON COMPLETION!12”
If questioned, they would insist that they were the deep and dark mutterings of The Unforgettable One, but it was rather hard to succeed at the archetypal version when their voices still occasionally cracked. ↩︎
Everyone knows that the horrors beyond the stars love excessive capitalization, and when seeking their favor, it is best to indulge them. ↩︎
They like their Deep and Ominous titles, as well ↩︎
Creativity, apparently, was not one of their favored traits. ↩︎
The emphasis on the x almost eclipsed the rest of the name. Typical. ↩︎
A distressingly common affliction with which many are burdened, though all the angels had to say on the topic was “Fucking Chelaxians.” Mind you, they were hardly any better, at times. Let’s just say that the usual claims of rulers to divine heritage were true more often than not. ↩︎
The kitchen staff had been baking cakes for the summer festival that day, and were temporarily storing some flour there. Suffice it to say that Kanto has a large budget for building repairs and replacement. ↩︎
Said protections consist of a single permanent daylight spell, so there’s that. ↩︎
Trivial to acquire; all he had to do was find public transport, and offer the mother of the inevitable screaming baby a towel and wait. ↩︎
A very large budget for building repairs and replacement. In fact, between the Elite Four, the Wardens, and the Academy, it was at least a third of the total expenses. ↩︎
At least, no one within range of her claws. Or wings. Or tail. Okay, no one within seeing distance of her. ↩︎
The King could be surprisingly vindictive with his usage of paperwork, when you happened to explode his favorite bar while chasing a criminal. ↩︎
Upon the walls the same stories, the same fairy tales, repeat themselves endlessly in increasing variation through the most beautifully carved stone and the brilliance of shining gems. The cunning and brave woman is separated from her beloved, and reunites with him through toil and trials, against foul monsters who would wish otherwise. The villains who would deny reunion vary in detail, whether claiming to the visage of dragons or wielding the might of dark gods to commit matricide. Yet one constant remains: the heroine always is reunited.
As one approaches the center of the palace, the tale slowly twists. The heroine becomes more lifeless, her features less defined. The husband’s features begin to fade, erased by time. The heroic trials the protagonist overcomes become the obstacles that stand in her way, become the atrocities that she commits. Until at the grand doors of silver, rather than locked in love’s embrace, the two faceless lovers stand apart, restrained by golden chains in bas-relief.
The servants huddling in their quarters only speak in hushed whispers of what lies beyond, what none of them have dared to see in years, where the mad royalty makes their home. But even in its insanity, the throne room beyond is wondrous. The gems of a thousand worlds, entombed in alabaster. The ceiling of stained glass, light shining down and lending color to the tale told of tragedy. Of a woman who became great, and found the love of a man of shadows. The slaughter of the wicked dragon, sent by jealous elders to impede their love. Their hands a mere inch from each other, as the man fell into the void. The loss of her love, stolen from her and cast down as a weapon. A search across seas, across continents, through countries, for that which was hers and hers alone. A madwoman’s plot, to reclaim what had been stolen with the murder of thousands. The four who opposed her, clad in the flames of elementals, the horns of devils, the semblance of fey, the might of dragons. And in the end, the regal queen, standing above their crushed forms, even with the blade of lost love piercing her heart, never to leave.
Upon the dais, sits two thrones. The left, a mesh of greens, the bright green of emerald mixing with the forest green of painted timber. The right, a warped shadow, bearing the darkness by which a certain fey was once known.
The throne to the right remains empty always, holding nothing but dust. But upon the left lies a single figure, slumped in the position it has remained in for decades.
The impaled queen in wedding veils, bleeding alone, bearing the wounds of love lost and love inflicted upon her. An Eldest in falsehood and fouled glory, shattered in victory. Waiting.
And it is a mere illusion, of course, no matter how finely crafted. No architect worth a copper piece would put a window the size of a wall into what should be the most secure room in the palace. But for a brief moment, I can at least forget what has replaced this vision outside, and find solace under the false light of burnished gold. The king in yellow, on his gossamer strings.
Behind me, stand the last of my loyal, those not taken from me by plague, by fear, or by self-interest. Vilamor Koth, barely healed from his stand against the tides of Kanto at the gates of my palace. Avinash Jurrg, my last loyal general, who has sworn to stand by me until the end. A scattering of other guards, the last remnant of once mighty armies. A shadow of a shadow, indeed.
“You who would stand by my side,” I hear myself utter, as I cease my gazing at a lost vision and turn to face those who failed me. “Know that today, a great nation dies, reduced to rubble by the actions of monsters who would claim themselves to be men.”
Under the faceless masks of the Pitax Wardens, I can see nothing; less than nothing. Yet I know that half of them are recent recruits; people pressed into service after the destruction of the Royal Guardians. How many of them know no emotion but despair, hidden in their fearful armor? A hundred stories, that will end today in futility…
“The enemy thunders upon our gates, promising vengeance upon their foes and plunder to sate their thirst. Only death awaits us outside these walls. There shall be no escape from our fate.”
I know you’re there, you know. Couldn't look away from the last stages of your play? I’m not even sure when you started using your puppet strings. Was it when I laid hands upon your sword? When I rose to rule in the aftermath of a tide of blood? When I began to sack my own cities in search of allies reprehensible? Which actions were my own?
“But in our last hour, we shall have one last opportunity. Our greatest foes, the foul king of Kanto and his minions, will enter this castle, bereft of all other allies. They must, for that which they greatly desires shall be lost otherwise!
Tonight, my companions, we shall find ourselves in the Outer Planes, and receive our final judgments. But in the name of our fallen country, for Pitax’s sake, we shall not enter there alone!”
With my final declaration, I lift the Rod of Razors to the painted sky above us, and receive the roar of my army in return, tattered and weak though it may be.
If the rulers of Kanto would place themselves as the protagonists of the tale of the fall of the Kingdom of Bards, then so be it! I will make it their tragedy! Let the last legend of Pitax reach its end!
In the dim light, the dust fluttered on unseen currents of wind. The pine wood floor varnished in dark colors, the tables and chairs in mahogany, the finely polished golden oak countertops… it all created a quiet and peaceful impression; somewhere where for a time, you could leave all your troubles at the door and have a quiet drink. I was rather proud of that; no customer at Burunto’s Bar deserves any less. Wish I could say it’s been in the family for generations, but, well, it obviously hasn’t been. It will be, though, if I have anything to say about it.
Over the mumbling of the crowd, I can hear the chiming of the bell I hooked up to the door. Very nice bell, too; I’d gotten it from old Oldaugh (don’t point out the coincidence; he’ll tear you a new one for it) down the street. Didn’t even pay more than a pittance for it; apparently, his apprentice went and messed up the “corvatur”, or something (as much as I enjoy his company, that accent of his is absolutely incomprehensible sometimes). Don’t know what he’s talking about; it sounds perfectly fine to me…
Where was I, again? Oh, right. New customer, arriving alone. Looking at him… hmm. Pretty thin, no chipped nails or scars from accidents. Clothes are pretty well made, looks like silk, but discreet patches indicate this set’s been in use for a while. Faded ink stains on the fingers… some noblemen, down on his luck, using his education to be a scribe? Or maybe simply a favored servant, at one point. In either case, probably something along the lines of wine.
No, wait; he’s shaking his head in response to nothing. Barely paying attention to what’s in front of him. And the Look on his face… Oh dear. Someone from the Madhouse. I suppose it’s technically called the Indigo Stronghold, but, well, that’s what we call it. Definitely something stronger than wine.
Well, out of time to speculate. He’s at the counter now. I reach out to one of the mugs (wooden, of course; can’t afford the glass ones some of those fancy establishments have), and select a brew for him.
Still mute, huh. Not long now, I expect. I quietly sit down on my stool against the wall (back’s never quite been the same after that day) and wait for the inevitable outburst.
After glaring at his mug for half a minute or so, the stranger finally starts muttering.
“They rule a bloody kingdom; why can’t they sit still and actually run it for three minutes! Bloody idiots… I mean, did they nearly have to get themselves killed over some nixie’s trees?”
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I love to guess at what a customer does, the first time they come in. Sometimes, it’s easy, when they’re coming straight from work and can’t be bothered to clean up first. It’s always easy to pick out the builders from the crowd, covered in sawdust and sweat and grinning like loons. Totally justified in it, though; they built my precious bar. Oh, and the rest of the city, too.
Sometimes, it’s a bit harder though, like that lady just walking in. Another customer with that Look; she’s got a few daggers concealed on her. Pretty sure that the muffled clink in her coat was a bottle; possibly poison, or she wouldn’t be coming into a bar to drink. Too clean to be one of the builders (wrong day, anyways; I’m pretty sure that they have a couple of homemade stills, because they somehow get hammered without any of them coming here this night of the week).
“My superior is a complete child! It’s like he goes out of his way to be as flashy and unstealthy as possible! And has he never heard of shirts, or does he just think that they’re for insufficiently noticeable people? If you’re training spies, you want them to not be noticed. Not doing the equivalent of streaking through the main square while casting presdigitation to color everything pink!”
Seems she’ll be out of a job, soon enough.
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Yet another with the Look; he looks vaguely uncomfortable in those fine, yet modest clothes, and his hands look pretty dirty. Probably a servant at the Madhouse?
Putting down the extra money to be closer to the center of town was the best decision I ever made. All these people who are just too confused and stressed to cope look for the nearest bar to drown their frustrations in a sea of mankind’s oldest liquid obsession. And oh boy, do we get a lot of them, with the current administration.
“Who even hires some random blue-haired guy they bumped into on the street as their general, anyways? And why does he keep taking the coals from the fireplace at night? He leaves soot tracks everywhere!”
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She has less ink stains than the man from before; probably more experienced, but not a master.
“I mean, really! The baron himself and a few friends have to go deal personally with a band of trolls? What is the Baron’s guard for, to stand around and look fashionable?”
I wonder what she keeps track of, usually? Don’t have much to work on, but she might be an accountant for the military (such as it is, probably the sole accountant).
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It’s also nice to remember the people from before and see how they've changed; they always do. Though I’m a bit afraid of when my memory starts to fail me, on that front. If I forget some of the most important experiences in my life, am I still the same person?
Ah, well, should probably put off that line of thought until later; The former nobleman from before just walked in. He’s definitely learned how to use a quill without staining his fingers much, and his tunic’s acquired a few more stitches.
“An entire freaking country! I mean, really, they’re acting like one of those people who adopt a mangy kitten from the street and cleans it up, except on a larger scale. Do they understand what this is going to do to our budget? No, of course not! They’re gone three weeks out of four; how could they know?”
I never did get his name, but I can still tell you a lot about him. He’s obviously been a heavy drinker, at some point; he has the alcohol tolerance from it. Probably related to how he got here, in this land that used to be a shithole, with all due respect… actually, that’s being rude to shitholes. Cailean knows how the place ever improved; I suspect divine intervention, myself. Anyways, he’s never had more than a mug or two; always sits such that he doesn’t have anyone behind him. Also careful to not say much about himself; a very cautious person, who has ingrained security habits, and had a period of his life where everything had gone wrong and he drowned himself in drink, before recovering.
What can I say? I’ve had a lot of practice.
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Flowing green garments, chain shirt underneath, and that holy symbol; she’s definitely a cleric. Erastil, if I’m not mistaken; it’s pretty common around here. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. Sure, this land is still a bit more fey than my old place, before those knights decided they needed some fun, but we’re working pretty hard to make it nothing like the wilderness they find so attractive. Bringing the light of the night stars to the earth… wonder what it looks like from the castle’s towers?
“Ugh; I mean, really. Why hasn't the duke kicked her out yet! She wears one of Gyrona's shabbles, she hides that gem eye she has, and I'm sure she's responsible for some of these 'disappearances' with that cult earlier! Cleric of Erastil, my ass!”
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Been getting a trickle in of customers from Varnhold. People who have too many bad memories of what happened there, I reckon. Mind you, they’re kind of cagey on what went on, but given that the leaders of the Madhouse themselves were in the area… it was probably pretty nasty. Had to kick out a few complete drunkards, the other night; not that kind of establishment, you know?
Anyways, the new guy with the Look might be from there; the instigators of it aren’t in town right now, so he’s not a local. No scars, kind of scrawny, not much muscle, but very well made clothes, new; definitely a job that isn’t physically demanding, but requires skilled labor. Chews his fingernails, so he’s a bit nervous and high-strung. Maybe a gem-cutter?
“And then they went and left hundreds of gold in silk on my doorstep! Why would they even do that? I was going to pay them for it, even!”
Ah, probably a weaver/clothes maker. My mistake.
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Oh, it’s that servant again. His hands look a lot less dirty this time, but his clothes have a few rips in them. Maybe he got them caught on something sharp?
“That ridiculously large sword with a skull pommel? He holds conversations with it. Croons to it about how don’t worry, you’ll be covered in blood soon enough. And then he just looks, and it’s wrong wrong wrong wrong …”
Oh my. I think someone needs some time out of the sun. I have a blanket behind the counter, and a quiet room upstairs. Will have to offer it to him.
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This time around, it’s the lady who was an experienced scribe from before. She’s got a new ring on her finger. I wonder who’s the groom? And when that son of mine will get around to finding a lady of his own, already. How am I supposed to horribly spoil my grandchildren when he hasn't made any yet?
“Again! They took over a country again! No fanfare, no warning, no army conflict; one month, there’s a horde of barbarians at our door; the next, we suddenly have a new set of starving mouths to feed! And how the hell did they manage to destroy half the castle?!”
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It’s that servant again. Those glances out to the side, and glazed eyes? He looks even worse than last time. Really, he might not be cut out for the job, if he’s still a regular here. Even the two scribes have only really started coming here when something spectacularly stressful occurs.
“He’s always playing with that skull, I tell you. Doesn’t even eat when the Duke orders food to be pointedly sent to him. And that time he fell asleep cuddling it… disturbing as hell. Did he kill the guy it belonged to?”
I… what? Okay, maybe I’ll give him an extra mug, on the house this time. And here I thought I had heard it all…
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The man doesn’t walk quite right; he’s a bit bow-legged. As if the smell of fish wasn’t a big enough hint. Really, this is kind of insultingly easy; the only thing that would be more obvious would be if the rulers themselves came into the bar.
I mean, really? One of them has blue hair (didn’t even know people could have that), and always walks around in gilded armor. The High Priest has an eyepatch and a giant deer that follows her around everywhere. The Duke decided that he didn’t look enough like an oversized kobold, and don’t ask me how he managed to correct that. And his spymaster runs around wearing only a kilt and a quiver. If he didn’t need to store arrows there, he’d probably ditch the quiver, too. How did these people somehow manage to be competent rulers where so many others failed to tame this patch of land?
“And there Frank was, and suddenly, some big dinosaur burst out of the water next to him! Scared the living daylights out of me, I tell ya. Couldn’t row away fast enough! Did that cleric of Erastil riding it just think we didn’t have a large enough population of giant sea monsters, or something?”
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The former nobleman, looks like. He’s got a ring too now, and it looks like it matches the other one. Wonder when I’ll see them both together? Tsk. Makes me feel like an old man again. All these whippersnappers growing up and tying the knot… I never did find her again.
“Yes, they’re strapped for funding. Yes, they’re trying to wage a war. But was mocking the law and order of the city by actively encouraging illegal markets really necessary?!”
If he glares any harder into his drink, I think it’s going to catch on fire.
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Oh, there’s that sailor again. The one who got freaked out by the dinosaur. Really, the rest of them seem to have adopted it as a mascot, by now. I think one of them is trying to teach it to play fetch. Wonder when they’ll make the jump and just have it catch fish for them?
“Three more of them! And an Orm! How am I supposed to make a living with them around stealing all the fish!”
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It’s the servant again. He looks much more accustomed to those clothes, this time. Glad he finally settled in, even if it costs me a bit of profit. He’s stopped coming every couple of days, finally.
“He doesn’t even sleep in his bed, half the time. And all of his metallic possessions are in a heap in the corner; I swear I can see a human-shaped impression on it, sometimes. And why does he have scales, anyways?”
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… I swear I’ve seen that guy somewhere before. He’s never been a customer before, but I remember him.
“So let me tell you. Beautiful fey women displaying interest in you? Not bloody worth it. At all. Ever. No matter how good they are in bed, the mind control and destruction of everything you love just isn’t worth it.”
Oh, my. I do believe this man has just managed to piss off half the bar... Come to think of it, there are a lot more fey hanging around, lately. Is there something in the forest they’re fleeing from? … Can’t be, the armies would have dealt with it when they came back from sieging Pitax.
“I liked that place, you know. I worked so hard to take it over and make it mine and make it beautiful, and then these young upstarts from some backwards nation that was born a few minutes ago go and stomp all over everything and turn into dragons and genies and whack you in the head far too many times and don’t even finish you off and do you know how embarrassing this is? I’m old and tired, my poor leg is acting up, and now I’m going to have to restart from the beginning, find some other place that could use someone new in charge, and then build myself back up again. Those horrible, horrible monsters!”
… I think I’m going to need to find some way to check with other bars in the future. This guy sounds pretty drunk already; I think he might have already been thrown out of one of them.
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At some point, they’re going to form a support group. I just know it.
