Eric Aaronson and the Dubious Reasons

Double Checking
or, more accurately, just checking.

Are you receiving emails from the forum or other Obsidian Portal postings? If so, you should get an e-mail about this.

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Tattoo of Dubious Reasons
They don't have laser surgery in a medieval setting...

Check it out guys:

I finally got something I can feel okay about to represent your tattoos. More on what it does at the session, but I figured you’d like to see it.

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Sol's Journal #2
Honor Among Thieves

Whoever said that honor is clean never had the chance to be truly honorable. Honor is messy. Honor is cruel. Honor is, above all else, hard. Today I stood and watched two tieflings give their lives to a cause they believed in and cared about more than their riches and lives. One of them was to be awarded a more traditional death – death by combat. The other, bound and a with a knife at his throat, was deemed unworthy of this honor. Still, neither wavered. Confident in their resolution, it making but one demand before meeting the ancestors. It does not demand broken legs. It does not demand life imprisonment. It demands respect. It does not leave the possibility that he may eventually change his mind. In confronting unwavering belief, the honorable thing is to accept it and to bow to it. In this bow we must also maintain our own belief — if nothing more, this conversation between two honorable souls must be a blade to one of our throats. In the end, I cannot come to any conclusion: that in this act he was given the right to an honorable end. He was caged, and the cost of the key was faith in his beliefs.

As I looked upon the bodies I am forced to wonder if there is anything that I truly believe with such passion. What do I believe in so strongly that I am willing to throw all else away in its favor? Can anyone in this party truly claim to be as honorable or as ferocious in their beliefs than these two? If we did, than I do not know if we would be alive now. It was in our moments of cowardice (no matter one’s rationale, it does not change that in all of us, to some degree, a sliver of cowardice exists) that we chose to live rather than remain steadfast to our cause, our gods, our ancestors, our honor; we should seek to manifest in such a way that we become victorious and alive, as opposed to simply existing.

Maybe that is what our band is; we are just a group of people seeking redemption from our past cowardice.

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Note to self:

Work on cackle.

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Sol's Hunting Log

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I have rarely found this beast to be found out during the day. This shows that they tend to attack at night. I can only assume that they have better sight then most mammals. They more then likely have low light vision. Unlike our kin back in the Feywild these seem to not be found in the trees but in these plains. Preferring open fields and tall grass then dense forest.
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I have decided that I need to start keeping track of my thoughts. This new life I can tell will be taking me to brand new places and I must never forget who I am or what I have seen/done. I still will be keeping accounts of the wild life and this shall also be my hunting journal but it shall also be my travel log.

This world is quite odd. Everything is far more quite. It has a stillness to it that I can not explain. In the feywild everything was alive and far more colorful. Here the snow is just cold. It is still cold but it seems to be a shallow cold. The trees are green but the colors just sit there on the trees and that is that. I walk around at night and it seems as the whole world is holding its breath.

It is quite exciting all of it. In this world smells travels for miles. I can hear even the owl fly at night.

What a magnificent creature. Truly a lord of the night in this world.

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But I keep getting off course with this conversation.

I must talk to The Good Mage and ask him Why does this world lack the life and sounds of the Feywild. I guess this must be why it is referred to as the Fadelands.

Our party is heading to our first major city in this world and I am quite excited. The first mini town we went to had all the bad things of a small city town with none of the benefits. I was not sad to only spend a night there.

This land has taken its fair share of problems. We have been told of undead and radicals. These radicals seem to not care about the populace. But we shall see who they are and what they are about. We have found the remains of the Grey Company, a local militant force of some sort, we have killed gnolls and we have freed some sudo slave girls from their captors. These girls seem to be interconnected with the Feycourts and shady deals. It is true that the fey courts hands do stretch far. And we have done all of this before we have entered into a real city.

Right now I I have found free time to write this because Our newest companion Levvy is once more doing an elements ritual to help us fight off the cold. He is not just doing it to us but to the caravan of merchants we are also traveling with.

It is an odd spell indeed. I do not like it. I see the snow and I feel it fall on my skin and yet I do not feel the cold. I can see the my breath and yet I can not feel the cold. I see the wide and open plains, with its shallow stars above and crisp air and yet I do not feel it. I think from now on I will not allow this ritual unless it truly becomes bad. For I am not a fool and gladly not freeze to death I am a however a Hengeyokai and I this just seems to be another cage separating me from this world; A world i wish to experience to the fullest.
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Thom's Travel Journal II
Our ordeal, and the Inne of the Bridge

* * * *

I scrawl this hurriedly, in case we’re lost. Sorry Thom. The gnolls were real, there were a dozen at least. The adventurers braved against them, many slain, drove the rest back. How long? The Gray Company men are all dead, may be survivors in the carriages. Erica is shouting: there’s kids in there! — CRIS

* * * *

I shall strike Cris’ interjection from my final memoirs, but for now it stays for emotional content: We all feared for our lives at the mention of gnolls. The beastly raiders had set upon a Gray Company platoon and were despoiling their kill, their lust for savagery recalling all the tales we heard the night prior. Yet the Company of adventurers who have joined our caravan proved unassailable, and made amazingly quick work of the demon-dogs and their shambling minions. Of the few that fled, I do not fear their return.

They make quite the motley miscellany, as most such groups are, yet as ragtag their assortment, their skills are not. After we came across a number of slain Gray Company men, the partisans – with no mention of compensation or service levies – promptly secured the vicinity and proceeded to defend us and our goods. Their scouts substantiated the claims Donal heard the night before: a pack of gnolls had set upon the carriages the Gray Company had been escorting. While some said we should fly back to Dunnek and warn the townsfolk (Wallace especially, as he ate every one of Donal’s tales like they were fresh cream gravy), Dreyfuss assured us that they had the situation under control. I can’t say that their tactics were customary under the Decree, but let the dead argue orthodoxy — the blondes know their blades, the Tiefling is ruthless to the end, and that “healer” of theirs has a few tricks up his sleeves.

More impressive, they made little-to-no note of the encounter — the only mentions of personal risk or endangerment that left their lips were on behalf of our party of travelers, ensuring our complete security to their expense and detriment. The only thing this band seems to share with any other Company of Fortune was the way in which they gathered themselves and set about the grim business of sifting through the dead. Only ones so hardened by battle could stomach the task; I myself have tried to leave that kind of life behind.

There was some murmur about it among the caravan, that the soldiers’ purses and property was, by rights, to be claimed by their kin. Others said that pilfering the dead’s baubles would bring the wrath of the Raven Queen, that they who prey upon the dead ride with death in their saddle. Yet those who charge for their Company’s services prey upon the living, and then they claim rights to prizes earned from bandits and highwaymen as “compensation” for combat. How are those “costs of operation” any less owed to the sons who had them robbed from their fathers, than the kin of these, now former, mercenaries? How could one argue against such a practice if those robbing the dead charge no fee for the privilege, as even these fallen men in gray have done? And, practically, what could anybody do to stop them? I might hold against one of these cavaliers of adventure; they are a force as a whole. As such, the debate fizzled and was left alone, and from the bloody mess our travel to the Inne at the Bridge was thankfully calm.

Of special note, however, are the survivors: three young girls, and two gnoll slaves. Like most chattel unfortunate enough to fall into gnoll custody, the slave’s poor minds are simply shattered. Neither could tell us even their names, and when freed of their shackles neither seemed to even notice. I am of the notion that, were I to fall into such a state, I would be grateful for the release of death. The girls were odder still: one one was cognizant, a spunky young half-blood named Rhys. She explained the other two — Alacris, a Tiefling maiden, and Salenae, a High Elf lass, both of whom were in a bizarre, comatose state — were charges of the Mayor of Dunnek, on their way to a villa in Bujold. I did not like the way they stared off into space, unaware of the passing world around them. Cris and I placed them up with Donal on the cart, and they sat motionless the entire way to the Inne. I’ve heard rumors of the Shacklers and their masters, lordlings who prescribe to the League of Due Hierarchy. I pray Mayor Alan is not one of them.

In the course of this day I have gained much respect for this New Company; had I, in my younger, wandering days, met a band such as this, who knows what path my life could have led? And am I, bearing witness to this Company of Mixed Blessings, being called back to a life whose endeavors I had l once left upon the hearth? It is foolish to ponder the what-might-have-been, and while I know full well my days are counted closer than ever, I cannot deny that this party enlivens me in a way others have not. I should speak well of their Character; it likely not the last I will hear of them.

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Thom's Travel Journal
...from Dunnek to Stockton

Day Nine:

We loaded the carts and prepared to leave, but the old codgers in the group thought otherwise. That death seems so nearer to them no doubt casts an icy pallor about their remaining days, but with the way things have become recently, all of us have had the thought that this caravan may be our last. We were attacked by brigands on the way here, more resolute and determined than ever; so many were willing to pay dearly, and I feared they would fight us to the death. And the talk last night ‘round the inn of gnolls south of Dunnek did not help the cart-man, as Donal drank as much of the fearful rumors as he did the brown ale. Both likely hurt his head this morning, and it wasn’t until after mid-day that we were free of the frozen and withering hamlet and headed south to the Inn at the Bridge.

I am certain that Donal dallied in order to tail the band of adventurers we spied that morning packing the carts — truth be told, I had rather wished to take leave of Dunnek early to avoid them too, though it would have proven our end. We feared they may do like so many Bands of Fortune have in these months of hardship and set upon us for some imagined infraction of services rendered, but Cris was able to engender their good graces (if so they can be called) and they joined our caravan.

They numbered seven. Five humans: Levvy, an aged healer, yet of the traditions of Moradin, and thankfully, quite silent. Then there’s the lookers, Erica, the pretty Caer’allan girl, and Eric, who I can only assume is her brother, a mountain of a Paladin. She’s definitely gone native, likely to anger their father, considering how fine the make of her Elven/barabarian/retro-fashioned clothes look. Tacky if you ask me, but they say it’s the rage in Armon these days. At least her brother is looking after her — his aubergine scale and monstrous hands notwithstanding, he was hauling her chest over his shoulder – in the snow, no less – like it were a snuff box.

An eerie, silver-haired young man ran amongst them. I thought him their leader at first, but he is more likely their mouth; a very practiced one, by the way he holds the old bardic traditions. A scout, tracker, or savant I could not say, but this Sol spent much more of our travel spying ahead than he did caroling our people. I was glad of his scarcity; there was something I did not like about the look in his eyes. Lastly, Dreyfuss Goodfellow, the “good” mage — though I severely doubt it. His mouth runs like the Jade Snake in Spring Nee, and though he seems harmless enough, he clearly has no fear in Apostasy, which is vaguely comforting. I too have no love for the Citadel, with their stuffed shirts and their puckered posteriors.

The one robed in fine furs has an undoubtedly nefarious nature. Every question he asked was a probe for personal information, and his shifting eyes were constantly appraising everything around him; rightly so – it’s not often a Teifling is in the Feifdoms, and they often travel in secret. This Taec’s disguise was good enough to fool most everyone in Dunnek, but I’ve seen enough of the exiles of Bael Turath to know that stately jawline and lofty air. He’s clearly hiding from someone powerful to fear recognition on the lowly roads, but then, aren’t we all? I’ll not let his secret on.

The stoic and brooding demeanor of the half-blood suits her. Gigi. An ambassador from Caer Silvanhuenvien? Or some merchant prince’s bride-to-be? Is this band of quirks her personal guard? It matters not. Her silence is her ally and my friend.

They seem to have no company hierarchy or protocol, which is, again, vaguely comforting — though with no true leader among their party, I wonder as to their reasons and intentions. At least they have yet to prove some deeper villainy.

Thom Kevanson
13 . Winter Nee . 267 Falcon

* * * *

I scrawl this hurriedly, in case we’re lost. Sorry Thom. The gnolls were real, there were a dozen at least. The adventurers braved against them, many slain, drove the rest back. How long? The Gray Company men are all dead, may be survivors in the carriages. Erica is shouting: there’s kids in there!CRIS

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Create Characters, content

Hey y’all. Is it only me, or can others in the group add PCs, NPCs, and Wiki entries? If so, go ahead and put in a character page for yr PC, and feel free to add any kind of Wiki page for stuff you remember/think may be useful/like or whatever. That way you can link cool shit to one another, like I just did here with Jameson Pants!

Also, JD and Brad, any chance you guys are still in for DNDND? Maybe this Monday? At 6? At my place?

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Allright! I've Ascended!
Only cost five dollars! Suck that Buddhism.

So, having coughed up the cash to get the “Ascendant Account” which enabled e-mail notifications (which, honestly, was the only thing I wanted out of this anyway, so what the fuck, right?), this is now the actual test post. You are still my testes. Neffu.

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What's Up Y'all

What’s good? More to come. This is essentially a test post. Not even essentially, this very much is a test. As my testes, reply with some sophomoric dick joke like y’all do. Cats.

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