Good luck with Thorek. After reading through Durak's tale, I can't wait for Thorek's own, particularly his interactions with Yeslick considering their similar classes.
Shadowdancers are indeed awesome, you can also do this trick by clicking on your weapon slot. The goal is to start the "Leaving Shadows" message, which starts the cooldown before hiding becomes available again (6 seconds) but you becomes visible after a bit longer (about 15 seconds). This way you can be permanently invisible and backstabing every round forever.
"My name...is Godric. The power of God! No, it is not my given name. Very few people know that, and even if they were to use it I would not respond to it. I gave up my name long ago. Back when I was in Candlekeep. I was...not a good person. I wanted to be! But the dreams...the...the urges. They were wrong. I knew that they were wrong. Oh, how I prayed. How I prayed with the Avowed. I prayed at all of the temples. To Gond and Milil and Oghma...even Deneir. But they did not listen. I prayed with all of my might and all of my fervor to Helm and to Tyr...to every 'good' aligned deity that I could think of. And none listened. The dreams still came. Dreams where the world was drowned in blood. Dreams where I would sneak into Imoen's room at night and would put my thumbs into her eyes and-...and I digress. Suffice to say, I was damned from birth. I had a darkness in my soul that I could not exorcise, and I knew that I was too weak to fight it.
So I went through the tomes of Candlekeep. Anything that I could get my hands on, I devoured. The readers believed me to merely be one of them. A young, pious man thirsty for knowledge. That wasn't it. I wanted to be saved. It was when I was going through one of the tomes that they thought was warded that I met...well, I wouldn't say 'him' exactly. It was a male's voice, but I am not foolish enough to believe that it would have a gender. It was a creature from the Upper Planes. And it educated me. It spoke to me as I read, for the words, they appeared on the pages of the book as my eyes were dragged across the page, and a voice came unto me.
It showed me things. It showed me the truth behind the planes. I saw the blood war. I saw the face of evil. I saw how it spills out into the prime, corrupting and destroying. And I saw the upper planes...and it showed me the COWARDICE that lies there. Of how the forces of 'good' sell weapons to devil and demon alike, afraid that they will stop fighting each other. It showed me how the forces of 'good' COWER behind their walls, allowing untold innocents to suffer while they remain safe in their paradise. And it showed me how it was cast out, its wings burnt, and how it fell for an aeon. Because of the crime of trying to upset the balance. Of how it tried to force war upon the heavens, so that evil might be brought low.
And it showed me why the Gods refused to hear my prayers. It was because if any of the 'good' deities intervened on my behalf, then the 'evil' ones would do so as well, and they were afraid of the confrontation. Which is why they were all willing to allow the power within me to grow and for the darkness to consume me. Better for one man to be lost than for a divine power struggle.
Furthermore, it made me an offer. An offer that I have thought back to so many times. I remember seeing its face. Its beautiful, perfect face. A face of such...I cannot even describe it. I wept when I saw it. I wept tears full of emotions that to this day I cannot even name. It told me that it could not exorcise the darkness in my soul. But it could help me contain it. To channel it. To turn it into a weapon that can be used as a force for righteousness. That divine, fallen, creature, it warned me before I agreed that to do so would carry a great risk. That I would make myself an enemy of both the Celestial realms and the Abyss. That all would hate me. The upper planes would see me as its ally, and would deem me 'evil' because of it. To accept its aid and its power might well damn me to Gehenna because of it. Even the followers of the Abyss would hate me, for becoming their enemy. Like it, I would sacrifice myself for the greater good.
I...accepted. I accepted its offer. What choice did I have? The gods had spurned me! They offered no succor. The forces of 'good', and how I laugh at that term, they were too cowardly to fight the good fight. Why should I care how they judge me? And what if I refused? This darkness inside of me would have eaten me from within. It would have consumed me! I would have become a base murderer, a slave to my passions. I know it.
So I made the deal. And it changed me. Where once I felt this all consuming desire for violence and blood, now I feel restless. Angry. Vengeful. I see wickedness all around me. I see these *mortals* and I envy the choices that they have before them. And my wrath is great for when they *choose* the path of wickedness.
I left Candlekeep with my foster father. The well meaning mage Gorion. His magics were too weak to help me, and they were too weak to save his life. Ah, but where do I begin here? In hunting down his killer, I discovered that he was my brother, Sarevok, and that our father was the dead God of Murder. Bhaal. It explains the darkness that was within me. It explains why my brother was a twisted monster. I killed him with my own blade, and I knew as I did so that but for the grace of the fallen angel, that monster might well have been me. I felt no anger as I did so, only pity.
But for the others who crossed my path, those who *CHOSE* the path of evil, my wrath was great indeed! In the mines of Nashkel I came across the half-orc Mulhay. He had chosen to poison the ore within the mines, he had chosen to murder the miners who worked there. He begged for mercy. But it was not mine to give. As my blade impaled the coward, I had this rush. This feeling of RIGHTEOUSNESS! Oh, how I hunger for that feeling. That feeling of divine bliss, where an evildoer falls beneath my blade.
From there, I tracked down the mage Tranzig. As it turned out, the mines of Nashkel were cursed by the greed of man, and the bandits who scoured the region for iron were linked to the same plot that poisoned the iron of the earth. Tranzig ran messages. When my wrath came upon him he fell to his knees, pleading, saying that he would tell all that he knew. I looked into his eyes and I saw his soul. And it was dark! I saw how he betrayed a comrade, turning her into stone because she refused to slaughter innocent merchants with him. I knew then that mercy was once again not mine to give. I killed him like the dog he was. And the pure bliss that his death brought me...it is indescribable.
My crusade through the sword coast continued unabated. At my hand, a concave of red wizards was put to the sword, for they hunted a wild mage who wanted nothing more than to learn how to control her powers for the safety of those around her. She was fortunate that her quest was altruistic, or I would have had to have killed her for her past crimes. I judged her...not innocent, per se. Just...a cowardly child learning how to accept responsibility. Unlike her pursuers, who were steeped in evil. I left her behind upon killing her pursuers. Perhaps if she matures, I might fight alongside her once more. That, or if she slips into the evil inherent in her powers, I might need to purge her. I hope that I do not, for I know what it is like to be born with powers that you do not want, and which can harm others. How can I judge when I see so much of myself in her struggles?
I rescued a mage captured by gnolls, by storming their fortress along with a ranger and his minature giant space hamster. A crazed man he was, but a force of righteousness, whom I was honored to fight alongside.
From there, I assisted an elven ranger in hunting down the bandits that plagued the coast way. Together we waded into their camp. The cowards sought to bring me low from afar, but his arrows silenced them even as my sword eviscerated all within my way. Channeling my hatred, I brought their leader low by instilling pure pain into him, and then ripping his tainted soul from his body.
From their corpses I found a blood stained letter, which took me into the cloak wood. All within died. Even when the guards pleaded and begged for their lives, my sword ended them. Their master, Daevoron, he tried to put up a fight. I, along with a dwarven prisoner whom I freed, ended his reign of terror. As he died, I saw something...something of his memories. I saw Daevoron murdering his own father. I admit that what I did to his body might be seen as 'excessive', but I guarantee that he will not be raised. The dwarf, Yeslick, he quit my company soon after. For he did not agree with what I did to Daevoron's apprentice, whom I found cowering in the library. His actions sickened me. He had a choice! A choice! And yet he *CHOSE* the path of the slave master. I ripped his soul from his body and I feasted upon it, closing my fleshly wounds with his screams.
Into Baldur's Gate I went. I learned that the Iron Throne was behind the problems of the region. I stormed their headquarters. Twice. I still do not understand why my foes bother begging for their lives. Both times my enemies, upon defeat, humbled themselves before me. My sword drank deep of their blood both times. And yes, the charges of 'murder' are true. I killed the entire leadership of the Iron Throne in cold blood. And why not? I had enough proof to know that they were doing. They admitted as much. Why allow corrupt authorities to allow their evil to endure? They fell like wheat before the scythe.
Eventually, when the blood of the fallen was deep enough to drown in, I cornered the man behind it all. Sarevok. As I said, he died before me. And no, I did not do it alone. He, and his nefarious underlings, against myself. Imoen, a young girl from my childhood whose innocence and good nature is...refreshing. Khalid and Jaheira, two harpers who have stood with me through my travails. Together, deep beneath Baldurs Gate, we put an end to his plots.
You have asked who I am, and I tell you. I am Godric. I am the STRENGTH OF GOD. When I decide that the guilty must suffer, that they must be purged, then they shall. It does not matter how long I have to wait. It does not matter how patient I must be. It does not matter if they are to be allowed to believe that they have triumphed. In the end, I am the blade that shall end them.
I know that I have no future. From the moment I was born I have been cursed to the lower planes. But when I get there, I shall not be alone. The souls of those whom I have sent screaming below shall wait for me. And when I come, they shall know that my life was not wasted. That my sacrifice will be worth it.
I have updated the previous post, and will be starting a BG2 writeup. A novel take on the Blackguard class. For my enjoyment, I am using the Vhalior voice set from planescape torment.
What would be the best weapon for him to have? He'll get some more proficiency points soon. I'm thinking of going for halberds, but I'm not sure. Thoughts?
@Gotural runs a Blackguard now and I'm sure he's got some ideas about the optimal proficiencies for this kit for BG2.
I see you've gone for two-handed weapons and already cover a sword and a quaterstaff. I think that later in the game, a spear may be a good choice because of the Impaler. But there're excellent late-game halberds as well. As for the ranged weapon, maybe a crossbow would also be an option so that you could use poisoning bolts as an addtion to your arrows. The Firetooth crossbow is not very far if you want, so...
Hi @Grum ! To my mind Blackguards can be powerful with any weapon, this is something I like about Paladins, Rangers and multiclassed Fighters in general, the fact they can only put two pips in any weapon makes them able to use a good variety of weapons instead of focusing on one or two for Grandmastery.
Still, since Poison Weapon is an elemental on-hit effect (and a very lethal one !), it is best combined with a high number of APR. I would advice the classic dual wielding path with an APR weapon in off-hand for damage, or DoE for tanking, or you can also use a Bow and be in my opinion an even better Archer than the Archer kit itself.
But anything will be good, really. A Blackguard using Poison Weapon + GWW with Staff of the Ram +6 or The Ravager +6 is a very, very fearsome sight.
Excellent writing as always, another playthrough I'll follow, good luck !
Godric rocks! If you're using Vhailor's voiceset, I'd go with Axes. That way lines like "I'm your fate and fate carries an executioner's axe" make more sense. My Vhailor-voiced LN Half-Orc Barbarian Styn uses axes as well: )
I agree with Gotural though that poison and APR make a very good combination...
Aye...I've decided to go halberds and to think of them as a two handed axe. Because as you say, the voice does say that.
Also, Gotural is so right about poison and speed. Godric is currently going strong, having just finished Neera's quest list. A mage fight ended quite quickly because a well placed arrow applied poison. And then the second did as well. And the third. Which, as you may have guessed, means for a very, very, very dead mage.
"All good peoples hang their head in shame! Another comrade has fallen... there shall be a mighty reckoning for this!!"
Godric had to admit, that this was a fairly ominous start. Khalid was missing. Dyhaneir was dead. Jaheira...she had just stopped twitching. She had been fighting a Duergar clan chieftain. The dwarf had split her from sternum to leg with one blow of his axe. It was most upsetting, as there were few warriors who even came close to sharing his particular notion of justice. Fewer still who had the power to heal.
For that was the problem. He trusted the Gods as much as he trusted the demons of the Abyss. Cowards and hypocrites above, rank evil below. The followers of the Gods were just as bad, never willing to do what was necessary to end the forces of evil once and for all. He *needed* her back...and yet, the only one with the power to bring her back was her.
"Our jailer will pay for this Minsc. I *swear* it." He all but whispered it. It was an oath, one that he meant with all of his dark, damned soul. He would have Irenicus' head for this.
"Then say it louder! We must inspire fear in evil! Quiet tales of hamsters are foolish, but a man and his hamster that tear evil limb from limb? That's scary!"
Imoen followed numbly behind the two warriors, babbling something about candlekeep and its books as they walked. Godric wasn't listening to her, nor was he listening to Minsc. His head pounded. Nothing made sense. What was he doing here? Where was he? And who was this 'Irenicus', this elven mage who had abducted them?
So lost in his thoughts was he, that he paid no true mind to friend or foe alike. A cambion fell beneath his blade. Minsc, in his kindness, promised to aid a group of trapped dryads. Imoen freed a djinn slaves. He...he found what was left of Khalid. Imoen said something about watching the warrior be dissected...
-------------------------
To be continued. Maybe. Sorry, but I have 160 screenshots from Godric's adventures. But when I uploaded them, they all got jumbled up. I was trying to write this up (he is in Watcher's Keep now!), but it takes so long to figure out where each one is. Gah!
I too usually have a lot of screenshots and the site works the way that you can't see BMP thumbnails.
I use a BMP-JPEG converter (easy and fast), for ex., http://image.online-convert.com/convert-to-jpg, and after the converting process it's easy for me to operate with the attached files.
I got so frustrated with the images that I went to another saved game...and forgot to make my usual backup. Meaning that my last save for Godric is in SoA. So...yeah. That is not going to fly.
Remember! Don't play past 1am! You make mistakes...
Ok, I have an itch to continue a write up. But I lost Godric at Watcher's Keep, having already beaten SoA (poison, immune to level drain...backed up by very liberal castings of horrid wilting from party members) let him wreck everything that came close. His only close call was with mind flayers and the cambion with the deck of many things (saved by mordakin's sword tanking).
So yeah. Bummed. For a write up, here are my options:
1) I've got a fighter/cleric ready to do SoA. I'd change the backstory of the write up so that he isn't Gorion's Ward, for a change of pace. (Hint: A dwarf priest of Moradin from a hold that appears in ToB) 2) An elven archer in BG1 (crossbows...as part of the watchers he trained in the use of a non-elven weapon) 3) Another shot at a paladin (a cavalier with a hero complex. He and his squire, Garick, would go on a naive quest to bring light to the sword coast)
Of the three, is there any that someone hear would want to read?
1) I've got a fighter/cleric ready to do SoA. I'd change the backstory of the write up so that he isn't Gorion's Ward, for a change of pace. (Hint: A dwarf priest of Moradin from a hold that appears in ToB)
This, because it seems like something completely different.
Sorry about the loss of pics and saves. Godric was an interresting character concept, one which I had hoped would live on for a long time and give me an interresting read.
And thus begins a new RP playthrough! I haven't totally decided as of yet whether it will be solo or not...
<20 years ago>
"I will not allow it! I will not taint these hallowed halls with this...this filth!"
Ulraunt pointed an accusatory finger at the small, green, child which was playing near the pond. The child was obviously of some orc-ish descent. The green skin was a dead giveaway.
Gorion, a mage already past his middle years, shook his head sadly. "It is but a child! You cannot condemn him merely because of his heritage."
"I can and I have. You know where you found *it*. You know what *it* can become."
"One is not born evil. Evil is created."
"I wash my hands of this! That child will be the death of you. I say this now and you will know it to be true."
Ulraunt stormed off into the main library, leaving Gorion and his ward behind. The young child stared at the crow with its skeletal feet and smiled.
Grum's life was not what one would call easy. Then again, by the standards of most in the realms, it wasn't what you would call hard either.
The half-orc had but one dream, and that was to be a mage like his foster-father. It was a dream which was never to be fulfilled. None of the tutors within the keep would take him on as an apprentice, not even his own foster-father. Whenever he asked, he always received the same answer. "Some things are just not meant to be." And always it came with that same sad smile which he had grown so accustomed too.
Instead, he was given to the Watchers, for it was decided that defending the keep through martial endeavors was more to his strengths. Grum did not take kindly to this, for he saw it as an insult. A rebellious youth, he resisted the discipline and regimented lifestyle of the Watchers. And for every infraction, he heard the same whispered, or stated, remarks. 'Well of course he would act like that. Just look at him!' Everyone thought of him as a brute based on his skin and his tusks. Eventually even the Watchers had enough of him, when he injured Jondalar while sparring.
Many within the keep called for him to be thrown out. And he would have been if not for Gorion's influence. That, and Winthrop. The innkeeper declared that he needed someone like Grum to run the inn, pointing to the half-orc's prodigious strength and endurance.
And that, as it was, became his life. It was there in the Candlekeep Inn that he found the only people in his life who seemed to accept him for who he was. There was Imoen, a girl just about his age, who helped Winthrop run the inn, and old Winthrop himself. A fat, content, cheerful man who always had a joke ready without regard of to whom he told it to or what the occasion. And as such, the years rolled by. With Imoen serving drinks and making beds, Grum tending the stables and lifting goods, and Winthrop happily overseeing it all.
It was a hard life, but there were many who had it worse. Yet for Grum, living in Candlekeep...he was always in the shadow of his dream. Knowing that someone out there had decided that half-orcs couldn't be mages, regardless of their ability, passion or drive. He knew, deep down, that he was worth more than what everyone thought of him. That he was more than a beast of burden. And the anger...it grew, and it boiled inside of him.
Day by day the injustices grated on him. When a delegation of paladins and knights from the most holy order of the Flaming Fist came to deliver a single, sacred tome, he nearly strangled a squire who loudly asked why nobody had put down the beast in the stables. It was Imoen who had calmed him, with jokes about what was in the tome that they had brought and the dubious nature of its contents.
He despised the visiting scholars, mages and nobles, and how at best they looked at him with pity. Most looked at him the way they looked at their horses. The worst insisted that Winthrop remove him from their sight.
This wasn't how he wanted it to happen. For so long he had yearned to leave the walls of Candlekeep...and then it had happened. It was so sudden. One day he was cleaning the stables, and then he found a suit of scale armor and a pair of maces thrust into his hands by Winthrop. Gifts from his father, or so it was said. They were obviously of inferior quality, not anything that the Watchers would use. But they were something, at least, to keep him safe for his journey.
As for where they were going, Gorion had said little, saying nothing more than to head to the Friendly Arm Inn should they be separated. And separated they were.
"W-what happened here?"
Imoen was in tears, standing over the corpse of the elderly mage.
"We were ambushed."
She looked at him with those blurry red eyes, and he could almost see the question forming. Why did he survive? Why was he unscathed while Gorion was dead. Looking at the corpse, he felt a twinge of anger. There was nothing that he could have done. Two archers, two ogres, a priestess and a mountain of a warrior, all against what? An elderly wizard and an untrained stable boy? Yes, he ran. He did what he was told...but even if he didn't, it would just mean that he would have been dead to. He walked over to the body and knelt down next to it.
"I bet you wish you taught me some spells now, eh?"
"What was that?"
Grum stood up. "Just saying my goodbyes. Come, we're leaving."
"Where?"
He looked at her, with her little hunting bow. She didn't even have any armor, nor a weapon. "Here, take this." He tossed her Gorion's dagger. "And put on that." He pointed to the corpse of an archer, the one that was the least charred." She looked at it in disgust.
"Come, we go."
----
The Friendly Arm Inn was not so much of an inn as it was a fortress. It was the keep of a cleric of Bhaal during the time of troubles, and it was conquered by a band of adventurers. And like many adventurers, they retired by opening a tavern.
It came as little surprise to Grum that there was an assassin waiting for him there. The armored figure knew the path in which Gorion was fleeing, so it stood to reason that he would know of the waypoint as well. It was a funny thing about mages...they stopped casting spells when their heads were caved in. Sadly, Grum had broken one of his maces along with the mage's head. A fair trade, all told, but it spoke of the quality of equipment given to him.
Within the inn there were indeed two warriors waiting, just as Gorion said. Khalid and Jaheira. A pair of half-elves, whom like all of their kind were short and lean. Grum towered over them, like a barely constrained avalanche of muscle. Looking at them, he decided that he didn't like them. It was the elvish blood. In his experience, the fey folk were always the first to turn their nose up at him, and the thought of traveling with two of them 'for protection' was galling. However, that didn't mean that they couldn't be of use. He waited for them to be done talking, to say:
"Yes, Gorion is dead, and I brought you his ward." He pointed at Imoen.
"Wait-but I'm not-"
"Yes, you are."
The woman, Jaheira glared at him. "We are not stupid, you know."
"No, I am sure you are not. But none the less, she is as much Gorion's ward as I. And *I* do not need your protection, and she does."
"Our protection, maybe not. But our companionship?"
"Is not something that I need."
"Gorion-" is as far as she got, as Grum had already turned to leave. He had done his good deed for the day, keeping Imoen alive, given that he had no illusions how long she would last outside of Candlekeep. Purposefully ignoring those who would have been his companions, he walked away.
-----
- Note: I picked up Bentley's Buckler. Not for wearing, but for the +1 Con. It pushes him up to Con 20, giving him natural regen while sleeping and traveling, which is very important given the lack of healing he has availalbe -
@Grum I can't see images in both your posts. Maybe you can attach an image to your new post then insert it into the post, copy the code and paste it into the previous 2 posts
@Grum I can't see images in both your posts. Maybe you can attach an image to your new post then insert it into the post, copy the code and paste it into the previous 2 posts
I no longer have the images...which is less than ideal. I'll find a different place to upload them.
Also as a note...I realized that I made a mistake. I gave Grum ** in single weapon fighting instead of dual wielding. Argh! Well...the show must go on. I suppose it just goes to show how little formal education he got in fighting.
--------------
Despite his bravado, Grum soon found himself lost. Not in a literal sense, the sword coast was mapped out well enough. But he knew not where to go or what to do. His skills, such as they were, lended himself to manual labor, but he had done enough of that in Candlekeep to last him a lifetime. So he did the only thing he could think of...he went to the nearest town (Beregost) and decided to drink away his problems.
It, like most things in his life, did not go quite as planned. A local by the name of Marl took one look at him and pushed his way through the crowd.
"I don't like your type around here."
He was a big man, easily the same size as Grum, which was saying something. He had a simple leather jerkin on which barely contained his large frame. A look of anger was clearly written on his face. Behind him, a much smaller man cheered him on. "You tell him Marl!"
Grum sneered at him and started walking towards the bar, determined to not let himself be bullied out of what was rightfully his. Marl grabbed Grum by the shoulder and spun him around.
"Hey! I told you to get lost! Ain't no room here for ye troublemakin' strangers!"
"I'll go where I like pal! You got a problem with that?!"
Grum could feel his anger rising. It was a problem of his, he knew. A murderous rage which bubbled up from inside his heart. When it erupted he knew neither fear nor pain. There was just a red mist and the desire to tear the target of his ire apart. He blamed it on his orcish heritage.
"You're threatening me?! Practically where I live and you threaten me?! You sure must think you're tought with a blade on your belt! Why don't ya drop that armory you're carrying and put your hide where you mouth is!?"
With that Marl took a swing, hitting Grum squarely in the nose, while the smaller man gave a whistle and a cheer. Grum staggered back a step...and completely lost it. With a roar he surged forward and headbutted Marl in the face. It was an unsporting move, to be fair, given that Grum was wearing a steel helmet. He heard something break. Marl stumbled backwards, his face splattered with blood. A woman screamed, but she sounded distant. All of Grum's anger surged forth like a tidal wave. He threw a clumsy punch which Marl ducked beneath. The man's fist hit Grum squarely beneath the jaw, jerking his head back violently. Marl followed it up with a second punch, but punching scale armor is rarely a good idea. Grum didn't feel the pain, but he felt the anger. With a roar of anger he grabbed Marl and threw him into a table. It broke under the man's weight, and before he could rise the half-orc was on him. Pinning him down with his legs, Grum rained blow upon blow upon Marl. The man tried throwing him off, but the half-orc weighed far too much. He tried punching his way out of the situation, but he was the one on his back and the half-orc was far beyond feeling pain anyways.
As blow after blow landed images flashed before Grum's eyes. Gorion dead. The armored figure standing victoriously over his foster father's corpse. The look on Imoen's face. And years upon years of pent up frustration and aggression came loose like a broken dam. Every sneer that came his way, every sideways glance, every piteous comment towards his appearance, all of it was focused on Marl.
When the haze finally lifted the bar was silent. The man who had egged Marl on yelled at him "You murderous bastard! The flaming fist will get you for this!"
Grum didn't care. He just felt tired. Exhausted, both physically and mentally. And to his surprise, he felt good. He walked over to the man who instinctively took a step back.
"Hey, don't click me. I don't want any trouble!"
"No. You don't. You just enjoy seeing strangers get attacked, don't you? Well I suggest you take your friend to the temple. And remember this. The next time a stranger walks into your 'home, don't start something that you can't finish."
If the man had a retort he wisely kept it to himself. Grum walked out of the bar, feeling both satisfied and somehow ashamed at the same time.
@Grum I have read as far as Durak first reaching Baldur's Gate. Way beyond first-class and a gift to us all. Making a comment mostly so this will show up in my "Participated" log.
I kinda wished you had kept Yeslick though...gets harder and harder for me to imagine RP of a solo playthrough without Mage or Cleric. Wand of the Heavens can be a great asset even if Healing is not all that great an asset for a small party. I really had a surge of empathy as the dwarves came together in that much abused mine.
But then I have always played with Charname +3-4NPCs. Particularly liked the motif of letters being decoded by Xan as story for delay of immediate Bandit Camp.
@Grum I have read as far as Durak first reaching Baldur's Gate. Way beyond first-class and a gift to us all. Making a comment mostly so this will show up in my "Participated" log.
I kinda wished you had kept Yeslick though...gets harder and harder for me to imagine RP of a solo playthrough without Mage or Cleric. Wand of the Heavens can be a great asset even if Healing is not all that great an asset for a small party. I really had a surge of empathy as the dwarves came together in that much abused mine.
But then I have always played with Charname +3-4NPCs. Particularly liked the motif of letters being decoded by Xan as story for delay of immediate Bandit Camp.
It is a welcome surprise, and I dare say an honor, to find that may writing is being read and enjoyed. Thank you for the comment!
Indeed I wanted more characters along. Xan was unexpectedly fun to write and Yeslick was a natural choice. But this was a challenge to have a solo game (or as close as RP would allow). Maybe I'll try again with a non solo run (several ideas have tempted me, but this is a big time commitment that I haven't been ready to make)
The time commitment is definitely intense for a well-written story with interesting character ~ and much appreciated. Amazing how your outbursts of dialect [Scottish or Irish?] almost always rang true. This coming from a straight-laced academic type who has hardly uttered more than a handful of swear-words in his entire life.
What I generally find more effective are your garden-variety Black Magic rituals stealing hours from the lifestream of anyone or thing that offends me.... Unfortunately, since the election of George Bush, I will probably now live long after the Earth has turned into a Venusian Hell of methane gas and several billion miserable GHOSTS!! ~Cheers~
In the upper right corner, to the right from the thread's topic title, there's a star that you can click. This will put the thread in your "my bookmarks" section. I don't think you will get a note though.
But as a FYI - this thread in particular have not been updated in a loooong time I myself had it bookmarked from the very start.
Comments
The goal is to start the "Leaving Shadows" message, which starts the cooldown before hiding becomes available again (6 seconds) but you becomes visible after a bit longer (about 15 seconds). This way you can be permanently invisible and backstabing every round forever.
Good luck with your next attempt !
"My name...is Godric. The power of God! No, it is not my given name. Very few people know that, and even if they were to use it I would not respond to it. I gave up my name long ago. Back when I was in Candlekeep. I was...not a good person. I wanted to be! But the dreams...the...the urges. They were wrong. I knew that they were wrong. Oh, how I prayed. How I prayed with the Avowed. I prayed at all of the temples. To Gond and Milil and Oghma...even Deneir. But they did not listen. I prayed with all of my might and all of my fervor to Helm and to Tyr...to every 'good' aligned deity that I could think of. And none listened. The dreams still came. Dreams where the world was drowned in blood. Dreams where I would sneak into Imoen's room at night and would put my thumbs into her eyes and-...and I digress. Suffice to say, I was damned from birth. I had a darkness in my soul that I could not exorcise, and I knew that I was too weak to fight it.
So I went through the tomes of Candlekeep. Anything that I could get my hands on, I devoured. The readers believed me to merely be one of them. A young, pious man thirsty for knowledge. That wasn't it. I wanted to be saved. It was when I was going through one of the tomes that they thought was warded that I met...well, I wouldn't say 'him' exactly. It was a male's voice, but I am not foolish enough to believe that it would have a gender. It was a creature from the Upper Planes. And it educated me. It spoke to me as I read, for the words, they appeared on the pages of the book as my eyes were dragged across the page, and a voice came unto me.
It showed me things. It showed me the truth behind the planes. I saw the blood war. I saw the face of evil. I saw how it spills out into the prime, corrupting and destroying. And I saw the upper planes...and it showed me the COWARDICE that lies there. Of how the forces of 'good' sell weapons to devil and demon alike, afraid that they will stop fighting each other. It showed me how the forces of 'good' COWER behind their walls, allowing untold innocents to suffer while they remain safe in their paradise. And it showed me how it was cast out, its wings burnt, and how it fell for an aeon. Because of the crime of trying to upset the balance. Of how it tried to force war upon the heavens, so that evil might be brought low.
And it showed me why the Gods refused to hear my prayers. It was because if any of the 'good' deities intervened on my behalf, then the 'evil' ones would do so as well, and they were afraid of the confrontation. Which is why they were all willing to allow the power within me to grow and for the darkness to consume me. Better for one man to be lost than for a divine power struggle.
Furthermore, it made me an offer. An offer that I have thought back to so many times. I remember seeing its face. Its beautiful, perfect face. A face of such...I cannot even describe it. I wept when I saw it. I wept tears full of emotions that to this day I cannot even name. It told me that it could not exorcise the darkness in my soul. But it could help me contain it. To channel it. To turn it into a weapon that can be used as a force for righteousness. That divine, fallen, creature, it warned me before I agreed that to do so would carry a great risk. That I would make myself an enemy of both the Celestial realms and the Abyss. That all would hate me. The upper planes would see me as its ally, and would deem me 'evil' because of it. To accept its aid and its power might well damn me to Gehenna because of it. Even the followers of the Abyss would hate me, for becoming their enemy. Like it, I would sacrifice myself for the greater good.
I...accepted. I accepted its offer. What choice did I have? The gods had spurned me! They offered no succor. The forces of 'good', and how I laugh at that term, they were too cowardly to fight the good fight. Why should I care how they judge me? And what if I refused? This darkness inside of me would have eaten me from within. It would have consumed me! I would have become a base murderer, a slave to my passions. I know it.
So I made the deal. And it changed me. Where once I felt this all consuming desire for violence and blood, now I feel restless. Angry. Vengeful. I see wickedness all around me. I see these *mortals* and I envy the choices that they have before them. And my wrath is great for when they *choose* the path of wickedness.
I left Candlekeep with my foster father. The well meaning mage Gorion. His magics were too weak to help me, and they were too weak to save his life. Ah, but where do I begin here? In hunting down his killer, I discovered that he was my brother, Sarevok, and that our father was the dead God of Murder. Bhaal. It explains the darkness that was within me. It explains why my brother was a twisted monster. I killed him with my own blade, and I knew as I did so that but for the grace of the fallen angel, that monster might well have been me. I felt no anger as I did so, only pity.
But for the others who crossed my path, those who *CHOSE* the path of evil, my wrath was great indeed! In the mines of Nashkel I came across the half-orc Mulhay. He had chosen to poison the ore within the mines, he had chosen to murder the miners who worked there. He begged for mercy. But it was not mine to give. As my blade impaled the coward, I had this rush. This feeling of RIGHTEOUSNESS! Oh, how I hunger for that feeling. That feeling of divine bliss, where an evildoer falls beneath my blade.
From there, I tracked down the mage Tranzig. As it turned out, the mines of Nashkel were cursed by the greed of man, and the bandits who scoured the region for iron were linked to the same plot that poisoned the iron of the earth. Tranzig ran messages. When my wrath came upon him he fell to his knees, pleading, saying that he would tell all that he knew. I looked into his eyes and I saw his soul. And it was dark! I saw how he betrayed a comrade, turning her into stone because she refused to slaughter innocent merchants with him. I knew then that mercy was once again not mine to give. I killed him like the dog he was. And the pure bliss that his death brought me...it is indescribable.
My crusade through the sword coast continued unabated. At my hand, a concave of red wizards was put to the sword, for they hunted a wild mage who wanted nothing more than to learn how to control her powers for the safety of those around her. She was fortunate that her quest was altruistic, or I would have had to have killed her for her past crimes. I judged her...not innocent, per se. Just...a cowardly child learning how to accept responsibility. Unlike her pursuers, who were steeped in evil. I left her behind upon killing her pursuers. Perhaps if she matures, I might fight alongside her once more. That, or if she slips into the evil inherent in her powers, I might need to purge her. I hope that I do not, for I know what it is like to be born with powers that you do not want, and which can harm others. How can I judge when I see so much of myself in her struggles?
I rescued a mage captured by gnolls, by storming their fortress along with a ranger and his minature giant space hamster. A crazed man he was, but a force of righteousness, whom I was honored to fight alongside.
From there, I assisted an elven ranger in hunting down the bandits that plagued the coast way. Together we waded into their camp. The cowards sought to bring me low from afar, but his arrows silenced them even as my sword eviscerated all within my way. Channeling my hatred, I brought their leader low by instilling pure pain into him, and then ripping his tainted soul from his body.
From their corpses I found a blood stained letter, which took me into the cloak wood. All within died. Even when the guards pleaded and begged for their lives, my sword ended them. Their master, Daevoron, he tried to put up a fight. I, along with a dwarven prisoner whom I freed, ended his reign of terror. As he died, I saw something...something of his memories. I saw Daevoron murdering his own father. I admit that what I did to his body might be seen as 'excessive', but I guarantee that he will not be raised. The dwarf, Yeslick, he quit my company soon after. For he did not agree with what I did to Daevoron's apprentice, whom I found cowering in the library. His actions sickened me. He had a choice! A choice! And yet he *CHOSE* the path of the slave master. I ripped his soul from his body and I feasted upon it, closing my fleshly wounds with his screams.
Into Baldur's Gate I went. I learned that the Iron Throne was behind the problems of the region. I stormed their headquarters. Twice. I still do not understand why my foes bother begging for their lives. Both times my enemies, upon defeat, humbled themselves before me. My sword drank deep of their blood both times. And yes, the charges of 'murder' are true. I killed the entire leadership of the Iron Throne in cold blood. And why not? I had enough proof to know that they were doing. They admitted as much. Why allow corrupt authorities to allow their evil to endure? They fell like wheat before the scythe.
Eventually, when the blood of the fallen was deep enough to drown in, I cornered the man behind it all. Sarevok. As I said, he died before me. And no, I did not do it alone. He, and his nefarious underlings, against myself. Imoen, a young girl from my childhood whose innocence and good nature is...refreshing. Khalid and Jaheira, two harpers who have stood with me through my travails. Together, deep beneath Baldurs Gate, we put an end to his plots.
You have asked who I am, and I tell you. I am Godric. I am the STRENGTH OF GOD. When I decide that the guilty must suffer, that they must be purged, then they shall. It does not matter how long I have to wait. It does not matter how patient I must be. It does not matter if they are to be allowed to believe that they have triumphed. In the end, I am the blade that shall end them.
I know that I have no future. From the moment I was born I have been cursed to the lower planes. But when I get there, I shall not be alone. The souls of those whom I have sent screaming below shall wait for me. And when I come, they shall know that my life was not wasted. That my sacrifice will be worth it.
What would be the best weapon for him to have? He'll get some more proficiency points soon. I'm thinking of going for halberds, but I'm not sure. Thoughts?
@Gotural runs a Blackguard now and I'm sure he's got some ideas about the optimal proficiencies for this kit for BG2.
I see you've gone for two-handed weapons and already cover a sword and a quaterstaff. I think that later in the game, a spear may be a good choice because of the Impaler. But there're excellent late-game halberds as well. As for the ranged weapon, maybe a crossbow would also be an option so that you could use poisoning bolts as an addtion to your arrows. The Firetooth crossbow is not very far if you want, so...
Still, since Poison Weapon is an elemental on-hit effect (and a very lethal one !), it is best combined with a high number of APR. I would advice the classic dual wielding path with an APR weapon in off-hand for damage, or DoE for tanking, or you can also use a Bow and be in my opinion an even better Archer than the Archer kit itself.
But anything will be good, really. A Blackguard using Poison Weapon + GWW with Staff of the Ram +6 or The Ravager +6 is a very, very fearsome sight.
Excellent writing as always, another playthrough I'll follow, good luck !
I agree with Gotural though that poison and APR make a very good combination...
Also, Gotural is so right about poison and speed. Godric is currently going strong, having just finished Neera's quest list. A mage fight ended quite quickly because a well placed arrow applied poison. And then the second did as well. And the third. Which, as you may have guessed, means for a very, very, very dead mage.
Godric had to admit, that this was a fairly ominous start. Khalid was missing. Dyhaneir was dead. Jaheira...she had just stopped twitching. She had been fighting a Duergar clan chieftain. The dwarf had split her from sternum to leg with one blow of his axe. It was most upsetting, as there were few warriors who even came close to sharing his particular notion of justice. Fewer still who had the power to heal.
For that was the problem. He trusted the Gods as much as he trusted the demons of the Abyss. Cowards and hypocrites above, rank evil below. The followers of the Gods were just as bad, never willing to do what was necessary to end the forces of evil once and for all. He *needed* her back...and yet, the only one with the power to bring her back was her.
"Our jailer will pay for this Minsc. I *swear* it." He all but whispered it. It was an oath, one that he meant with all of his dark, damned soul. He would have Irenicus' head for this.
"Then say it louder! We must inspire fear in evil! Quiet tales of hamsters are foolish, but a man and his hamster that tear evil limb from limb? That's scary!"
Imoen followed numbly behind the two warriors, babbling something about candlekeep and its books as they walked. Godric wasn't listening to her, nor was he listening to Minsc. His head pounded. Nothing made sense. What was he doing here? Where was he? And who was this 'Irenicus', this elven mage who had abducted them?
So lost in his thoughts was he, that he paid no true mind to friend or foe alike. A cambion fell beneath his blade. Minsc, in his kindness, promised to aid a group of trapped dryads. Imoen freed a djinn slaves. He...he found what was left of Khalid. Imoen said something about watching the warrior be dissected...
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To be continued. Maybe. Sorry, but I have 160 screenshots from Godric's adventures. But when I uploaded them, they all got jumbled up. I was trying to write this up (he is in Watcher's Keep now!), but it takes so long to figure out where each one is. Gah!
I too usually have a lot of screenshots and the site works the way that you can't see BMP thumbnails.
I use a BMP-JPEG converter (easy and fast), for ex., http://image.online-convert.com/convert-to-jpg, and after the converting process it's easy for me to operate with the attached files.
So maybe you can do the same:)
Remember! Don't play past 1am! You make mistakes...
So yeah. Bummed. For a write up, here are my options:
1) I've got a fighter/cleric ready to do SoA. I'd change the backstory of the write up so that he isn't Gorion's Ward, for a change of pace. (Hint: A dwarf priest of Moradin from a hold that appears in ToB)
2) An elven archer in BG1 (crossbows...as part of the watchers he trained in the use of a non-elven weapon)
3) Another shot at a paladin (a cavalier with a hero complex. He and his squire, Garick, would go on a naive quest to bring light to the sword coast)
Of the three, is there any that someone hear would want to read?
Sorry about the loss of pics and saves. Godric was an interresting character concept, one which I had hoped would live on for a long time and give me an interresting read.
<20 years ago>
"I will not allow it! I will not taint these hallowed halls with this...this filth!"
Ulraunt pointed an accusatory finger at the small, green, child which was playing near the pond. The child was obviously of some orc-ish descent. The green skin was a dead giveaway.
Gorion, a mage already past his middle years, shook his head sadly. "It is but a child! You cannot condemn him merely because of his heritage."
"I can and I have. You know where you found *it*. You know what *it* can become."
"One is not born evil. Evil is created."
"I wash my hands of this! That child will be the death of you. I say this now and you will know it to be true."
Ulraunt stormed off into the main library, leaving Gorion and his ward behind. The young child stared at the crow with its skeletal feet and smiled.
Grum's life was not what one would call easy. Then again, by the standards of most in the realms, it wasn't what you would call hard either.
The half-orc had but one dream, and that was to be a mage like his foster-father. It was a dream which was never to be fulfilled. None of the tutors within the keep would take him on as an apprentice, not even his own foster-father. Whenever he asked, he always received the same answer. "Some things are just not meant to be." And always it came with that same sad smile which he had grown so accustomed too.
Instead, he was given to the Watchers, for it was decided that defending the keep through martial endeavors was more to his strengths. Grum did not take kindly to this, for he saw it as an insult. A rebellious youth, he resisted the discipline and regimented lifestyle of the Watchers. And for every infraction, he heard the same whispered, or stated, remarks. 'Well of course he would act like that. Just look at him!' Everyone thought of him as a brute based on his skin and his tusks. Eventually even the Watchers had enough of him, when he injured Jondalar while sparring.
Many within the keep called for him to be thrown out. And he would have been if not for Gorion's influence. That, and Winthrop. The innkeeper declared that he needed someone like Grum to run the inn, pointing to the half-orc's prodigious strength and endurance.
And that, as it was, became his life. It was there in the Candlekeep Inn that he found the only people in his life who seemed to accept him for who he was. There was Imoen, a girl just about his age, who helped Winthrop run the inn, and old Winthrop himself. A fat, content, cheerful man who always had a joke ready without regard of to whom he told it to or what the occasion. And as such, the years rolled by. With Imoen serving drinks and making beds, Grum tending the stables and lifting goods, and Winthrop happily overseeing it all.
It was a hard life, but there were many who had it worse. Yet for Grum, living in Candlekeep...he was always in the shadow of his dream. Knowing that someone out there had decided that half-orcs couldn't be mages, regardless of their ability, passion or drive. He knew, deep down, that he was worth more than what everyone thought of him. That he was more than a beast of burden. And the anger...it grew, and it boiled inside of him.
Day by day the injustices grated on him. When a delegation of paladins and knights from the most holy order of the Flaming Fist came to deliver a single, sacred tome, he nearly strangled a squire who loudly asked why nobody had put down the beast in the stables. It was Imoen who had calmed him, with jokes about what was in the tome that they had brought and the dubious nature of its contents.
He despised the visiting scholars, mages and nobles, and how at best they looked at him with pity. Most looked at him the way they looked at their horses. The worst insisted that Winthrop remove him from their sight.
And through it all, he yearned...to leave.
So glad that you've decided to make a new attempt. Let's hope it will be more than "deleted because reasons..."
This wasn't how he wanted it to happen. For so long he had yearned to leave the walls of Candlekeep...and then it had happened. It was so sudden. One day he was cleaning the stables, and then he found a suit of scale armor and a pair of maces thrust into his hands by Winthrop. Gifts from his father, or so it was said. They were obviously of inferior quality, not anything that the Watchers would use. But they were something, at least, to keep him safe for his journey.
As for where they were going, Gorion had said little, saying nothing more than to head to the Friendly Arm Inn should they be separated. And separated they were.
"W-what happened here?"
Imoen was in tears, standing over the corpse of the elderly mage.
"We were ambushed."
She looked at him with those blurry red eyes, and he could almost see the question forming. Why did he survive? Why was he unscathed while Gorion was dead. Looking at the corpse, he felt a twinge of anger. There was nothing that he could have done. Two archers, two ogres, a priestess and a mountain of a warrior, all against what? An elderly wizard and an untrained stable boy? Yes, he ran. He did what he was told...but even if he didn't, it would just mean that he would have been dead to. He walked over to the body and knelt down next to it.
"I bet you wish you taught me some spells now, eh?"
"What was that?"
Grum stood up. "Just saying my goodbyes. Come, we're leaving."
"Where?"
He looked at her, with her little hunting bow. She didn't even have any armor, nor a weapon. "Here, take this." He tossed her Gorion's dagger. "And put on that." He pointed to the corpse of an archer, the one that was the least charred." She looked at it in disgust.
"Come, we go."
----
The Friendly Arm Inn was not so much of an inn as it was a fortress. It was the keep of a cleric of Bhaal during the time of troubles, and it was conquered by a band of adventurers. And like many adventurers, they retired by opening a tavern.
It came as little surprise to Grum that there was an assassin waiting for him there. The armored figure knew the path in which Gorion was fleeing, so it stood to reason that he would know of the waypoint as well. It was a funny thing about mages...they stopped casting spells when their heads were caved in. Sadly, Grum had broken one of his maces along with the mage's head. A fair trade, all told, but it spoke of the quality of equipment given to him.
Within the inn there were indeed two warriors waiting, just as Gorion said. Khalid and Jaheira. A pair of half-elves, whom like all of their kind were short and lean. Grum towered over them, like a barely constrained avalanche of muscle. Looking at them, he decided that he didn't like them. It was the elvish blood. In his experience, the fey folk were always the first to turn their nose up at him, and the thought of traveling with two of them 'for protection' was galling. However, that didn't mean that they couldn't be of use. He waited for them to be done talking, to say:
"Yes, Gorion is dead, and I brought you his ward." He pointed at Imoen.
"Wait-but I'm not-"
"Yes, you are."
The woman, Jaheira glared at him. "We are not stupid, you know."
"No, I am sure you are not. But none the less, she is as much Gorion's ward as I. And *I* do not need your protection, and she does."
"Our protection, maybe not. But our companionship?"
"Is not something that I need."
"Gorion-" is as far as she got, as Grum had already turned to leave. He had done his good deed for the day, keeping Imoen alive, given that he had no illusions how long she would last outside of Candlekeep. Purposefully ignoring those who would have been his companions, he walked away.
-----
- Note: I picked up Bentley's Buckler. Not for wearing, but for the +1 Con. It pushes him up to Con 20, giving him natural regen while sleeping and traveling, which is very important given the lack of healing he has availalbe -
Also as a note...I realized that I made a mistake. I gave Grum ** in single weapon fighting instead of dual wielding. Argh! Well...the show must go on. I suppose it just goes to show how little formal education he got in fighting.
--------------
Despite his bravado, Grum soon found himself lost. Not in a literal sense, the sword coast was mapped out well enough. But he knew not where to go or what to do. His skills, such as they were, lended himself to manual labor, but he had done enough of that in Candlekeep to last him a lifetime. So he did the only thing he could think of...he went to the nearest town (Beregost) and decided to drink away his problems.
It, like most things in his life, did not go quite as planned. A local by the name of Marl took one look at him and pushed his way through the crowd.
"I don't like your type around here."
He was a big man, easily the same size as Grum, which was saying something. He had a simple leather jerkin on which barely contained his large frame. A look of anger was clearly written on his face. Behind him, a much smaller man cheered him on. "You tell him Marl!"
Grum sneered at him and started walking towards the bar, determined to not let himself be bullied out of what was rightfully his. Marl grabbed Grum by the shoulder and spun him around.
"Hey! I told you to get lost! Ain't no room here for ye troublemakin' strangers!"
"I'll go where I like pal! You got a problem with that?!"
Grum could feel his anger rising. It was a problem of his, he knew. A murderous rage which bubbled up from inside his heart. When it erupted he knew neither fear nor pain. There was just a red mist and the desire to tear the target of his ire apart. He blamed it on his orcish heritage.
"You're threatening me?! Practically where I live and you threaten me?! You sure must think you're tought with a blade on your belt! Why don't ya drop that armory you're carrying and put your hide where you mouth is!?"
With that Marl took a swing, hitting Grum squarely in the nose, while the smaller man gave a whistle and a cheer. Grum staggered back a step...and completely lost it. With a roar he surged forward and headbutted Marl in the face. It was an unsporting move, to be fair, given that Grum was wearing a steel helmet. He heard something break. Marl stumbled backwards, his face splattered with blood. A woman screamed, but she sounded distant. All of Grum's anger surged forth like a tidal wave. He threw a clumsy punch which Marl ducked beneath. The man's fist hit Grum squarely beneath the jaw, jerking his head back violently. Marl followed it up with a second punch, but punching scale armor is rarely a good idea. Grum didn't feel the pain, but he felt the anger. With a roar of anger he grabbed Marl and threw him into a table. It broke under the man's weight, and before he could rise the half-orc was on him. Pinning him down with his legs, Grum rained blow upon blow upon Marl. The man tried throwing him off, but the half-orc weighed far too much. He tried punching his way out of the situation, but he was the one on his back and the half-orc was far beyond feeling pain anyways.
As blow after blow landed images flashed before Grum's eyes. Gorion dead. The armored figure standing victoriously over his foster father's corpse. The look on Imoen's face. And years upon years of pent up frustration and aggression came loose like a broken dam. Every sneer that came his way, every sideways glance, every piteous comment towards his appearance, all of it was focused on Marl.
When the haze finally lifted the bar was silent. The man who had egged Marl on yelled at him "You murderous bastard! The flaming fist will get you for this!"
Grum didn't care. He just felt tired. Exhausted, both physically and mentally. And to his surprise, he felt good. He walked over to the man who instinctively took a step back.
"Hey, don't click me. I don't want any trouble!"
"No. You don't. You just enjoy seeing strangers get attacked, don't you? Well I suggest you take your friend to the temple. And remember this. The next time a stranger walks into your 'home, don't start something that you can't finish."
If the man had a retort he wisely kept it to himself. Grum walked out of the bar, feeling both satisfied and somehow ashamed at the same time.
Even though it doesn't really matter for the story, I would like to see a pic of the character screen, stats etc. Was that the pic which disappeared?
I kinda wished you had kept Yeslick though...gets harder and harder for me to imagine RP of a solo playthrough without Mage or Cleric. Wand of the Heavens can be a great asset even if Healing is not all that great an asset for a small party. I really had a surge of empathy as the dwarves came together in that much abused mine.
But then I have always played with Charname +3-4NPCs. Particularly liked the motif of letters being decoded by Xan as story for delay of immediate Bandit Camp.
Indeed I wanted more characters along. Xan was unexpectedly fun to write and Yeslick was a natural choice. But this was a challenge to have a solo game (or as close as RP would allow). Maybe I'll try again with a non solo run (several ideas have tempted me, but this is a big time commitment that I haven't been ready to make)
What I generally find more effective are your garden-variety Black Magic rituals stealing hours from the lifestream of anyone or thing that offends me.... Unfortunately, since the election of George Bush, I will probably now live long after the Earth has turned into a Venusian Hell of methane gas and several billion miserable GHOSTS!! ~Cheers~
But as a FYI - this thread in particular have not been updated in a loooong time