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Rings of Barrow
Dosh wiggled his toes in his boot, checking… always checking… and then wiggled his fingers in his fists… checking. Everything in place. Ready. Alright. Let’s go.
Dagger in hand, he sprinted across cavern floor–dodging the swings and swipes of the goblins as he made a beeline for the evil priest that ruled them. As he closed fast, the dark cleric smirked–for Dosh was small and no warrior and wearing only loose-fitting canvas pants and the barest of leather armors… wielding (oh, gods, really?) a dagger of no great authority.
Three steps. Dosh held his breath. Two steps. He tucked his head down. One step. He closed his eyes. And had they been open when he barreled into the cleric he would have seen an expression of surprise and disbelief on the old elf’s face. But he grabbed the bigger man, held on tight, and felt his hands and feet go numb. As the two kicked and slapped at each other to get away, Sage took a cautious step back… Dosh stood, wearing a dark plate armor identical to the clerics’, wielding a glowing mace quiet the same.
A quartet of silver rings, all must be in place for the magic to work. After a day of attuning (each, consecutively, takes a day), one is placed on each hand and foot. The sensation, while worn, is like a minor backache with no other ill effect.
When in full contact with another creature, the rings can transform the wearer’s clothes and any handheld objects (of a non-magical nature) into a mirror of the creature’s armor and weapons. Full contact is established with a successful grapple of a creature on the ringwearer’s action and still being grappled at the end of the target’s next turn. At the end of the target’s next turn, the ringwearer (should he or she have maintained the grapple through all escape or break attempts) begins their turn wearing a conjured replica of the target’s armor (or magical clothes including only upper and lower body, not gloves or boots or cloaks) and conjured replicas in hand of any weapons they had readied. To get the armor, the ringwearer must be wearing clothes, to get the weapon(s) must have the appropriate object(s) in hand(s) to change.
The conjured arms and armor last for 2d4 rounds.
Conjured arms and armor do not grant proficiencies. The rings can call on this ability as many times a day as the ringwearer can guess the outcome of five coinflips every midnight.
Slips heard them arguing from across the tavern. The wizard and the cleric were going at it all the time, these days–all the time. Arguments. Threats. Accusations. The really hated each other and if it weren’t for their leader’s need and the debt all of them owed him, those two would have already unleashed hell on each other over where someone’s bedroll went down on any random night. Children
As it happened, Brother Service had saved his life yesterday and Slips would be damned if he was indebted to that pompous jerk forever. Besides… Lauran Wildwoodsong was kind of a bitch and had threatened to turn him into a stump a few weeks ago on the road to Pekal–“to match your height and your thick head, Slip Gnometrash” she said. She was not nice. By all the five powers, how did he end up with these folk.
He waited until the two were right at that point where they’d start peacocking at each other with more threats and demonstrations. Egging the other on. Service tapping his great mace against his palm, shouting at the wizard, while it glowed a pure white. Lauran making the tables shake and the lights dance, and a mystery of unearthly energies swarm around her… begging him to take a swing so her “eldritch might can teach him that lesson he never learned while sucking off priests back in Bet Seder”.
Slips walked up casually while wooden chairs smoldered and that vein in the cleric’s forehead nearly popped. He reached into his bag, the one he’d been saving for just such an occasion, grabbed a handful of sand–not that either did much noticing–and hit Lauran in the face with it.
In an instant, a beautiful and almost hilarious instant, the tables stopped quaking… the lights went to normal… the purple lightening vanished… and Lauran was spitting sand out of her teeth and cursing… “What the fuck–wait… wait… why?” her expression went from rage to a moment of concentration, to surprise.
“She’s all yours, mate”, Slips winked at Service and walked back to his chair to watch the finest beating he’d ever witnessed in his life.
System: The pouch itself is non-magical. The container can be anything, but the sand itself regenerates. A half-a-handful (enough to fill an egg) is all it takes to achieve the effect. The sand regenerates 1d6 handfuls per week (and DM’s are encouraged to ebb and accelerate that rate, within the week, based on the abundance or scarcity of arcane magics going on around it–more magics, slower; less magics, faster). The sand will only regenerate to a maximum of 8 handfuls. Once the last is used, it’s gone.
With a ranged attack, 5/10 (very close ranged), one may toss a handful into the eyes, mouth, or airway of another creature. Should the creature lack any of those, the sand does nothing. On a successful hit, the sand bursts into a spray mimicking an Anti-magic field-like effect on the target (and their possessions) until the end of their next turn. On a roll of a 1 to hit, however, the sand is badly fumbled (it is slippery and difficult to hold onto) and produced the same effect on the sandbearer that goes away after they undress, shake out all the sand from their clothes and crevices, and redress.