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Rage-on-the-Mountain was not scared. Six times, he had fought the Kwearanim. Six times, he had broken their backs and made a gift of their lifeless shattered body to his people. The scars on his pale flesh, the great silver and pink puckers where sharp claws frantically tried escaping his might… his body was the story of his victory.
This would be seven. The spirits would favor this number.
The teeth in his mouth were dry and he kept his lips tight and his jaw set to hold them. That was the way Leiflen taught him back when he had a name. It was the way.
The beast was ready, in its den. Frozen chunks of meat and shards of bone littered the entrance. The steam from its breath flowed softly in waves from the lip of the cave. It was wary. It knew Rage-on-the-Mountain had come to crush its vicious mein between his strong hands. The spirits of all of his ancestors and those of his people were with him. He breathed deeply, and silently sprinted into the darkness.
System: The Faahngheim are a totemic gift from the great spirits of beasts and bears and require attunement. It is a handful (roughly 35 or so) of various teeth. Beaver, lion, human, ape, dog, wolf, etc. a wide variety of sizes and all aged to either a sun-bleached white or a miserly yellow with a few gray littered about. The teeth must be held in the mouth, and maintaining this requires Concentration checks along the line of spell-casting (though does not count as a Concentration Spell in any other way). One cannot talk (or fulfill verbal components of spells) with one’s mouth full. Should a Concentration Check fail, the teeth spill out all over the ground and require 1d4 rounds to collect again. The effects of the teeth only work while in the mouth (all of them).
The benefits granted is the ability to grapple as per the normal grapple rules, but target the head of the creature (if it has a discernible head)–this manner of grapple may be done with creatures up to one size category larger than usual (based on PC’s other feats, features, and abilities). The PC may choose to grapple with one or two hand (and may change this choice at the start of each turn he keeps the grapple). If one-handed, bite attacks (from the head grappled) against the PC are disadvantaged as though he is “Dodging”. If two-handed, the PC has the monster’s head in a double armed vice-like grip and applies a number of d4 (number equal to his strength modifier) magical bludgeoning damage to the creature’s head. When the PC has done damage from this grapple equal to or greater than its maximum Bite damage, the monster no longer has a bite attack as his mouth and jaw and lower skull are a ragged pulped mess of broken teeth, bones, and tendons.
The massive, mailed fist crashed into Ubaid’s face again–loosening a tooth and welling coppery tasting spittle in his mouth. He stared at the half-orc, the soldier’s knuckles must be aching by now.
“Where is it?” the pale green sergeant of the Emperor’s Finest barked. Ubaid spit a pink foamy splat onto the stones and looked up into his captor’s face. There was no joy in this. None. None of this made him happy. He figured he might ask again…
“I cannot give it to you. Please,” Ubaid tried pleading, why not? He had no pride left, his pride left with the years. “You do not want it. It is a heavy blessing. Your life is worth more, officer. Please… I will leave and take it with me, the Emperor has no fear from it being in his lands. Let me take it away and die with it, let it claim no other foolish young man.”
The fist crashed into his nose, again, and as Ubaid felt it break… and then unbreak… he wept.
System: The Founder. The Great Smith. God of civilization itself, of the great achievements of stone and steel and sail chose a young man to be his paragon, to bring creation to the uncreated wilds and masses and tribes. To aid him, he drove one solitary nail into his head to pierce his brain and provide a conduit to the great Builder.
The Nail is a heavy, thick iron nail with rounded head, no more than two inches long. The sort of nail that one uses to join simple boards together. It must be attuned, requiring 24 hours of sleepless reflection of the deity’s creations and capped by a driving of the nail into one’s head, anywhere on the skull’s cranium. There is a 1% chance that it kills the PC (on 100, dead), otherwise it does 1d4 damage that may be healed as normal.
Once driven into the skull, the nailhead is noticeable (though can be hidden under hair or hats), but not remarkable otherwise. A dull black/grey spot of iron.
While attuned and attached to the nail (losing the former if one loses the latter), the PC is advantaged on enchantment-related saves and when struck with a critical hit from a weapon (must be a created weapon or conjured one, not a natural or biological attack; but this includes magical, spiritual, and other such weapons), the critical hit is changed to a normal hit immediately. The player rolls 1d4 and ages that many years instantly. Nothing short of a wish or divine intervention may interfere with or reverse it.
Cyndia’s pack always looked like it was about two seconds from ripping apart under the weight of whatever was in there. She was no slouch, though, and Dawn was always impressed by how the older woman effortlessly lugged it around.
She’d seen how heavy that ruck was, first hand. The sorceress had let her curiosity get the better of her and tried to sneak the pack over behind a tree to peek inside without interruption. It had to weigh twice what she did, the modest pack didn’t budge an inch. And, ten minutes later, Cyndia slung it over her shoulder like it was filled with straw.
It radiated magic, whatever was in there. It felt pure. Seamless. It felt like whatever magic kept the sun burning. Simple. Natural. Deep. As though a dew drop beading on the surface of our world and rolling down the blade of grass.
System: From the paraelemental plane of metal itself, a drop of rain crossed through into our world, falling perfectly spherical and heavy on the ground. A vaguely bronze-colored ball 18 inches across. It bears no mark, no rune, no message–it is simply a pure drop of rain from the heart of reality that births the concept of alloys themselves.
The ball weighs nearly 300 pounds, if carried, and can be moved (rolled) along at a rate of 10ft/turn if handled manually. But, once attuned to it, the bearer may hold concentration on it with their bonus action and roll it around within a radius of 60ft. with a thought (for as many rounds as their Charisma score, replenished after a short rest). The ball may move up to 20ft a turn, but only in straight lines (it cannot curve through spaces, only move and stop and then roll in a different direction). Any creature the ball rolls into makes an Athletics or Acrobatics check against a DC equal to the number of feet the ball moved from its last stop.
If the ball moves 20 ft. without changing direction at all, DC 20 or knocked prone. If the ball moved 10ft (through one line of creatures) and then 10ft (through a different line of creatures), the DCs would be 10 for each.
It cannot discern allies from enemies and will force a check from any creature it rolls into.