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“Don’t do it, Beck.”
“No, I’m gonna do it.”
“It isn’t necessary at all, though–look, we have this. There’s only the three and Teller can handle two of them herself. You don’t have to.”
“What if they’ve got another one hiding somewhere? Huh? Or two? Remember there was one guy in a tree at Deimhold–I got him outta that tree.”
“There’s just the three, though–seriously.”
“I’m gonna do it.”
“What if you hit Teller?”
“She’s not so much of a wimp as you, she’ll understand–alright, I’m loaded, let’s scatter some bandits.”
System: The Rathian-style Arquebus is a shoulder-braced hook muzzle firearm made of a swirling patterned alloy of Brintwind steel and a deeply abjurated brass. The barrel is octagonal and braced every six inches of it’s nearly three-foot length with a forge hardened brace of cold iron. The stock is a polished rosewood with careful button-tacking and a shiny brass buttplate.
A masterwork of design. Artful and lovely. Bound within it, however, is one of the nameless and myriad spirits from the elemental plane of fire, conjured forth and bound within the always warm prellchamber.
The firearm requires its own proficiency, and attunes to one marksman only in its lifetime–once the marksman truly dies or unattunes to the weapon the spirit leaves and the weapon is ornate and mundane, but non-functional.
An attuned arquebus counts as a +0 magic weapon (range 50/100) that does 1d4 force and 1d4 fire damage when discharged at a target. The firing of the weapon creates a resounding and overpowering boom that can be heard and even felt by those around it. If one rolls two 4’s on damage, everyone within 30ft. of the marksman is stunned for 1 round (they may spend 1 inspiration point to negate this at that moment only).
Reloading the arquebus requires a full round of clearing the smoke and cinder from the chamber and redeccession of the elemental spirit (Arcane check DC = to the total “to hit” of the last shot).
Unless the target is resistant or immune to both damage types, the damage cannot be resisted or negated. If resistant to or immune to either, treat as normal.
On a roll of 1 to hit, the arquebus requires a short-rest to be fired again.
Ring of Glory
The bow thrummed and the crowd gasped and the shaft flew and the kingdom faltered from the low hills of the Athurlands to the peaks of the Reedling Mountains. A thousand people stood, mouths agape and in fear and wonder as the bowman’s voice carried high above them.
“Nobody move. I am Monil, the last son of the Panrani, and I am here to end your accursed line!”
The Palace guard started forward in a clanking and clattering horde of pride and angry before the King spoke and stilled them with a hand wave.
“Monil? I do not know you” he started, calm and even, even he felt the shaft of the first arrow against the side of his neck and a small gasp of blood trickle down the side from the tiny cut it left as it travelled. Quite a feat, really, from so far away.
“You have a grievance, let’s speak on it, there’s no need for theatrics”, the old king smiled his best and the guards looked poised to race through the crowd–brutally if need be–to catch this assassin.
The bowman sighed “there will be no talk, I will put this next one in your eye, you switchbacked snake and free the realm from your lies”, he drew the arrow back far–straining under the weight of the draw.
The old king just chuckled, “you’re mad, of course; one shot maybe–when you had the jump, but now? Nobody is that good. A wary target? You gave yourself away and signed your death!”
Monil whispered to himself for a moment.
System: There, truly, is nothing like it in the world. Layers of silver alternating with layers of oak–a polished ring that hums as its worn in a low, inaudible fury of excitement. None could say what it does. It’s history is long and its owners have been various. The clerics and priests swear it is not of their god, the wizards understand it is not even truly arcane, it is no alchemical technology, and it has been part of the stories of bakers and writers and blacksmiths and warriors and kings and fishermen.
It is a humble, pretty thing.
To attune to the ring, one must wear it for one month times their proficiency bonus (yes, this means 0 proficiency = 0 months and can’t be attuned; proficiency +3 means 3 months to attune).
Once done, the ring grants the wearer an additional Inspiration point slot. If the ring is ever taken off, the wearer loses this second slot in addition to their first slot (both) until the ring is attuned by another (in which case, the former wearer gets their one Inspiration slot back).
Black Grage sat outside the camp, listening to the others. He heard them tell their jokes and share their wine. He heard the stories. He even heard them find a little comfort in the night, here and there. And all the while, for those hours, he sat with his back against a tree in the dark–he made them uncomfortable, he made them sad. He knew that. And so, it was best if he didn’t interrupt their night.
Grage reached down and pulled up a handful of dirt and leaves. Fall was coming on hard, and the crackle and rustle of the dry foliage in his hand made him feel somewhat normal again. Morning was coming, the sun was warming the air and the dark was receding.
Grage turned onto one knee to stand. He still found it difficult to keep his balance, one would think after all the time that would get easier, but it didn’t. And as he made his way toward camp to greet the others, he put a false smile on his face–good old Grage. Ever ready with a joke.
As he walked in, he leaned down and patted one of the horses on its head–he missed riding almost as much as he missed everything the hell else.
System: Hallfallen was a champion of the Deep Green–a great man who heard the turning ways of the world and made a mighty clan of savages in the farthest corners of the Western Marshes and jungles. Folklore said he was a giant, twenty-feet high, and that he would pull up great trees to use as spears as he hunted the giant lizards of the roaming lands.
In truth, Hallfallen was a great coward–a symbol for his people, but little else. The scraed, or “pattern” in the old tongue, was an intricate tattoo of dark, living inks branded to him by a shaman of the grey places beyond the Last Grove. The shaman promised him strength and power, promised he would be a great giant of a man and tower over his enemies.
The scraed is a barely living necrotic cocktail made from the blood of a long dead, alien god from the Outer Mysteries. When applied in a looping and chaotic pattern to the flesh of a mortal, the body is infused with power flowing from the unholy union between the substance and the host.
Once applied, requiring a day of application and some pain, the tattoo takes up an attunement slot. The next morning, the bearer of the scraed grows to Large Size (10 x 10 space) and towers roughly 11 ft. tall. Their Strength is raised by 2 naturally (magical strength score setting will over-ride this). The effect goes away when the scraed is burned from the flesh of the wearer–and the ink sinks very deep.
The bearer of the scraed is disadvantaged on Dexterity saves and advantaged on Strength saves. Their size (and weight, now well over 600 pounds) may prove to be difficult to accommodate in most situations. They are either disadvantaged or may not use any number of weapons or tools due to the discrepancy in size (DM prerogative regarding which it is).