Probably just some rando stalker. Nothing to be concerned about, I'm sure...

*turns into a frog, eats a bug, and hops away*

Now comes the part...

Is it coincidence... or is there some sort of faerie scrying magic going on?

I do try on occasion.

Speaking of which... I think I'm at a point in Ch'dau's post where I might need some of those "special guest star moments." I think I'm going to tack up what I have in the collab doc and let the two of you add as you will rather than try to guess at what Kith and Ara might say or do.

Stand by!

KCandK Scene - In the Endgame... Aaaand GO!

Didn't see that coming?

Okay, so Adedre and Tecla's bit came to me first and, since there didn't seem to be an easy transition between that and what I've got in mind for Ch'dau, I decided to split it into two posts. Part 1 is up... now for a bite to eat and then back to Chdau...

Whatever spell Adedre had used to still his body did nothing toward quieting his rage. As Ch’dau stood there, frozen in his fury, his hateful gaze locked on the sneering sorceress, Aranwen pirouetted around him laying waste to the risen corpses of Adedre’s fallen guard, brave little Mosic, too, lent aide and comfort in the melee, and Kithran fought off the assaults of another of Morgana’s bizarre mannequin minions. For the duration of the spell, the kazari’s rage only grew, continuing to fill him as others fought a battle that should have been his, and it had the same effect as bottling lightning. As the spell’s effects began to wear off, the massive kazari twitched and then trembled and then, finally, shook with fury as he exploded from his frozen stance with a gnashing of teeth, a flashing of claws, and a roar so loud in its ferocity that it threatened to bring the walls of the manor down around them all.

Never in all of her life had Tecla been as terrified as when the cat-man was loosed from the confines of that arcane hold and she was sure that, in the next few seconds, both she and her Mistress would catch their last glimpses of this world from behind the monster’s teeth. Her breath hitched behind her mask at the thought and it was an almost instinctual thing that caused her to take hold of Adedre’s sleeve, then, and haul her Mistress toward the bookcase where the secret door to the tower awaited.

“What are you doing,” Adedre snapped, her yellow eyes narrowing on the masked girl’s face as she snatched her sleeve from Tecla’s grasp, “you spineless little cow?!”

“I am trying to save us, you mad crone,” Tecla hissed in return, the anger and indignation in her voice nowhere near as concealed behind the mask as was her expression. With the hand that held her dagger, she gestured at the battle that continued to rage in the room; “If we don’t leave, now, this is not going to end well for us!”

Adedre screeched, drew back her hand, and let it fly across Tecla’s face with such force that the mask was stripped away from the girl’s face as she fell to the floor. The fact that the kazari had, for now, abandoned his attack on her in favor of charging to the shadow-bitch’s aide seemed to give the witch a different idea as to how this battle might go. “Run if you like, you sniveling little cow,” the necromancer screamed, “This will end just as I wish it to and, when it is finished, I swear by the Devourer I will have your guts for dinner right after I’ve raised every corspe in Sendria to f**k you senseless!”

The tears that filled the girl’s eyes as she gawked up at Adedre, then, were hot with fear and anger in equal measure. As she wiped at her bloodied lip with one hand, the other took up the blade that had been jarred from her grasp by the witch’s backhanded blow. “No, Mistress,” she seemed to plead as she got to her knees. Her features twisted into a rictus of rage, then, and she lashed out with the dagger; “No you won’t!!!”

The witch howled as the knife’s blade tore through her gown and, also, the row of stitches that grafted the gray Ungoulid leg to her thigh. Even as the black blood poured forth from the reopened wound, Adedre’s mind sought an appropriate incantation to bring to bear on the treacherous little whore of an attendant. Before she could manage the spell, though, Tecla was gone; the bookcase door left open in the wake of her retreat and the sound of her footsteps fleeing up the stairs the only remnants of the girl’s presence.

“Gah,” Adedre groaned, clutching at her thigh and staggering for her chair, “duplicitous little…”

More words failed her, though, as the knitted flesh of her leg failed all the more. She toppled forward over the chair, upsetting the table at its side, and sending the flickering oil lamp that surmounted it crashing to the floor. Glass shattered, oil spread across the floor in a widening pool, and the wick’s flame set it alight as Adedre Undolithe’s sickly yellow eyes turned back toward the no-longer-secret door…

Olan may be reading... don't give the DM any ideas! lol

Terribly sorry to have kept you awake, kibibi!

Ch'dau is free of the spell and is FURIOUS, now. Post is coming along and should be ready to go in just a bit. In the meantime, the Ch'dEinar conversation has wrapped over in Aftermath if you're looking for something to entertain your brain.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness was not always the kindest to Einar Holgeirsson. At times it was nightmares - jeering faces, wild eyes, a man standing over him, bloodied stone in hand - or it was a sharp jolt - never a wave breaking under a ship, hadn't been for nigh twenty years, but the rock of a carriage or the pestering of a companion - and the rare times it was simple soft sunlight heralding the day and his waking. Ilario favoured a knife to the throat to test Einar's reflexes, while the mother he had left behind on the Coast had a preference for kisses on the forehead. This time it was a flush of liquid over his head, trickling down his spine and scenting the air with cheap ale.

"You couldn't have used rum?" Einar scoffed, once the heaving and panicky beats of his heart had settled. His hooked nose itched from droplets dripping off the tip.

“Hm,” Ch’dau grunted as the now empty ale flagon banged onto the table top between them, “I could have but I chose to drink it rather than waste it on your sleeping pu’nda.”

As if by way of punctuating that statement, the kazari hefted his own mug and took a long pull from the rum and milk concoction that filled it. As he drank, his narrowed blue-green eyes remained intent on the tall man across the table. When the mug finally came away from his lips, it was returned to the tabletop before its twin was pushed toward Einar at the tip of a furry finger. “No milk for you, t’mbili,” the Silver Cat chuffed, nodding at the cup, “though, I have left your hand free enough to reach it.”

It was then that Einar noticed that the silver monster had bound him in rope round the waist, tied his legs to the chair he was seated in, and removed his prosthetic. Kamphundr, he sneered to himself, the beast is smarter than it looks. "What good does one hand being free do when it's the only hand I've got?"

“One hand is good enough for drinking, k’tombat’u,” the kazari shrugged faintly, turning his own mug between his paws as he did, “though if you prefer to try suicide, again, I suppose I can free the other…” He tipped the cup to his mouth, again, licked the liquored milk from his whiskers when it came away, and smirked… “Though, should that be your choice, I suggest you say so quickly. I expect my wife to be here soon and I would sooner kill you before she arrives, yes?”

The Vidarak's eyes widened at that, an eyebrow quirking in question. "I'd say your woman is suicidal for bedding you. Claws must complicate matters of the marriage bed."

The sound that escaped Ch’dau, then, might have been a chuckle, though the words that followed gave the reaver reason to think otherwise. “Mind your tongue, sea-monkey,” the cat chuffed, “lest I pull it from your face and eat it. Why not put it to better use and tell me your name… or do you prefer k’tombat’u?”

I'd prefer you use your tongue to lap at crotch, stinking beast, Einar growled. He tested the ropes at his waist, straining as much as he could under the cat's watchful eye, and found the binding too sufficient. "Agnar," he said. "My name is Agnar."

“Agnar,” the kazari repeated, almost skeptically, in a deep, resonant bass as he watched the Vidarak squirm against his bonds. He sighed, then, lifting his cup again as he reclined almost casually into his seat, the wood creaking in subtle protest against his weight; “Of course it is.”

He indulged in another slow sip of his drink, allowed his slit-pupiled gaze to flick briefly to the door, and then back to the sea-reaver. “You fight better than you lie, Agnar,” Ch’dau rumbled, his cup returning to the table before his hands disappeared beneath its edge only to reemerge with a whetstone and the man’s hook. Saying nothing more, just yet, the kazari readied the stone with a bit of spit and, with a practiced hand, honed the prosthetic’s edge for a long moment before lifting his gaze back to Agnar’s.

“It is in the eyes, you know?” Ch’dau almost purred, tilting his head as he regarded the silver-haired Vidar; “The clues to a lie.” Another faint shrug and another soft sigh followed before the cat spit on the stone, again, flipped the hook, and went to rasping work on the thing’s opposing edge. “My kib… my daughter… taught me that. She was much better at keeping her eyes even when she lied than you seem to be.”

The cat’s eyes returned to the work of whetting the dents and divots out of the hook for another moment. “If you insist on Agnar, though,” he said, just as his gaze lifted back across the table, “you may call me Samuel.” An almost sardonic smile played on his lips as he nodded, once more to the mug he’d slid across the table; “Will you drink with me, Agnar? Or will you continue tightening those knots with your struggling?”

Einar stilled. The mouth-breathing behemoth was remarkably forthcoming for what must be a leashed mercenary. Unless those rumours of the road are true. Einar's eyes snapped to the beast, roaming its striped silver fur, the strange leather harnesses dressing its person, the careful movements with which it brought his hook's edge. "... If only to pass the time," Einar acquiesced. "What are we drinking?"

“Rum for you,” Samuel replied casually, the stone rasping over a particularly stubborn nick in the hook’s metal, “Milk and blood added to mine if you would prefer to drink like a kazari.”

"I'd sooner piss in it," Einar scoffed. Hesitantly, he reached for the mug the silver monster had set before him before grabbing it. He lifted it to his nose - checking for poison as much as goat's blood - and gulped a helping down when he detected no foulplay. "Don't damage the hook, mongrel. I need it for gutting things."

A genuine chuckle burst from Ch’dau’s lips at that comment. “So I have noticed.

For future reference, though, a kazari’s guts are not here,” he returned, running a thumb over the spot where blood still seeped from the hook wound in his own shoulder. He noted the near hollow sound of the cup as Agnar returned the thing to the table. “Another,” he asked, grinding the notch out as even as he could manage without compromising the rest of the metal in his efforts.

With a nod for his answer, Einar downed the next cup of rum that the cat-man poured. The warmth soothed some of the aches, mostly in his shoulder and down his back, but Einar felt a distinct pang in his stump. If he had fingers to curl, his right hand would be a fist at his side at the moment. "I've no doubt you've got guts, monster," Einar retorted. "But that leather thong you've got? That ain't armour."

“A Kazari has no need for what you monkeys call armor,” Ch’dau smirked, a glimmer of amusement playing in the turquoise of his eyes as he watched Agnar down the second cup, “Khr’a has built us with all we need for warring. To don the skin of an elephant for fear of joining the Hunt would dishonor that.”

The big cat inspected the work he’d done on the Vidarak’s hook, then, and, with a satisfied nod, returned the whetstone to his belt before placing the prosthesis on the table between them. “This is an impressive false claw, sea-monkey,” he offered, nodding vaguely at the thing as he, too, took up his cup again, “You make good use of it. I imagine you would like it back?”

Einar's first impulse was to ask what an elephant was, but the mongrel's offer of returning his hook piqued his interest more. "You would return my hook - that you know can pierce flesh - while I sit tied up by what can only be your hand?" He quirked an eyebrow, eyes betraying his distrust. "What's to stop me from freeing myself and using it on you again?"

Something of a chuckle chuffed passed the kazari’s lips at that and his face mirrored the quirk-browed expression as best it could. “Honor and common sense, I would hope,” Ch’dau rumbled, “unless, of course, you make a habit of trying to kill those who come to your aid in a fight.” He lifted his cup, again, drained away the dregs of it, and motioned for the still skittish serving girl to return before turning his eyes back to Agnar. “If that is the case,” he shrugged, producing the reaver’s axe from where it had been leaning against his chair, laying it on the table beside the hook, and offering a wide grin, “tell me, now, and I’ll leave you in a pool of your own blood and brains. Otherwise, we can call this battle finished, continue drinking together, and go our separate ways after, yes?”

Ch’dau watched as the silver-haired Vidarak considered his words, offered another chuckle as the serving girl returned to the table with another bottle of cane liquor and scampered away, again. Then, after refilling his cup with rum, milk, and a splash of his own blood, tipped the thing to his lips and sighed almost in resignation; “Attack me again, Agnar, and I swear by Rrowl’s whiskers, I will be the last to suffer your treachery. You will be left in pieces on this fetid floor and I will not think of you again.”

Threats were customary offerings for Einar, as twenty years an outcast would show anyone. Guards handed them to him when they spied his weaponized prosthetic; merchants glowered when a thieving raider drew near their stalls; children dashed behind their mothers' skirts after they spied a Vidarak, scourge of the sea, entering their towns. That his life was threatened - hells, even that he was tied to a chair - was nothing new to Einar. What was new was the threat coming from a fellow outlander.

Considering him, at nearly seven feet tall, musclebound and hairy, fangs and claws - an upright cat in all senses of the word - Einar was certain this "Samuel" had experienced the same, if not worse persecution than himself. 

Still doesn't excuse the pushes to the head, Einar thought. And then, But neither does it invalidate his mistrust.

Perhaps he was tempting fate - as finnicky and cruel a mistress there ever was - but Einar inclined his head to Samuel and said, "Aye, you have my word."

“N’zuri,” the cat chuffed, pushing himself from his seat, “I had hoped as much.”

He tugged a dagger free of his belt as he rounded the table then, crouching beside the chair to which the Vidar was bound, made quick work of cutting the knots loose. Ch’dau rose back to his full height, returning the dagger to its sheath, as the ropes fell away and clapped the man on the shoulder before padding back to his side of the table. “Let us hope neither of us regrets this, hm,” he said, settling back into his chair and nodding meaningfully to the hook and axe that lay between them.

Without being too hasty, Einar collected his hook and axe gladly. He settled his axe in its holster on his belt before fitting his prosthetic in its place, doing up the leather straps to secure it tightly. Enjoying the freedom of movement again, Einar took a moment to drag his finger over his axe's edge. He was surprised to find blood drawn cleanly by sharp steel, rather than the dulled edge he had so gracelessly felled a tree and three assassins with. "You have an eye for blades, cat-man," he drawled, settling his stormy-grey eyes on Samuel. "Do you have a file for your nails as well?"

A chuckle and a nod was Ch’dau’s response to that question. “Weapons are weapons,” he rumbled over the rim of his cup, “and should be maintained as such, yes? They are of little use should they be allowed to remain dull.”

He eyed the reaver for a moment, waiting for the man to take his seat, once more, before proceeding. “So, Agnar,” he pressed, “what is it that brings you to Calestra? Finding a Vidar, here, is almost as rare a thing as finding a Kazari, I think.”

Einar snorted, tasting rum when he did. "And where does one find a Vidarak normally? Pillaging merchants' closets?" He wiped the back of his hand across his chin, finding more stubble than expected; a shave would be in order, made easier by the new edge to his hook. "I'm seeking a fortune, as every man says they are. Where better to find it than in the Trade City? I hear the streets are paved with gold."

At the reaver’s first question, the massive cat simply shrugged and replied; “In personal experience, dead at my feet. Though, even then, much closer to the coast and, even then, much farther north.”

At the man’s words as to why he was in Calestra, though… You can find whatever you want and more in Calestra… The words came to Ch’dau’s mind in Kithran’s voice and his ears flicked in response. The sigh that blew past his lips, then, held a tinge of sadness, as well, but he nodded faintly and offered an affable grin to Agnar. “So I have been told,” the Kazari murmured, his eyes letting go of Agnar’s for a moment and blinking, instead, into the depths of the mug between his paws. “You are here alone, then,” he asked, his gaze lifting once more to frame the Vidarak, “There is not a boatload more of your kind in your wake?”

A bark of a laugh emitted from Einar, sloshing his drink in hand. "You would never know until it was too late, cat-man. The tales of my people singing dirges aboard our ships, banging our shields as we ravage your cities is the words of meyla alone." He leaned his elbow onto the table, leveling Samuel with a stare. "We strike with force, but we strike silently. We are raiders, not morons." He gulped down the dregs of his drink, waving off the skittish barmaid when she went to refill it.

“Says the man who attacks monsters with little more than a dull axe and a fishhook,” Ch’dau grinned in reply as he, too, waved off the serving girl’s offer of a refill. “You are a bold one, rrow’ka,” came a rumbling acknowledgement as the kazari produced a stack of silvers to offer the girl, “but I am unconvinced that your brains are quite right.

Not long ago, a friend told me that he believed that I sought death,” the Silver Cat chuffed, draining away whatever remained in his mug, “Had he been here, tonight, to see you, though…” He shrugged faintly, setting the cup aside and grinning, once again, at the silver-haired sea-monkey “…I am sure he would be certain that is more your goal than mine.”

A moment of silence settled over the table, broken only by the barmaid's footsteps. Einar's eyes didn't leave the pile of coins Samuel had produced when he spoke. "Fortune is not always found in gold and silver, skogkatt." The Vidarak glanced up then, grey meeting turquoise and saying more than any of his lies could even hope to cover. "And is not sought in the bottom of cups. If you are done with your lectures, I have business to tend to away from your bleeding hide."

Lectures? The Silver Cat’s features twisted in something akin to confusion as he searched his mind for a translation. I do not know this word. Then, with a marginal shrugging of his massive shoulders his paws came open and spread wide. “You were free to go the moment you were untied, t’mbili,” Ch’dau said, his head tilting toward the door, “If you have business, do not let me keep you from it…”

Nodding his thanks, Einar stood from the table, feeling all the aches and bruises and welts, and made a great effort to not limp across the room.

“…Mind yourself on Calestra’s streets, Agnar,” Ch’dau called to the Vidarak’s back as the man reached for the door-latch, “Trouble seems to find the likes of you and I even if we are not looking for it, yes?”

A single glance over his shoulder was what Einar spared for Samuel before exiting the Bent Copper.

As Agnar the sea-reaver disappeared through the doorway and into Calestra’s knighted streets, Ch’dau gave a slow shake of his shaggy head and a faint chuckle. Merciful Khr’a, he mused, pushing away from the table, then, why do I feel that tonight is far from the last time I will have to see that one?

Gaining his feet, the kazari stretched before pulling his cloak around him and then called for the serving girl’s attention. When her eyes turned to him, he tapped a finger to the table next to the pile of coin he’d left there; “For the drinks and,” he gestured vaguely to the staircase where streaks of assassins’ blood still stained the wood, “for the mess, hm?” With that he, too, turned his back on the nigh empty tavern and wandered for the door, wondering why Sara had not arrived, yet, and where she might be.

Last night got away from me.

Working on a post, now, though.

Good morning and happy Monday!

...gonna try with a little help from my fae!

That was a fantastic scene, Little Kitten! Bravo!

Got a definite idea as to where to go with a follow-up buuuuut, it'll have to wait for just a little bit. Wifey wants to go do some shopping and such so I've got some running around to do before I can settle in and start writing. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours and I imagine I'll be able to have something posted by this evening. See you all then!

I've had some fun playing to Ch'dau's stats, actually... as I've mentioned before, it's not often that I've found myself in the skin of a straight up fighter like Ch'dau, so adapting to being a rage-monster from my usual comfort zone of sneaky-stabby rogue or reach-out-and-touch-someone-from-a-distance ranger has been interesting.

FWIW, I think you play to Kith's stats pretty darn well. It's not as if she's really tried to charm anyone out of their belongings, after all.

The cold of the air in his lungs and the stone beneath his feet seemed as sharp as the blade that had pierced his flesh… though he couldn’t quite recall exactly how that had happened. The clatter of steel on stone and the shrill screams of the woman, too, evoked hazy recollections of… something… but that something seemed far away and long ago…

Her name was Aggy Hartwell and she had scarcely graduated high school. Young, excitable, and caught up in the exuberance brought on by achieving that valediction and, so, moving into the beginnings of her adult life, Aggy and a couple of her friends had ventured out into the city seeking the ‘appropriate celebration.’ Unfortunately for them, that first foray into the spectacle of speak-easies and swing dances led them into parts of San Francisco that were far darker than the signs and streetlights would ever have led them to believe. Their evening had started at what seemed to be a tame enough dance club with a steady stream of interested boys vying for the girls’ attentions, some with more success than others… again, unfortunately. It was one of these sharp-dressed charmers that had, in the end, wooed the giggling girls away from the city’s safer venues and into the far more private clutches of an underground club run by the Onigumo family.

By the time Aggy realized that someone had slipped her a roofie, both of her friends had succumbed to their own similarly doped drinks and were being dragged into some dark backroom. Aggy herself managed to stagger out of the club and into the rain-soaked streets before the drugs took too much of a hold on her and, thanks to the biting rain and a burst of adrenaline, had even been able to outrun the two Japanese goons who had pursued her into the night for a short time. The drugs won out over her stamina and determination before long, though, and her spinning head guided her face first into the pock-marked pavement of some garbage choked alley. Her stockings and the skin on her knees alike burned away as she tumbled headlong into the trash of the dank backstreet, her hands, too, suffered scrapes and cuts as they flew out before her in a futile attempt to keep her head from ultimately bouncing off the pavement. She made a weak attempt to get back to her feet but, between the drug-tainted alcohol, the fatigue, and, now, likely, a concussion, Aggy found that she scarcely had the energy to scream when the Onigumo thugs finally caught up to her.

That scream, if she had even let it loose, at all, got snatched away by the wind that seemed, suddenly, to come from all around her… or, perhaps, muffled by the ruffling pop-pop-pop of what sounded like an enormous pair of wings just above her head… Aggy tried to scream again and, at the same time, lift her eyes to see just what it was she was screaming about, but her vision was oh so blurry and her head so very heavy that all she could remember for a long moment was a brilliant flash of light followed by another powerful, omnidirectional gust of wind… and, then, the sensation of… flying?

When she awoke, some short while later, Aggy found herself lying on the grass amidst a small copse of trees on the edge of Golden Gate Park… miles from where she last remembered being and farther, she was sure, than she would have been able to make it on foot in what certainly must have been the very short time that had passed. She blinked in confusion, reached up to touch the spot on her head where it had met the street and, only then, when her fingertips failed to find the expected bump or cut or even trickle of blood, did she realize that a curious winged creature crouched beside her. Aggy nearly screamed again but something about the reassuring, yet, somehow sad smile he offered when her eyes met his stifled the scream and, instead, evoked another blink.

His sky-blue eyes sparkled from behind the long, raven-hued tendrils of hair that fell across his face and, despite the fact that he was clad in what appeared to be some sort of ancient armor worked in silver and blue, and had an enormous pair of blue-black wings issuing from his back that, now, sheltered them from the rain that fell on The City by the Bay, she felt more comforted by the creature’s presence than afraid of its appearance. Aggy opened her mouth to speak, realized that she had no idea what to say, and, offering a sheepish grin, closed it again.

The creature said nothing, either, merely returned the smile, offered a faint nod and placed his hand gently over the wound on her knee.

Aggy managed a squeak as the creature’s hand began to glow and she felt a tingling warmth spread through her… and a stunned gasp when the creature’s hand moved away to reveal clean, undamaged skin where, just an instant ago, it was a ruined as her stockings still were. “Are… Are you an angel, Mister?”

The question seemed to confuse him and, for an instant, that soft, enigmatic smile melted into something of a frown as he seemed to consider the answer. His wingtips seemed to flutter, then, in an attempt to flick the rain away and, the gentle smile returning as he mended the scrapes on her other knee, answered; “I don’t know… I… I am only Samael…”

Aggy Hartwell had told Samael about the friends who had been with her, that night, and, after he had seen her safely home, he had spent the next two weeks in search of them, eventually locating them (and a half dozen other opium-addled young women) locked in a shipping container on a ship (owned by one of the Onigumo Family’s interests) bound for Japan. Samael suffered grievous injuries in rescuing and returning the girls but, also, garnered more than a little suspicion and consternation as to his appearance… the populace of San Francisco seemed more interested in pointing out what was “wrong with him” as opposed to what he might have done “right”… and, so, he had flown away in hopes of finding a place where he might hide and recover from his wounds (which he found to be no small task for a ‘circus freak’ ). It was during this time… and, after The San Francisco Herald published an article, based on an interview with a Miss Agatha Hartwell, titled Saved by an Angel… that Father Hernandez had somehow managed to find him… offer him some sort of refuge… and, then, Samael had succumbed to his injuries and died…

He shook his head against the memories and the screams of the woman in the doorway. As the thick rustling sound of his feathers settling into place abated, he regarded the squealing woman curiously and raised his hands in hopes of quieting her. “Please, miss,” he smiled softly, “It’s… I… You don't need to... Where am I?”

Well, I mean Ch'dau's sitting there with a lowly 9 for his CHA but, despite it all, he's still managed to charm the ever-lovin' drek out of a handful of folks... the gate-guard at Crandel, those little monkey children at the woodsman's cabin, and, moooost importantly Kith and Ara... so, you know, stats are just numbers on a page, I guess.

...I would have thought Kithy's charisma would have been much higher, tbh.

P.S. Just realized that Ch'dau's height is wrong on that sheet. He's 6'4" not 6'2".

I'll see what I can do about getting a post going soon.

P.S. Samael may not know Spanish (or much of anything following a resurrection, for that matter) but I think he'll probably get the gist based on the good sister's tone and expressions.

Got an idea of where I'll go with my post, now...

...at least as of HC1, is right here.

He's a seriously strong mofo.

P.S. I know he's been referred to as a "combat monster" in post before, but, after looking at this sheet, again, I'm juuuuuuust sayin'... Combat. Monster.

I'm on the road, atm, so no access to my books. For convenience sake, equivocate to magic missle, maybe? Or, y'know, just wing it. Ch'dau is happy to play meat shield and take the hits for you.

Angry kitty is buff kitty!

I'll be away most of the rest of the day but should be back this evening!

Have you listened to Small Town Murder? That's gotta be one of my favorite podcasts. Hysterical!

As to Adedre - Tecla is low-key guiding her to the "secret door to the tower" but Adedre herself is firing up some spellwork. Probably going to be a barage of bone spikes shooting toward our group in short order, and mayhap a 'darkness' spell of some sort (which I imagine Mosic might counter in some fashion). Beyond that, feel free to improvise... Once Tecla realizes Adedre isn't going to be quick about getting to the stairs, things get... interesting...

...but Samael does most of his patrol work in the air. Similarly, his "acrobatics" skill likely translates better as "aerobatics." I envision him being much more nimble in the skies than on foot.

Easy enough to translate, yes?

P.S. That's totally an unadulterated Zulu word for that particular appendage. It was too good to change! 

Ipipi.S. Learned that one from watching "Shadow" on Netflix! Yay for binge watching!