Methinks that the shamblers aren't the worst evil we face, here... Olan!!!

...hot-headed is one thing, hot-everything-elsed is a whole other kettle of kindling.

Good call on the tables, too, Ali, and nice strategizing on Gib's part, Brom! Post in the works.

...as a last resort kind of thing. I'd love to see a flaming horde of undead, of course, just not in the same Inn that we're occupying. Could make things a tad uncomfortable, donchaknow?

Are there any torches, lamps, or lanterns still lit in the common room? If so, are there any within easy reach?

Edit: On second thought, never mind. Setting the undead alight in the open might be a good idea but trying to torch them within the confines of a wood-slated inn might bring more trouble than it's worth. I don't imagine being on fire will stop the shamblers from their inward press.

Ammpe-R-AGE lumbered into the cafeteria along with the rest of his team and an annoying little twerp of a clone, appropriately named Dweebs. Ammpe was pleased to have been selected for promotion by the Computer, of course, but Dweebs attaching himself, uninvited, to his team had stifled a small bit of his enthusiasm. He could scarcely enjoy his plate of Faithful Joy and Loyal Reward thanks to continually having to nudge the pasty little citizen out of the way and listen to his incessant chatter and it was starting to make him angry. He’d had a moments respite when Dweebs turned his attentions and inquiries to Brighte but, apparently, it wasn’t to last long…

“Just because you have the tracking ability of a satellite-less GPS and have to stop and ask directions to your own butt doesn’t mean you can barge in here,” the scrawny HPD&MC clone snarked, “Maybe you can talk to Ammpe, he might be on your level, but leave me alone.”

Ammpe sighed, his anger rising as he shot a stern glare across the table, first at Brighte, then at Dweebs. “Don’t bother me, either,” the power services clone droned, “unless you’d like me to rewire your sleeping area to toast you on your next rest cycle.” He poked a pill from his plate past his clenched teeth and fumed a moment. Losing or being lost by your own team surely was considered treasonous, wasn’t it? If it wasn’t, Ammpe thought, it should be. He thought to comment on that very fact but the words were slow coming to his mouth and, before they could make it there, a whisper interrupted the thoughts…

“Hey, troubleshooters! Yes, you, Team MAO-17859 Dot R-2! Down here! Yes, down here, under the table! Now!”

…Ammpe sighed, scowled, and maybe even growled a bit. Can’t a clone eat in peace around here? When did the Computer start installing speakers under cafeteria tables, anyway? Abandoning his plate and shoving a hand through his static-charged hair, Ammpe slid back and, like the others, ventured a look under the table, interested as to just where and why a speaker might be located there.

Welcome to the Inn!

I should probably also mention that, should he make it as far as the window, Ch'dau's intent is to cut them down before they make it through and, possibly, clog the opening with a stack of twice-dead bodies. Also, if he sees or senses Kith, he'll do his best to signal her to keep well out of reach.

He heard blessings called at his back – perhaps a quip and a cry, as well – but the call to the fight drew him more so he charged ahead. Ch’dau hadn’t registered whether or not his feet touched any steps, at all, but, when they found purchase on the floor of the common room, claws extended from his toes and dug into the wood planks as his gaze swept the scene. The serving wench, Nya, stood frozen, her mouth and eyes wide in fear as she gawked at the door and shutters that were all but free of their hinges…

“You!” Ch’dau barked, trying to draw Nya’s attention away from the splintering door, “Girl! Get yourself to the cellar and bar the way behind you!” The kazari didn’t bother to seek out any other face, even if there happened to be one; instead, as he strode for the door, he simply growled; “And if any of the rest of you do not care to spill blood, follow Nya!”

…He had taken a step, maybe two, and was about to launch himself across the remaining distance to the bursting doorway when the familiar voice of Midge called out a warning...

“Stay away from the door, friends,” the Cid’s voice chirped through the commotion, “and keep me safe. I need some peace!”

... Knowing, now, that the little mage was planning a spell to address the shamblers that threatened the Nicked Shill’s doorway, Ch’dau altered his plan of attack and diverted to claim those undead wretches that tried to haul themselves through the window to the right of the entryway. If Gib were to be next down the steps, Ch’dau was sure, the battle-cleric would know to take the other window… The kazari roared as he plowed into the fight, his teeth gnashing and blades swinging.

((OOC: As stated, Ch’dau is heading for the far window hoping to stem the flow from that point. If there are targets of opportunity (or simply more crucial threats) en route, he’ll take them as they come. Blade, claw, and tooth!))

How many folks are in the common room aside from Nya when Ch'dau makes it downstairs? Of those, how many are capable of/willing to fight and/or defend the inn? And, finally, how close is the Silver Cat to the door/windows when they bust open?

...I kind of like the looks of Ammpe-R-AG, actually.

I'll reserve my final dibs until others have had a chance to jump in.

I was getting worried, myself. Welcome back, Blackthorn!

Be careful when releasing that inner bard, someone may very well puncture your piccolo!

I'm cool with that!

I've watched an episode or two with audio descriptions turned on on Netflix but, for whatever reason, it never really occurred to me that it would be "useful" as a tool to improve DM/GMing.

Hmmm... I thought I'd ditched the breastplate idea in favor of the two, wide bandoliers covering that area...

Let me dig into my write up...

If he does have a breastplate, then, yes, he'd probably have removed it before zonking out; however, given his love for the fight and the urgency of the sounds downstairs, I can totally see him having neglected to put it back on.

Edit: From my original description - "His broad torso is criss-crossed by a pair of wide, leather bandoliers, studded with steel and bone in which his curious, sickle shaped sabers (called falcata) are sheathed when not being employed with deadly effect by the Capashan Cat. Belted about his hips is a distinctly kazari garment called a dak’tar; essentially a skirt of leather strips, studded much like the bandoliers, that serves to protect the upper legs and allows his long, lashing tail to remain free. The kazari’s powerful forearms, too, are wrapped in bracers of the same bone-studded leather as the rest of his garb but, beyond these items, Ch’dau wears no true armor to speak of (though it appears not to trouble him even when faced with battle)."

I think I foreswore the breastplate.

...I imagined that Ch'dau didn't bother undressing when he retired to his room; just flopped on the bed and "passed out" so to speak. If that's not acceptable, though, I'm okay with that. There's not much to the Kazari's "armor" anyway and I don't imagine it would take too long to throw his bandoliers over his shoulders following his stretch.

As dismal as the march to Crandel had been, and despite the less than friendly reception upon the party’s arrival, Ch’dau found himself rather enjoying the mist enshrouded town of Crandel as the night went on. Not only had he learned that, somewhere in the vast sprawl of Antaron, there were others of his kind but, also, the proprietor of The Nicked Shill had gifted him with a fine ale and a sizable chunk of bloody beef which had gone much farther toward sating his appetite than the pork and pepper stew could ever have done. The big Kazari was content enough, in fact, that he had lingered in the inn’s common room much longer than many of his companions and happily watched as, one by one, they had excused themselves from the table and disappeared upstairs. It was only after Kithran had decided that she was finished for the evening that Ch’dau left the common room behind and claimed a room of his own.

Sprawled across the smallish bed, his belly full and his blood warmed by good ale, sleep found the cat-man quickly and quietly and it wasn’t long before a contented, purring snore rumbled from within the kazari’s room. The peaceful slumber was not fated to last, though. Only an hour or two had passed, it seemed, when a loud banging from downstairs reached Ch’dau’s ears and rousted him from his catnap.

“Rrowl’s whiskers,” he growled into the darkness of his room, “what is that noise?” He rolled off the bed and stretched lazily before reaching for the door latch. It was then that a horrified scream split the night, drowning out even the banging that echoed from the lower floor.

As a chorus of fearful voices joined the incessant banging and screams, the Kazari’s ears flattened against his head and his tail lashed in anticipation of conflict. He tore open the door to his room with one hand and, with the claws of the other, severed the peace knots that had, to this point, secured his blades in their sheathes. “The inn is beset,” he snarled as he sprang into the hallway, “To arms, my friends!” The call to battle sang in his blood and, as his friends emerged from their own chambers, a ferocious growl welled in Ch’dau’s throat and he bounded down the stairs…

((OOC: Assuming, here, that, Ch'dau taking the lead down the steps isn't going to majorly fudge any strategery from the rest of the party. If orders are called out by Gib or Aranwen, he will, of course, comply but, at the moment, the big cat is intent on getting to the lower level, assessing the situation, and putting himself where he figures he'll be of most use.))

... there's a Do Not Disturb sign on his room door.

"...my elf has to get his freak on..." 

I'm dying over here!!!

Oh gods, middle school! I remember when my girls were that young! Seems like ages ago (and probably was)! Anyhoo, I know how the beginning of the school year can be, my wife works for our local schools and is gearing up for the start of her new year on Monday... aaaaand we're heading to Missouri this weekend to visit our oldest daughter and help her and her hubby get settled into their new house. Busy happens!!! Looking forward to your post!

Yup! That's the most frustrating part!

They beat on Misty?!?!? 

Ooooooo! Somebody's like ta get themselves shot!!! More than once, even!!!

Looking forward to Ayrn joining us!

Hopefully you're not taking any of the "friendly teasing" in these latest posts personally. It usually goes without saying, around here, that IC and OOC are two completely different things but, as you're newish to our little corner of the World Weird Web, I figured it bore repeating. Don't want you thinking that we're "giving the newbie a hard time just because he's new," you know? Just a matter of some really good RP fodder that we didn't want to go to waste.

Now - get Aranwen in there and take Davena to a room!

Reading back a few posts to make sure I'm sure of what's going on and where Sam's head is presently. Hope to have a post ready to post a bit later today.

Ch’dau’s meeting with Mortimer Greenfield had been both more and less than he had expected it might be. The innkeep, a former mercenary as it turned out, had served with a kazari before and in doing so, it seemed, had cultivated a respect for the cat-folk that was exceedingly uncommon among his kind to say the least. This bit of information had kindled a spark of hope in the Silver Cat’s heart; even if he were to never find a way to return to Capasha, he was apparently not the only Kazari to wander the vastness of Antaron and, perhaps, someday, Ch’dau would have the fortune of encountering his own kith and kin in these very lands. Unfortunately, Greenfield could not recall the other kazari’s name and, too, the human had said that it had been ten years ago or better since he had seen the Capashan, in service to the Lockshir Regulars Company, far off in Pardinal. Much could have happened in a decade’s time; the cat of whom Greenfield spoke could well be dead by now and, if not, surely no longer in Pardinal were he still with the mercenary band. As disheartening as not knowing more of the other kazari’s whereabouts, though, Ch’dau’s hopes had been bolstered with the knowledge that he was not alone here on these foreign shores and that there was some possibility that he might someday find himself in the company of his own kind even this far from home.

Mort had also honored the kazari further by offering Ch’dau a pint of his own reserve ale and the promise of a red chunk of uncured, uncooked beef to be delivered to his table in short order. He’d known the man only moments but, in that short time, knew he had made another trusted friend in lands that were woefully bereft of such things for those of Ch’dau’s ilk. After thanking Greenfield and blessing him in the names of both Rrowl and Keziri (as the human had refused coin for the meat and drink), Ch’dau left the man to his work and, with something of a lighter heart than he’d had in hours, if not days, returned to the common room and the company of his friends. Nursing the fine ale that Mort had gifted him, Ch’dau prowled across the floor toward his party’s table, his tail waving happily in his wake, and arrived back at the bench just as Gib was taking his leave.

“…I’ll go see to a room and give thanks to the Battle Lord,” the warrior-priest was saying as Ch’dau approached, “I bid you all a good night.”

“Rest well, Gib,” Ch’dau purred from behind the kazari equivalent of a grin, resting a friendly paw on the battle-cleric’s shoulder as the man turned for the bar. His blue-green eyes, glimmering with positivity and, perhaps, a small bit of mischief as they flicked toward where Aranwen and Davena still lingered in their conversation, he added in a not so subtle tone; “It does surprise me that you would be the first to retire, my friend. I would have thought that our bladesinger might have already found herself abed.”

A chuckle on his breath, Ch’dau steps aside and lets Gib pass without further interference before tipping his fresh-filled tankard to his lips and spilling a bit of the fine ale down his throat as he reclaims his seat on the bench next to Kith. “It has been a good day, little kitten,” the Silver Cat rumbles, settling down next to the half-syl thief, “regardless of the horrors we faced on our road here…”

Across the table, the tone of conversation between Aranwen and the foreign woman suddenly becomes a bit more heated and the kazari’s gaze ticks their way…

“I apologize, my lady. I did not mean to imply that I wished you any harm,” the bladesinger was saying.

…The Silver Cat’s chuckle, emboldened by Mort’s reserve ale, became more of a full-fledged laugh, then, and, as he banged his mug down on the table, “Then stop interrogating the woman and take her to a room, friend Aranwen,” he winked at the noble sylvari, “I am certain she’d be more than interested in your… ahem… swordplay techniques, yes?”

((OOC: Room for interjection/interaction/embarrasment abound, of course. Back posts as necessary!))