Flail, Male Human Rgr2/Ftr3 (Shadows of the Dead)

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Joined: 07 Jun 2002, 02:43

15 May 2008, 21:54 #1

[Edit: 6th level; changes in red]

Flail, Male Human (Rgr2/Ftr4)

played by: MacPhail

Size: M

HD: 2d8+4d10+6

hp: 52

Init: +2

Spd: 30 ft.

AC: 18 (Dex, MW chain shirt, +1 amulet of natural armor, Defense)

(AC Flat-footed: 15; AC Touch: 12)

Base Attack: +10/6 melee, +8 ranged


+12(10)/+7(5) melee, +1 light flail of
, 1d8+7+1d6 cold (20)

+11(9) melee, small light flail, 1d6+6(4) (20)
+9 ranged, +1 light
, 1d8+1 (19-20), range 80 ft.

+9 ranged, masterwork light crossbow, 1d8 (19-20), range 80 ft.
+10 ranged, masterwork light crossbow with +1 bolts, 1d8+1 (19-20), range 80 ft.
+8 ranged, sling, 1d4 (20), range 50 ft.

+8 ranged, bolas, 1d4 (20), range 10 ft.


Save: Fort +8, Ref +6, Will +3

Attrib.: Str 18 (gauntlets),
Dex 14, Con 12, Int 13, Wis 14 (L4), Cha 10.

Skills: Climb (5) +7, Heal (1) +3, Hide (3) +4, Jump (5) +7,
Intimidate (3) +3, Handle Animal (2) +2, Knowledge (arcana) (2) +2, Knowledge
(dungeoneering) (1) +2, Knowledge (nature) (1) +2, Knowledge (religion) (4) +3,
Listen (5) +7, Move Silently (3) +4, Ride (2) +4, Spot (5) +7, Survival (5) +7.

Feats: Expertise, Improved Trip, Two-Weapon Fighting
(virtual), Track (bonus), Two-Weapon Defense, Quick Draw, Rapid Reload, Weapon
Focus (light flail), Weapon Specialization (light flail).

Languages: Common, Abyssal.

Ranger Abilities:

Favored Enemy: Undead (+2 to Bluff, Listen, Sense Motive, Spot, Survival)

Wild Empathy: Improve animal attitudes (1d20+2)

Equipment: Explorers outfit, MW chain shirt, +1 light flail of
frost, light flail, small light flail, +1
light crossbow
, masterwork light crossbow, 5 +1 bolts, 10 bolts, 8 bolts tipped with concentrated dranrune
poison, dagger, silvered dagger, cold iron dagger, wooden dagger, sling, pouch
of 10 bullets, bolas, gauntlets of ogre
, +1 amulet of natural armor,
ring mail coin pouch, backpack, winter blanket, flint & steel, bullseye
lantern, steel mirror, lock with no key, oil (5 pints), sack, torches (2),
silver holy symbol of St. Cuthbert, spell component pouch (with salt, garlic,
iron and various other herbal and mineral items rumored to be of use against
undead and the forces of evil; also most of his potions), waterskin (3), trail
rations (10), holy water (4 vials), potion
of cure light wounds
(4). (carry weight: 137.9 lbs including treasure; 34.7
lbs [silver, water, rations] packaged separately to drop encumbrance to light)

Dranrune poison (concentrated): Injury, Fortitude DC18, 1d4 Con/ 2d4
Con, 1200 gp.

Treasure: 6 pp, 571 gp, 885 sp, 8 cp. (29.4 lbs)


Flail is a middle-aged man, broad-shouldered and calloused from a lifetime of
farm labor. His hair is streaked with silver, resulting from a life of toil and
immense personal sorrow. He is clad in travel-stained leather, age-darkened
mail and a steel cap. The heavy wooden handles of two spiked flails are tucked
into his belt, along with four sheathed daggers.

XP: 15,040

Campaign Log:

1250 XP at character creation

100 XP for escaping the dungeon of Modros

30 XP for locating lodging in the city

465 XP for battling scorpions encountered en route to Eduar

50 XP for dream-sequence encounter with the Master

210 XP for bashing ex-comrades-turned-flesh-eaters

910 XP for desert travel and storming of kobold outpost.

550 XP for combat in the locked room

100 XP for roleplaying with the new party

225 XP for the combat with the half fiend

900 XP Room 2 miscellaneous award

445 XP Room-balancing award

766 XP DM Discretionary award


To 14,625 XP Post-battle Discretionary award


415 XP Day One / Prologue to Part X


From the account of Horace Black, formerly of the village of Southreach,
as recorded by Brother Ignaz, Devoted of Tyr.

Flails story is a simple one for the most part, but I must relate that it takes
a most terrible turn.

His true name was Samel Grath. He inherited the family farm at a young age,
married within his village and fathered two children, both of whom survived
infancy with a hardiness uncommon for that social class. Together he and his
family tilled their small plot, marketed their produce and tended a small flock
of sheep in the foothills above their village. Life was hard, but satisfying,
and the peaceful course of his existence was of great pleasure to him.

Two years ago, Samel returned from the village market to find his wife pale
with distress. Their children had not yet returned from the pastures when they
had gone to retrieve the flock, and darkness was coming on quickly. Samel took
up lantern and cudgel and sent his wife to find a neighbor, for wolves were
known to descend on the pasture after dark. But what he found was far worse
than any wolf was capable of.

His children, a boy and a girl aged 10 and 12, were unrecognizable as human
when he came upon their remains. They had been torn horribly limb from limb,
their blood splashed upon the earth and their lights ground into paste. Samel
managed to keep the reality from his wife, but he gathered his shattered
offspring into baskets himself and laid out what was left of them in the church
for burial. Neighbors said he returned to his home then, walked past his
sobbing spouse and returned to his task of the previous night: mending a broken
flail by the fire.

His wife eventually cried herself into an exhausted sleep, but Samel sat,
bleary-eyed and shaking, long into the night. The flail was mended, and still
he sat, turning it over and over in his hands, when a faint knock came at the
door. His wife awoke from her fitful slumber quite beside herself with grief
and cried out for her lost babies. To the great amazement and horror of the
parents, the childrens voices cried back from beyond the oaken door. Flail
staggered up from his seat by the fire, but his wife beat him to the door by
several steps and flung it open, reaching out for her children.

What reached back at her I know not how to describe, as I only saw the
aftermath of what followed. The bones of the children were reanimated, bound
together with strips of flayed flesh and hung with bits of scalp and entrails.
They moved of their own will, and apparently with unnatural speed. They clawed
at their poor mothers face, dragging her down screaming before Samel could
reach her. They ravaged the breasts that had nursed them, tore out the throat
that had sung to them what sense Samel had left abandoned him at that moment.
With his flail, he destroyed his younglings for the second time that evening,
smashing their bones as they clawed and shredded his skin. By the time I
arrived from my own farm, all was broken bone and spattered gristle, and the
bloodied corpse of his wife lay at his feet. Samel and I had not a second to
consider the unspeakable occurrence before the village came alive with cries of
terror for Samels children were not the only dead that walked that night.

The churchyard was emptied, generations of villagers revisiting their progeny
with sinister intent. Samel and I saw each other only intermittently after
that, through that long night of fighting, fleeing and hiding. The walking dead
did not relent until dawn, by which time Samel and I had struck down many we
had once called friends. When the sun rose, only he and I remained of a village
of 68. He still held that flail in one hand. Without a word to me, he turned
and walked away from it all, bloodied and without provisions, dragging the
flail behind him.

I havent seen him since that dreadful morning. I have heard plenty, though, of
the man that could only be Samel Grath, the man they call Flail. They say he
has a knack for seeking out the walking dead, and that he fights them with a
passion unknown to all but the most devout holy warriors. Last I heard he was
headed for Modros, seeking to wring further knowledge of the dark arts from
those stained streets and alleys. You see, I have been running since that day,
running from an unseen enemy, from the undead things that failed to kill me two
years ago. They will find me someday, I know, and finish the job. Flail runs
too, but he does not run away. He is running towards the bones, towards the
walking dead, knowing only a consuming need for knowledge about them,
understanding of them, and most of all, vengeance against them.


Last edited by MacPhail on 09 Aug 2008, 17:18, edited 6 times in total.


Joined: 14 Mar 2004, 05:38

30 May 2008, 23:17 #2

LUCK = 17 (+3)



Luck - Luck
a new 7th ability that I use in my game, which generates a modifier just as the other ability scores do. The purpose of the Luck modifier to twofold
- it represents the characters Luck Points and Fate Points. First, the Luck Points can be utilized once per day to modify an otherwise bad roll (for instance
to avoid a Fumble, a missed skill check or a missed Save, or any non-lethal situation, etc.). Once expended, Luck points return to the player the following
day. Fate Points represent the favour of the gods, the fickle hand of Fate, sheer blind luck, or perhaps
something else altogether. Whenever something catastrophic happens to you (meaning a "certain death" situation), you can spend a Fate Point to
overcome or avoid it (for instance, if you die horribly from a dragon's fiery breath, if you fail a saving throw against a spider's lethal poison, if
you fall into a bottomless pit, or if you die when teleported to the plane of unknowingly sufferable pain and death, etc.). That's what you should spend a
Fate Point to do - avoid the death of your heroic character. I will decide what the game-result is should you need to spend a Fate Point. Be forewarned, once
you spend a Fate Point, it's gone forever - it cannot be recovered by any means short of a Wish. When you have spent all your Fate Points, you
have exhausted your heroic ability to avert terrible danger and cheat fate. Fate Points are powerful things, so use them wisely and only when necessary.
Last edited by LORD METAL DEMON on 30 May 2008, 23:22, edited 1 time in total.

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