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>>152044

>+NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+

It took a few hours, but finally you make it back to the sword sitting in the fire. A few cuts with the pearing knife in the throat, and the water glugged right in. Bodies sank like stones, food for crabs and other things that walk the deep. Not your concern, and their damned ghosts can haunt the shrimps for all you care. You lick a finger and tap the sword; Cool as a stone at night. You carefully pluck it from the fire, holding it up as you check the fullers, looking for a sign the gold ran. Nothing. Maybe the damn thing's worth enough after all-

You're interrupted by a sharp sting in your gut. You cough into your fist, massaging the stone growing there. Consumption; Eaten from the inside out. Only a wizard could pull something like that out of you, it was beyond any bush medicine. An evocationist could burn it out of you, perhaps, but you'd never recover. Or a transmuter could give it to someone else. An illusionist could make you not feel the pain until the day you dropped dead. But only a necromancer knew how life flowed and ebbed, and could suck the life out of that stone and give it back to you. If you knew irony, you'd find it ironic the thief had a thief of life in his gut. And someone that skilled took handful of gold; Your buyer in the Tower of Miracles stated this sword would do as well.

You clear your head of thoughts that far ahead; You made it a rule not to look far beyond your immediate needs. Otherwise, you might make the mistake of reflecting on your misdeeds. Surely there was a special place for you after death. You were eager to avoid that until you could bribe the Gods themselves. That's how the rich made it to paradise, after all. You kick the black pot over, and scoot it onto the fire, sparks flying up around you before it chokes out. And then you settle into a stranger's bed, surrounded by a stranger's walls on a stranger's land, and sleep the sleep of a man with no conscience. Like a babe.

>cont'd

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>>152052

It's about mid-day before you snap out of the hypnotism that swaying donkey put you in. You'd taken everything of value on the land - a few grubby silver, the sword, a few eggs and the donkey. You'd let everything else burn in a slow fire, with a bit of satisfaction. It almost made your useless off-hand feel better, swollen as it was around the wrist. And the sword's pomel keeps poking you in the side as well, but you'd run into problems; No sheathes. You'd tried sliding it into a loop of hide, and it slid right through like a knife through warm tallow. You tried wrapping it in a skin and the straps unraveled. You gave up around the fifth time that happened, and just slid it through your belt. It wasn't comfortable at all, and you'd have to find a better arrangement sometime.

And then, as your thoughts trail back to the present, you realize what your head picked up on that your mind hadn't grasped yet. Ahead was an old pier with an old shack - some settler's fishing ground, no doubt, the planks having long since failed so that only the posts stand up. Like boney fingers, in fact, stretching up from the water. But it wasn't that break in the horizon that caught your attention - it was the figure crouched upon the furthest one. Squatting on the tips of their toes, a strange cloak falling about them as their attention is completely on the water. Which churns and boils slowly, like fish at spawn.

Strange.

>Call out to it.
>Treat it like a homeless lout; Make no eye contact and pass silently.
>Throw stones.
>Other? Write-in

>1d20 for actions, called in a few hours.

Rolled 7 (1d20)

>>152062
>Throw stones

>>152062
Prior thread:
>>> \qst\127388

Archive:
http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?searchall=Sword+Quest

Rolled 2 (1d20)

>>152062
approach the stranger carefully and ask them some questions like who they are if they can help you shit like that

Rolled 17 (1d20)

>>152105
Going wit this

Rolled 19 (1d20)

>>152105
>>Call out to it.
It's not like we're at our best - wounded and such. Smile, pretend to be harmless...

If the stranger has too good looking stuff (jewelry), we can always stab him in the back with our trusty knife - that doesn't take two arms.

Rolled 18, 11, 1, 11 = 41 (4d20)

>>152079
>>153299
>>152479
>>152105

Curiously enough, I have a player who acts just like our protagonist in this game, when I run it RL. Albeit theirs is a lot lighter tone because they all decided to be non-humans in a traveling freak show.
Oh, and one cross dresser as the ring master, because why not?

>Called, Rolling, Writing

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>Protagonist hits personal weakness - personality. Opponent success. Protagonist failure. Non-combat gradual victory to opponent.

As you grow closer to the rotted out pier, you can hear the faint sound of clicking and splashing from the boiling sea below the strange figure, and your curiosity is flared enough to finally approach. You swing off your donkey - sword pomel punching you lightly in the gut - in order to pick up a stone. To be frank, you'd rather not get closer than you are with your current state. Swinging a sword with one arm was tiring!

The stone skips neatly off to the side of the figure, which turns it's head sharply towards you - and you step back involuntarily. Beak. It had a beak, poking out from beneath that cowl! You try to recover none-the-less, and cup a hand around your mouth as you call to it. "Hoy! That's a good churn you've started. What chum are you using?"

Hey, you grew up on Oleth lake and the depressed town named for it, far to the eastern edge of the continent; The scent of dead fish and 'ripened' chum bring back memories of home, when your whore of a mother was out tangling fingers with strangers. But for all your friendly and 'harmless' demeanor, the figure only stares at you coldly. The smile begins to slowly slide off your features, falling in tics, before you return to your usual scowl. You'd hoped to drag up a good conversation, maybe pull the freak to the shore so you could gut it for valuables - opportunities are going to be scarce until you get to the port up north, after all.

And then it straightens upon the pier, clawed feet digging into the wood. It neatly hops to the next wooden post, a few small black feathers drifting down from the cowl - the churning in the water follows. Another, closer to shore, and for a moment you think your luck has turned until the churning, rippling water moves past the cowled freak and begins moving for the shore proper itself. And towards you.

The figure speaks then, but you can't tell what its saying. You catch hints of words here and there, but it'd be a bit like you trying to talk without moving your lips. Which, considering the beak, probably isn't far from the truth - It just sounds like urgent, brain damaged babbling.

>Go fishing
>Ignore and move on.
>Try to knock the figure in
>Other? Write-in

>1d20 for Actions.

Rolled 11 (1d20)

>>153342
>Ignore and move on.

Tangling with this guy doesn't seem like a good idea.

>>153359
It's coming for us and donkeys aren't fast. We can't run.

>>153342
Talking nicely to the birdman didn't help, so we grip our Magic Sword, try a few swings and make ready to clash swords...
does it even have a weapon?
Ha, stupid bird, we'll just slice it up when it comes near.
"Birdman, after you're dead, I will roast you over my fire." Anyone can be riled, even when they don't show it.

Rolled 7 (1d20)

>>153538
forgot the super dice

Rolled 7 (1d20)

>>153359
going with this, its time to book it we only have one working arm and this thing is a freak.

Rolled 4 (1d20)

>>153342
>>Go fishing

Lets catch some dinner

Rolled 8, 3, 13, 7 = 31 (4d20)

>>153359
>>153538
>>153540
>>153547
>>156257

Votes called. Also bemoaning the fact you can't solve captcha through a proxy page. I'd love to update faster - but I can only view this page, I can't respond to it unless I get up very early or stay up very late.


>Called, Rolling, Writing.

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>Success opponent, Failed protagonist. Protagonist does not get to avoid whats coming next.
>Pulling plagiarism out of pocket.

The urgent babbling continues unabated, the becowled figure actually waving his arms over his head. You catch a definite impression of feathers, but otherwise have fairly had your fill of oddities for one day. Perhaps were your arm not so banged up, you'd be more willing to discuss 'aat aat un ood' with the freak. You look to saddle your donkey again - while not exactly fast, it's a durable beast, and its certainly better than walking under your own power. You grip the heavy sword with your good hand, drawing it up and out as the churning water reaches the shore. Honestly, you're not sure what to expect - some crawling fish man? A massive crab? Tentacles?

What does surface first is - a fish. Toothless mouth dumbly gasping up at you from the shoreline, followed by several of its brethern. It's not exactly frightening - perhaps the idiot on the post was simply testing a new form of chum? Your thoughts fail you, however, when the fish school continues out of the water - walking. Sort of. The fish themselves thrash their tails and gasp at nothing, but beneath them rests an eight legged carapace; Like a crab, of some sort. The fish seem melded to it at the base, their unseeing eyes staring uselessly around as more and more of the bizaare things come from the water.

And then? They begin skittering towards you faster than a man can run. You barely have time to leap aboard the ass, which kicks and leaps about, nearly unseating you. It is only this motion which saves you from whatever dire fate awaits, as the monsters scramble blindly about. More and more are coming up, a frothing parade of curious predation whose sole focus seems to have left the man with the beak and turned towards you instead. You're not even sure if they're dangerous - but you are certain this isn't natural.

What to do?

>Try to run
>Try to hide
>Try to fight
>Other? Write-in

>1d20 for actions, called in an hour. I'll be here this time.

>>161154
>Try to fight

We run from no man especially not some fucking fishies

FUCK'EM UP

>>161242
Holding for just a bit longer.

Don't forget your 1d20.

Rolled 20 (1d20)

>>161432
The fuck? I'm posting from a phone so can I even roll?

Rolled 13 (1d20)

>>161154
>Try to fight

Rip thief

>>161437
Well fuck nvm

Rolled 15, 5 = 20 (2d20)

>>161437
>>161440

Fortunately you can actually post from your phone. Mine just displays empty boxes for the captcha.

>Called, Rolling, Writing.

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>Success, both parties. Protagonist success is higher. Protagonist has gradual victory, but suffers for it.

Frankly, you're in a tenuous situation. With one good hand wrapped around the sword and your bad arm squeezing tightly about the jumping donkey's neck, there's not much you can do. And if these things are dangerous - and you have to make that assumption, because the other side of that coin would kill you if you're wrong - you finally release the donkey and slide gracelessly to the side. Your steps catch in the sand, causing you to stumble briefly, but you manage to get back to your feet. The whole ground is swarming with those little monstrosities, skittering almost as fast as the eye can see around your pack animal.

You hear the sound of ripping canvas, followed by a scream from it as one of the little spider-legged fishes latch on. While the toothless mouth continues to gap and close, you hear a crunching from the underbelly. Blood is pooling down the donkey's thigh as it squeals and twists.

Okay. Dangerous.

You kick the first one that notices you, sending it tumbling end over end. The next one gets a low pass from your sword, which catches heavily on the carapace; Tearing it as it is sent tumbling as well, before spinning slowly in circles. The majority seemed focused on your squealing, dancing pack animal, skittering up its sides when they can and latching on - its cries growing weaker and weaker as it struggles. You take the opportunity to attack where you can, because gods be damned if you want to walk that distance yourself.

Which is when you feel a sharp bite on the back of your ankle. You howl, the sudden burning pain reminding you a lot of honey wasps; Throbbing with venom. You try to yank the thing off, but your fingers cut on the sharp spines of the carapace or slip off the fish's soft, slimey body. So you just pry the thing off with the tip of your sword, its 'legs' leaving furrows in your skin. And now you've got their attention, others zig-zagging through the sand towards you, almost blindly homing in. You dance and jig, each step causing a flair of pain to run up your leg, but so far that's the only wound you've managed. It helps that the things appear to be slowing down - one or two collapsing sideways when the fish atop them stops gasping at air.

>Cont'd

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When the donkey finally collapses, you're given a bit more reprieve as they rush back to it. That same, almost blind zig-zagging path. Well, rush may a bad word for it - they sluggishly advance on the animal, piling atop it. You take the moment to wipe your brow and check on the freakish figure atop the pier post - its attention is on the water again. You glance that way too, breathing hard, just in time to see something much bigger rise from the depths. Water slides and tumbles away from a nose like a blunted arrow, but far too large, and a flapping gummy mouth that you just know is going to hide a plethora of teeth.

You heave a resigned sigh, and check your surroundings. Empty beach to the south, empty beach to the north, dying pack animal to the east and water to the west with the busted pier posts. Great. What to do...

>Run
>Climb
>Fight
>Other? Write-in

>Votes called after a brief nap.

Rolled 5 (1d20)

>>161487
Kill the figure, bet he is the one controlling all this creatures.

Rolled 8 (1d20)

>>161487
Fuck that shit

We better lickily split from this hellhole

>Run

Rolled 8 (1d20)

>>161487
Gettin' a mite to Lovecraftian for me. I call bullshit and run hell-for-leather

Rolled 6 (1d20)

>>161487
run fuck this shit dawg. what happened to the good old days of killing children and their mothers huh?

Rolled 4 (1d20)

Run! Don't look back, just run! The demon fish are coming!

Well find an inn to drink away this experience.

Rolled 11, 10, 13, 2, 17 = 53 (5d20)

>>161493
>>161498
>>162150
>>163012
>>162386

>Called, Rolling, Writing

>>167514
As an aside, would it be better to simply roll the same number of rolls as you and take the highest result for both sides? Because we're hitting averages, which is what should happen but which is keeping activity low-key. Except for this pass.
What do you prefer, Keist?

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>Overwhelming success, opponent. Utter failure, protagonist.

In anger and spite, you take a hard swipe for the figure upon the pole - it leaps back, yelling indignantly and nearly misses its grip on the post behind it. The crawling monstrous toothy fish slams its blunt nose into the pole at the motion. The freakish figure growing still once more, and from this close you can see its chest moving as it breathes hard. You back pedal, the oversized bit of bait scuttling as it rounds on you with those eight clicking legs.

And then you run for it. Just let you get to an inn, you ask of the silent gods. Those pretentious bastards sitting on their cloudy thrones, probably laughing and making merry as you fight for your life. But the sand is twisting under your feet with each step, your arms thrown akimbo as you lose your balance. You twist as you hear the skuttling, creaking sound rise to a crescendo, intending to hack the legs out from under the toothy monster before it ca-

>Cont'd

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>+NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+

Y̢҉͖o͕͖̼͖͝u̙̙̝̱̗̕ ̫̲͓͝a̻̥̖̹͔ŕ̷͇̗̠̺e̘͙̫̲̗̭͚͟͝ ̵͔̙͖̠̣͟͢a͉̥͙̯̺̠͖ͅͅ ̨̗̤͎͖̭̲̤s̛͖̹̝͚͈͕̠h̷̵̩͢à̵͖͕͚̮̖̫̜̜r͇͚̪̮͉͍̫k̡͙̯͖̹̝͕͜ͅ ͚͎̝̝̺̕ͅa̴̳̲͕̫͕͕n҉̸̦͖̻̜̹d̬͎͟ ̶̠̘͉y̳͕͝o̮̮͓͖u̝͈̮ ̴͚̬̹͚͖̩̬͖a̝͠r̨̠̥͎̰̳͕͞e̶̞̤͚͕̟̝̺̞̞͞ ̩͓̗̘͎̩͔͝a̡̯̫͕̻̻n͚̰͈̖͚̝̣̕͢g̸̡̯͙͚̀r̼͓͜y҉҉̮͕̮̱͎.̣͈͖̟̘̘

Anǵr͜y҉ a̵bout͏ sha͜r̕p͡ ̛th̷ing͜s ͢cu͘tt͠ing y̶o͡u f́r̴om̧ ̡the̕ i̶n̛s͜i̸d͠e.͝

You've never had thoughts before; Your whole life a blurr of motion. Move, eat, make more sharks. Follow the tingling of your front that shows you where more things to eat are, or more things to make more sharks. And now you cannot breathe, but you are still moving somehow - just not the way you want. Your skin hurts, the thing on your front is confused, and you cannot see. So you bite whatever is nearest to you.

Something moved to your left, and you bite at it. It was not something to eat.
Something moved to your right, and you feel scouring heat and pain moving across your powerful form before your nose bumps into something. So you bite it too. And now something sharp and long is in your guts, tearing you open as it works its way through you with the faint taste of things to eat. And something new is growing in the black behind your empty eyes, something that recognizes chains of events. Something that recognizes pain as more than something to avoid.

Your arrow shaped life is suddenly oblong. This makes you angrier, but you are getting weaker too, unable to breathe, as the pain keeps going through you. Mid-way now. You didn't know what mid-way was until this moment, because mid-way is not something to bite with or something to make more sharks with. What to do?

>Bite more
>Bite less
>Thrash.
>Other? Write-in

>1d20 as always.

Rolled 4 (1d20)

>>167614
im so confused why this died

Thrash

Rolled 17 (1d20)

Fucking finally not fucking banned

THRASH

Rolled 20, 12 = 32 (2d20)

>>169506

tl;dr

>I'm a shark.
>Why am I on land?
>Now I've eaten a sword.
>There was some tasty treat attached to it.
>My guts hurt.
>Blarghghghg

>Called, Rolling, Writing

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>>171006
>Success, both parties. Overwhelming success, opponent. Gradual victory, opponent.

Without having anything to bite, you turn to your favorite technique when things are hurting your middle; You thrash. Your powerful body swings too and fro, the sharp thing slowly sliding through your guts is now forced in the opposite direction; Pleased by the turn of events - and you've never been pleased, angry, or otherwise about anything in your whole life - you keep it up until something passes by your mouth and falls away. The taste of something to eat is still sharp on your tongue, but you are weary. Fortunately, soon you feel the natural soothing of wet sliding over your body, and you can breathe once more. Now, if only you could see or figure out how to go where you want to go..

>Cont'd

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>>171286


>+NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+

You are Sesto Zito, and you have never been more confused in your life.

You are a transmutationist; Your focus is on the properties of things, and how they can be swapped about. Not just flesh and bone, but the hardness of stone or the warm smell of sprint. A master in your art could not only continually trade his flesh for younger flesh, but could combine the hardness of steel and the suppleness of silk to make a veil that would turn the mightest blow. Or they could simply give their weakness to the nearest wall and become a walking titan, or so on, and so forth. Life, function and form is theirs to command,

Obviously, of all the schools of magic, yours is the best. But you are no master - at most, you are an apprentice, able to bend the form and function of flesh but little else. Flesh was easy - it wanted to change, and was changing constantly anyways. You are on your first mission from the Tower of Miracles to the coast to find out what madness has been brewing beneath the waves. You borrowed wings, flight, and form from a nearby crow - and wasn't it surprised when it had two meaty arms rather than slender wings! - and headed out. To be perfectly honest, you're not really sure what you look like anymore; Not that it matters. If you need hands, you'll find someone and take their hands with a glance. Some sentimental transmutationists will have portraits drawn of them, or keep menageries to hold their favorite body parts.

You've never been that sentimental.

And here, now, is a bit of madness all on its own. You watch the roguish fellow pluck the crazed.. things off his legs, only to be struck by a shark. Which nipped his hand off at the wrist, but then went into a frenzy of thrashing. The 'why' became obvious when a sword dropped back down from between its teeth, and it scuttled back into the water. Along with the other 'infected' sea life. You're not sure what the point is of the little carapace platforms melded to their bellies - it doesn't seem to make them any stronger or provide any benefit. More often than not, in the many hours you've been studying them, they simply die on land while bereft of the ocean.

Of course, you've never seen them take a land animal either. Your beady black eyes drift to the donkey, whose form you can just see under the tumorous carapace growing along it's underside. And the mounds of dead ... dead-fish. You pluck up a stone from your pocket, and toss it lightly to the ground. There's a few twitches from the upended dead-legs, but otherwise they seem less inclined to go chasing after whatever moves. Perhaps the host is simply not in control, and something else is afoot? Either way, you had hoped lightly to the ground and plucked up the old, beguiling sword.

>Cont'd

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You'd studied the dead-legs, of course, but you could not decipher what had been done. Your own arcane art mixed up with necromancy, conjuration and some other threads. A whirling mess that shouldn't even be stable, much less able to propogate. And then your attention goes to the sword itself; Old and pitted, with indecipherable script along the fullers. A curse? A warning? A blessing? Hard to say. And even if you hadn't learend how to bend and borrow anything but flesh, you could at least sense something's form. Rock's hardness, the imperfections of a badly forged weapon, and so forth.

This weapon? Nothing. No trait, no form, no function - it was utterly immutable to your senses. Unchanging, unrusting, uncaring of the passage of time. Which really is against all rational, when you get back to it. Sighing in frustration, you turn your attention to the man left unconcious and battered on the sun. He'd had a nasty go of it, and that stump of a right arm was still staining the sand around him crimson.

What to do, what to do. There were enough living things still about for you to 'mix and match' a bit. Maybe left arm's properties to the right? That swollen broken bone would take time to heal, and you've certainly no inclination to borrow your own bones to fix it. You're no necromancer, some bush witch who borrows cups of life to feed to the sickly and dying, stoppering up death and piddling about with cadavers. You, after all, are a Transmutationist. And you can heal someone as a transmutationist does, by swapping the injured bits and pieces for someone else's healthy bits and pieces. You tilt your head, feathers ruffled; The face looked familiar, but you can't quite place it.

But should you heal this man? The Tower of Miracles will want to know about these things as soon as possible - perhaps one of the masters has a clue. And you're certain there's a diviner or three who would pay a pretty gold for this weapon, strange as it is. But the longer you look at it, the more you consider whether you should give it up at all. It was a rare find - rarer than anything you've seen since Masters went along the orphanages to find someone with the right 'touch'.

Healing someone would mean taking responsibility for them, if you're being perfectly ethical about it. And that would definitely slow you down. What to do, what to do..

>Borrow bits and bobs and heal the man
>Leave him to the sand and crabs
>Experimentaiton time - surely there's a Dead-Leg left twitching somewhere. What does a human infection look like..?
>Borrow his traits for yourself. You do miss having a mouth and teeth.
>Other? Write-in

>1d20 for actions as always. This time, high rolls win. I'll take the highest you have vs. the highest I have, and we'll see how that goes.

Rolled 3 (1d20)

Perhaps take his head and transmute it onto a dog, cat or hell the donkey? and then we take the experiment with our newfound sword to our tower of miracles

kekekekeke

Rolled 13 (1d20)

>>171298
Try to heal him. The Masters back at the Tower will want him to answer questions. Your healing won't be perfect so he won't be able to resist you.

Rolled 1 (1d20)

>>171298
Try making an abomination out of this guy.

>>171651
>>171499
>>171403

Definitely a darker tone than my RL players.
Make me proud, Anon.

>Called, Rolling, Writing.

>>176276
how could this game NOT be in a dark tone whose entire premise revolves around the passing of sword?

Rolled 7, 4, 4 = 15 (3d20)

>>176276
Helps if I roll.

>>176288
True.

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>Successful casting and effort.

A moment's more time, and you've decided; At the very least, it was the right thing to do. In addition, it was instructional; How often do you get to try and save a man's life with your talents, as opposed to leaving a twitching bandit wishing for the sweet embrace of oblivion? But this can be no careless melding of traits and pieces - you'd have to be careful.

The first thing is the wound, of course. While melding your own body is common practice and easy enough, meddling someone else's takes effort. You place a taloned foot upon the man's chest, easing your way into the stream of change that surrounds all; It is no longer a man before it, it is a collection of attributes. Muscles that pull, heart that beats, blood that courses, clothing that tears or holds or binds. And.. oh. Something in his gut; Something dug deep into him. A twisted knot of his own life whose attributes are all muddled up, changing without purpose or reason. You studiously avoid that - best left to the care of someone with a bit more talent for unwinding. Were it just an arrow head or something foreign, slipping it out would be easy. But you're not quite certain how to remove that attribute of his flesh without having his whole flesh lose the life giving attribute of change.

You shudder to think of the rats you were instructed with, as a young boy recently 'commissioned' from the orphanage. When your masters showed you just how badly things can go wrong.

Banishing such dark thoughts aside, you focus on the wounds first; Finding a suitable target is easy enough. The donkey - parts of it already tangled with the growing cancors on its underbelly. Your let your vision slide aside, and watch the hooved legs kick and spasm as larger crustacean legs form along its ribs. It certainly wouldn't be needing the vitality. You feel the world twist in the back of your mind as you shift attributes about; Less for more. There's not much you can do about the missing hand without giving up one of your own, so you shift the broken traits from one side to the other. At least then he'll have a working limb, your ears catching the faint creak as bone mends only to break on the other side.

All things just a collection of parts and pieces, as interchangeable as a tinker's puzzle box. Slide one bit out, push another bit in from someone else's box, and you've a friend for life. So the child's game goes. That one side IS a bit lopsided, you decide at last. And, more out of curiosity than a sense of empathy, you 'borrow' from a nearby crab. One severed wrist out, one non-severed limb in - albeit of the wrong species. Had you lips, you'd grin at your cleverness as you eye the oversized pincer. He'll never tangle fingers with a pretty lass - or lad - on THAT side again. Serves him right for swiping at you.

>Cont'd

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At last finished, you check the sky, panting softly; An hour or so had passed in the blink of an eye. Conjurers were always going on about the mutable nature of time and place - babble cock, frankly, like their entire so-called 'art' - but you always wonder how close they were to a discovery. It was funny how quickly time slipped - WAS it mutable? Some hidden trait of the world to be borrowed and shuffled about?

Perhaps you'll write your thesis on it, when you petition for a journey man's honor.

For now, your job is done and the man is stable. You roll him with a taloned foot - no sheath for the sword. Odd. You end up awkwardly holding it over a shoulder, considering carefully your next steps. You'd borrowed the traits of a bird to get here - flight was so much quicker than walking, after all, and less bandits. But, alas, it was poorly constructed for an overland journey on foot, and you certainly couldn't fly back with all your treasure in tow. Maybe the sword in and of itself, but what of the Dead Legs? And the man as well? You knew of Port Dren - a few days march northward. Surely you could find a ship there heading to the Tower of Miracles. But what a nuisance!

And what of the creature you leave behind either way? The dead legs, and the newer one slowly cultivating on the donkey's unwilling frame? It's corrupting influence was untouchable by you - tangled up as it were in other arts, like a badly knit sweater in a tree branch.

Decisions.

>Walk it, drag the man
>Walk it, drag the dead leg
>Fly it, leave the man and dead legs, take the sword
>Fly it, leave the man and sword, take the dead legs
>Some other combination?
>Other? Write-in

>1d20 as always.

Rolled 18 (1d20)

>>176451
Shoot

We can't take a cart or something and take it with all of our loot in tow can we?

A wheelbarrow will do nicely