- Markshire PCs: Grottle, Gruzk, Ashimar
On the subject of Mithral weapons…
Okay, here’s the run down and FINAL word on the subject.
Mithral, according to PnP can’t be made into weapons. However, we felt that we would utilize it even though it’s primary property is that it’s incredibly light compared to other metals.
So the metal’s property when it comes to weapons is allowing the weapon to have an even sharper edge which improves slashing damage. The enchantment is to allow you to make it into a weapon since it wasn’t something previously possible.
So there’s Mithral Weapons.
None of the new recipes were added through role play or in game reasons. You just got them. Free of charge as it were.
I suggest that if you want to get something more out of the crafting system you … a. ask about feasibility, b. request a CDS if it’s feasible and c. role play it out.
I have no intention of adding anything further at this point without something solid to give me a reason to do so.
Here’s a story about crafting something more…
@Memoirs of a Pale Master wrote:
Hammering repeatedly on the newest set of armors, Higgins staggers slightly. Spitting with disgust at his weakness, he settles down on the floor for a moment. Pain races up his left arm, and for the third time this day, he rolls up the sleeve of his robe to reveal his arm.
One long gash runs from tricep to elbow, raw meat laid open, and unhealing, regardless of the treatment. His bond with Widowmaker would not close. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse.
A flash of light, then a searing blast of fire rolled through the Forge, flowing over his shoulders to engulf him. The anvil and the large blade residing on it near completion. The Lady encourages him on nearby, conjuring the fires from any and all sources nearby. The forges grow cold, the guttering flames of the guardian statues fight to remain.
He knows the mark he has put on the weapon is not enough, there must be a stronger tie to it, something to fight and dominate the frost giant blood coating it and providing fuel to it’s illusion. He draws his old trusted blade, and lays open his upper arm and extends it over the glowing weapon below. Blood streams directly from the wound to the weapon and is consumed by it. He is unsteady, but he does not think he has the will to go through this another time. The Lady’s will and desires hum through his thoughts, pushing him. He looks back at Brak, who has been silent to this point, astoundingly, and asks for the head of the cursed…
Another hole through his forearm, gaping and sore. A slow steady progression of fluids has dripped from it for a week. He can fathom why this is happening. Pride. An innocent would have sufficed, been better even, but no, Pride drove him to this point.
At his bidding, the magical silver flows up and rolls around the contours of the flame cleansed skull, coating it perfectly. The other materials already applied, the moment of finality had again arrived. Steeling himself, he once again draws the old blade, still warm with his blood. He ponders whether it is required. He staggers forward as the will of The Lady once again surrounds him in flames, pushing him, driving him to be finished, to prove to her that he is deserving. He places the point of the sword on his forearm, hesitates, the drives it between the two parallel bones in the arm. His blade darkens, almost moans, and then the blood. Geysering from the wound, it shoots up, showering the glowing helm, covering it’s skull-like shape with a red sheath. Pure agony visits when he removes his old blade from his forearm, darkness mocks him on the edge of his vision. He casts the now useless greatsword aside and takes up War Visage, savoring the deep throated croon from over his shoulder.
And now that pride would have it’s payment. The blood had been the offering, but it seems the wounds would be the price. He would need to have this curse excised, before it spread. Brak would do it, as he had for Brak. The difference being a cut versus an amputation.
A thought sparks in his mind. A phantom reminder, what.. ah, the old grimiore Wyrmwind had directed them to find. There was a rite in it’s pages for mages that had become too injured to somatically cast spells. While Higgins had evolved past those requisite motions in his studies, he needed the arm to wield Widowmaker. He chuckled at the irony of the situation.
His armor work forgotten, Higgins staggers to the back of the Forge, throwing a nod at the burning avatar of War in the corner as he passes. Digging through his possessions, he locates the tomb. Quickly flipping through the pages, he locates the rite.
False power can not be conveyed. The donor should have symolic relevance to the subject, to further enhance the bond the necromantic magics provide graft. Similar race donors have proven to enhance the graft, providing stability and a familiarity to the host.
Symbolism is the key to the bond, as the host must power the new limb purely on belief that he can. The severance of the limb from the donor must be symbolic. The treatment of the limb prior to grafting must be symbolic. The rite of the joining must be symbolic.
A lance of pain recalls Higgins from his perusing of the book. Symbolism eh? A mental image of War Visage, the silver skull mottled by the crimson shades of his own blood. Yes, he was perfect, he would provide…
A whisper nearby, the whisper of buffalo thundering on the plains:
~Go ninja style, surprise him and show him what I found for Lady. Hehe, good sneaker, like little Neelo when he bothers Brak in cave town~
Something clunks off the wall near his studying place. Looking down, Higgins sees a hideous sight.
~HIGGINS, BRAK GET MORE HEADS FOR LADY LIKE SHE WANT, THIS ONE REAL UGLY!!! SHE BE BIG PRIZE FOR…~
Snakes for hair. Fangs. Scaled skin. How awful… oh no, that moron…
The pain recedes from the corrupted limb as it calcifies. A look of infuriated chagrin is frozen on Higgins face as Brak walks into the cubby.
~Uh oh. He NOT going to be happy ’bout dis. *chuckle* Sure look mad now. He going yell lots when I fix him. Wonder how fix? GORTH!!! BRAK IN TROUBLE AGAIN, HIGGINS BE HEAP MAD THIS TIME I’S THINKIN’!!! I PROMISE, NO MORE CHICKENS AT GORTH IF HE HELPS!~