submitted for your approval: my DM skills- PBEM with me! From: mandroids@aol.com (Mandroids) Date: Thu, 22 Jul 1999 00:00:00 +0000 We need a fighter PC for a PBEM game; I happen to think Im an incredible DM and am hoping that shines through in this, my first turn (below). Anyone interested should send me a third level fighter so we can just jump right in- no time wasters, please... KAAABBBOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!! The lightning makes a noise like the fear in your heart, as you race at the shifting dark form up ahead, blurred by the sheets of icy rain pummelling your face and body. The villagers called it a "manbat"; you called it " surely no match for our wit and steel", although now your confidence is stained by the hope that the tales of its dagger-long fangs are exagerrated. You take strange comfort in the rythym formed by the fierce gallop of your steed, your body rumbling with each pounding of hoof in the muddy ground below. Soon, you reach a clearing-you take in the sight ahead as you fight to bring the mount to a safe halt: Before you, a squat, white tower, no taller than the twisted grey oaks at its side, their gnarled branches reaching out to grip the place and point at its rusted iron door. As you leap off your horse and rush to tie it with wet, numbed fingers, you glance up to see the flying-thing go up and over the wall, accidentally(?) smacking its captive against the treetops on its way. You thank the gods it was only a hog this time, and not an infant like they claim it stole before. A howling wind slaps your soaked clothing against your skin, chilling your bones... THE TOWER Built from white stones the size of your hand. 2 stories high and about as wide as that, not counting the trees that flank it. Any windows that might be on the second story are now covered by the tangle of branches above. Your best guess is that the tower was a waystation, or perhaps the home of a low ranking noble- Oddly enough, the villagers made no mention of it. THE TREES Thick, naked grey oaks, strangling the tower in their branches. They remind you of the twisted old village "sorceress"- a hairy, thin-lipped lady who gave you each the "blessed" wolf paws you now wear around your necks. You suspect the charms were actually taken from the one of the mangy dogs she keeps around her hut. THE DOOR Not much taller than you are and as wide as 2 arm's lengths, made of studded iron speckled with rust like the spots on a diseased man. No handle or keyhole. A single jagged rune is etched into the door's face at eye level. AS YOU DRAW YOUR WEAPON IN PREPAREDNESS, THE THUNDER ABOVE CRACKS IN UNISON. YOU TAKE IT AS AN OMEN- EITHER YOUR TRIUMPH OR YOUR DEATH AWAITS. WHAT NOW, HEROES? Up