<div class="floatright">(https://scontent-dfw5-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/fr/cp0/e15/q65/35089327_5247588728636540_6124479186338840576_o.jpg?_nc_cat=0&amp;efg=eyJpIjoidCJ9&amp;oh=927395e6e4b813113774c3a8bdcad73e&amp;oe=5BB699F4)</div><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;"><span class="bbc_u"><strong>Rag “Ragsy” Stoutbrew  (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=291794.msg14326949#msg14326949)<strong></strong></strong></span></span></div><br/>Ragsy hated the undead. In fairness no one, aside from the few practitioners of the necromantic arts and carrionphiles, liked the undead. But she hated them on her best day and it went to capital HATE the rest of the time. What she did like was campfire tales of grumpkins and chattergraves.<br/><br/>So she had mixed feelings about campfire tales of the undead. If the farmer had been conjuring all of this up in his twisted braincase, Ragsy was going to be plenty sore at him for interrupting her drinking. She so rarely took a day for herself, only bending her elbow six out of seven days a week.<br/><br/>Still she kept still in the wheat, less concerned about the halfling than what she had been “communing” with. A senile farmer and his addled son were within the realm of probable but three crazy folks in a wheat field sounded like the beginning of a bawdy tavern joke. She peered into the distance where she halfling had stared, hoping to catch a glimpse of the forces “great and terrible” if they were there to be seen.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button"> Perception 12... yup. There’s Wheat in the wheat field!</div><div class="spoiler_body">Roll Result: Ragsy rolled: 1d20, adding 5 to the total<br/>Comment: Perception <br/>Result: 7, <br/>Total: 12<br/></div></div>