Tales By The Fire

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  A Son of the City of Song - Imril Teb'rin
  • teflonbilly

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  Steam rose from the copper pot, the aroma of warm maple sugar still lingering in the air. Over head patchy clouds moved with a strong southern wind, causing the steam and smoke of the fires to dance as they wafted skyward. Imril drew the wooden bowl from the steaming water of the pot, inspecting it he nodded approvingly. "All clean at last.." he thought "maple sugar is wonderful, except to have to clean up!" Glancing around the camp he gave a sigh of contentment, it was done, the Sugaring was complete. It had been a labor of love, and while not what he had originally envisioned, he felt it had gone well. Many of his friends had come to help him, and he had enjoyed sharing their company, and even giving out tattoos to a few brave souls, as was the custom of his people. The gathering of the sap had been easy. The Treants had kept their word, and up held the oath, sworn in blood, Thistle's blood, from the previous time. As the party had approached the woods to begin collecting the buckets, Gnolls literally came flying past them, fleeing the wrath of the huge Forest Fey. Imril remembered thanking the huge old Treant, the one which looked suspiciously like a maple that he had tried to tap the first time he had encountered it, for up holding the oath before it stumped away into the woods again. He smiled, as he looked down at the piles of sugar, some still warm, stacked in the baskets around the camp. Those who had helped him had taken their shares already….it was a good harvest. Made even better by the fact that Lady Ama'bael and Ardent had returned to help him, among the many others. Imril remembered fondly how the Coran had made him feel welcomed when he first arrived in the Nars, and had been as a wise older sister to him. Ardent had come bearing a guest to his humble sugar camp, a small baby girl. Honor Dy'nei, born just recently from the union of her and Nelor. It was comforting to see her so happy as a mother now, to see her put her troubles behind her and move on with her life, even though he missed her and Nelor, he understood their need for a safe place to raise their child. "I wonder if I will ever be a parent..." Imril thought as he put away the bowls and other tools. "I don't think I would know the first thing about it..." After securing the camp, he took several larger pieces of sugar, golden brown blocks which gave off a sweet, smokey, maple scent, and turned toward Peltarch. Arriving in the commons, he went to his same spot near one of the trees there. Setting down he waited under it, looking between the sky as evening came on, and his ankle were a tattoo of twelve droplets circled about it. There was now a thirteenth droplet, freshly inked at the end of the line. He smiled at his new tattoo and as the stars came out in the dark blue of the northern sky, he rose from his spot under the tree. As he turned toward the lights of the Mermaid, he knelt down and left the cakes of sugar he had brought with him in a small bundle against the trunk of the tree. "I hope I will have the joy of a family again, ...someday...." He strode away to the Inn and a glass of mulled wine.
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  Never Again (Nelor Dy'nei)
  • VanishingTrace

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  _The steady tread of the parties footsteps echo down the long hallways of the crypt. In the distance you can almost hear the dried out rustling footsteps of the undead. But much closer Nelor suddenly hears the heavy tread of an undead giant. The party closes upon it, fighting gallantly to put it to rest, when he sees a pair of skeleton warriors rushing up from behind it. He dashes around the giant to engage and slow down the skeletons, trying to buy time for the others. To late he realizes how outclassed he is by the skeleton leader. But as he looks back, preparing to withdraw and give the fiend some space, he sees Lady Elena, Priestess of Ilmater. He knows he cannot withdraw and lead the undead beast near her so ha stands firm. Trying to be the wall that stands between them and evil. But he was not skilled enough. Slowly he opens his eyes and realizes he is in the fugue plain. He can see cassius standing there and all he is able to do is whisper a prayer that the others are safe. Then from above a winged being arrives. She looks like an angel. A first. Her words are designed to tempt him, she tells him how he might never see ardent again. How he could be more powerfull than ever. Thats when Casius warns him that she is an Eryines. Nelor knows there is no way he could ever make a deal with evil such as this. There is no way he would ever become somethng that his Love would despise. No way he could ever betray his Goddess. Finally the devil gives up in frustration. He breathes a sigh of relief and turns to the large skeleton to talk about wine and kabobs. After a time his freinds are able to call him back. He awakens in the temple of Chauntea, weaker but maybe wiser._ _Or maybe not. As he walks to the South gate with Lady ashena, for some quiet guard duty he realizes he has no potions left. But before he can turn around a massive horde of undead strike! Zombies, skeletons, archers mages priests and ghouls. They battle on and on. Lence was the first to fall. When the colossal zombies strode through the gates, Nelor was the second. He awakens again in that grey lifeless place, he is not alone. He spends some time speaking to Lence untill without warning the eryines reappears. This time to tempt Lence. She caled Nelor a "nosy elf" when he warns Lence of what she truly is. Finally she leaves again. No souls for her this day. Another arrives from the battle, Lady Talindra. She is silent and morose. Nelor leaves her be. And then, yet again a winged visitor descends on the place of rest. This time an Archon of Kelemvor. She warns that they are under attack. And attack it is, a Balor. Thye all rush to do battle, even though they have no weapons. He strikes it but cannot harm it. The balor grabs the Archon and vanishes with her. All they can do is fume in impotent anger. They all know what her fate will be in the abyss. Finally after what seems like ages, he is drawn once more to the temple of Chauntea. He has nothing this time. But soon Elder Raldor takes him to recover the rest of his gear. It is just in time for an even more massive attack than before. Almost he falls a third time. Almost. But they do prevail, and with the morning light the prayers of the Lathanderits in the temple reach out and removes the evil fog. For one more day the town is safe._
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  Right-Handed Chicken Scratch (Junior's Journal)
  • MexicanCookie

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  "There is a fine line between bravery and bravado. To defeat your enemies, you must first get to know them, and you cannot do that by speaking but by listening." -Scutum Hedges Scutum was right. Maybe I should have listened to Fendon instead of asking him to cut me in half. Bravado is asking for a demonstration. At least Big Red Bull has the sense to take a swipe at him. Next time no smug look. No banter. No stumbling around like an idiot when he comes at you. Back to training. Fendon isn't going to kill himself… but he probably should just as a courtesy to me. It's impolite to get brain guts on your opponent's fist. Also he has no friends. And he was adopted. Quit it! Respect your enemy! ... even if you're going to shove that sword so far up his- BACK TO TRAINING!
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  Water under the bridge: The Journal of Moon River
  • Moon

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  Moon passes by the Coppers and leaves a letter, written in haste (but sealed) with Jario adressed to Kyan: Kyan, A long time has passed, it seems rightfully years since last time we met. I know rumours say that my sister and you are travelling together. If that is so, would you look after her for me. I happen to know that someone that belongs underground wants her dead. I do not know why, nor do I know who this man is. As this knowledge came about, it is not a rumour since I heard it myself. I could not act in presence of the company I was with at that time. Mystic is harmless and doesnt deserve this, and please if you see her dont tell her anything about this either it will only upset her more than she already is. I owe you a favor by this, Moon River
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  War Stories - Ostromogs War
  • DrDreadLock

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  _Nearly a year had passed. Stalemate had been the order of that time, neither force able to gain anything further, indeed, in the end both sides had lost. From the first disastrous (to the people of Norwick, anyway) assault and the taking of the town, to now with the undead assaulting what remained, it had all been loss, and all been folly. The red haired women looked over the correspondence she'd been working on, and the notes she'd received. Ostromog sought to leave Norwick with the grace of a king, "generously" ransoming it back to the humans to strengthen his own future position and to get them to fight his battles for him. Norwick was lost, no matter who claimed it now. She thought back to the days prior to the assault, how she, Elidor and Shallyah had gone through the Harbinger Mines, slain the spider queen, and been about to leave when every single bugbear in the Rawlins (or what sounded like it) had marched over their heads. They'd been moments away from going up the mineshaft and coming face to face with that horde, perhaps it would have been better that way. At least then their warnings would have been taken seriously. Then there was the day of the auction, which she had unfortunately had to miss due to Senate commitments. A grand day with many of the heroes of the realm present to enjoy the festivities… and then Augrim led his troops against the North Gate. Later she would find out that he had started the attack early, and forced the hand of the other forces, oh how that battle may have turned out had he waited for the appointed time! In the end, hundreds of civilians died. Cecil managed to save nearly half the town with his selfless actions, putting them on ships to Peltarch while the adventurers and the militia fought and bled and died for the innocent. Truly, it was a time of the forging of heroes, for every one that held their ground that day and fought to their last breath could be called naught but a hero. Shallyah, standing alone in a horde of bugbear elite warriors at the South Gate, her axe shining in the sun and her cloak spinning out behind her. Hope, rallying the younglings to her and holding the North Gate longer than any thought possible. And all through this, they knew they could not succeed, they knew that they would pay for their actions with their lives. Still, they fought. Every second gained was another life possibly saved. The town fell, with the few surviving defenders getting out via Spellweaver Keep through the aid of Bingo, who would later fold the tower into his pocket and disappear, perhaps forever. Whether he lives or is dead, none can say, but a giant amongst us is gone. The civilians, calling themselves the Norwick Remnant, moved to Peltarch. Some were housed in the Peltarch Theatre, others at the Lists and others still in warehouses in the docks or at the Lighthouse Temple. Initially led by Havon, and then by Cecil, they sought to hold on to some semblance of normal life. This would not prove easy, as selfishness and evil caused deaths amongst their number. Some fell to murder by Peltarch citizens, enraged by the imposition of these people in mourning. Others fell to darker agents, seeking to cause strife between Peltarch and Oscura, striking out at soft targets. Truly this was a time of opportunists. The Shrine to Tempus was destroyed, some say by Oscuran agents. Assassinations became commonplace, indeed, the civilians began to shun meeting in public places for fear of being caught within such a situation. A group known as the PFLN formed, a sort of resistance group to oppose Ostromog from behind enemy lines, and were blamed for acts of terrorism within Oscura itself. Their guilt or their innocence is unknown, but when one has a secretive group, how does one defend actions that others perform in your name? Eventually, a dark seed was sown within the Remnant, and a plan hatched to destroy Ostromog with weapons of evil; undead. A representative would go to Fendon, and give him a message that would somehow bring an undead attack on Norwick and Ostromog's forces. The plan was shelved for fear of the evil it would do, but someone went ahead with it anyway, causing the deaths of hundreds of civilians and the negotiation by Ostromog for the release of Norwick and its people back to the humans. The War Coalition sought out the one who had organised such a horrific evil, but for now, no guilt could be confirmed by a court. Sirion had been questioned and tried, but no evidence beyond the circumstantial was presented and he was released. In time perhaps, the truth will out, but for now the guilty party, whoever they may be, walks free. And so now, all stood on a knife's edge. The point of a change in direction... Norwick to be retaken in peace, and turned into a true warcamp for the battle against the undead, should the treaty be agreed upon. No matter what came now, Norwick could not be a home for the people again until the twin evils of the Undead and Ostromog have been dealt with. The red haired women looked out over the Nars Pass and shook her head, returning to the shelter of the Legion Tower. Perhaps this time, what was lost could be saved. But it would exact a high toll, in blood._
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  Tales of a Hawkeye
  • Fraoch

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  Enchantment story again. Eluriel was buoyant as she walked through the Silver Valley. The most wonderful warmth in her chest and throat and face and… she laughed as she realised that she hadn’t the slightest bit of control over the smile on her face! Oh wonderful day. She imagined little Maki opening his eyes one day soon to see for the first time the wondrous beauty she gazed upon now. Oh how she wished she could share such moments of his young life! And of what it was to remember the same with her own children. No better memories does she have than the their births. No better memory ever shall she have, of that she is quite sure. The pure, all-consuming joy of the creation of new life… there could be no better feeling, no better moment, nothing in existence more joyous than meeting ones own child for the first time. But then the happiness fled. All other positive feelings along with it. She had ceased taking narraroot tea after the evening in the foothills. A decade. Fully a decade. There were fewer years than that between her son and daughter. First the narrarroot went, then the halvalondur came, and now she would not even drink fruit juice for fear of its having fermented. Would only that possibility occurred to her sooner than the day upon which Rico complained that of the apple juice she gave to him. But no. A decade. It had been a decade. And with it the most terrifying of possibilities; that she could conceive no longer. So many times had she been struck by magic. As much as she had chased the possibility away… wishing otherwise did not preclude its being true. Drow torture with spells of acid. Zara’s fire magic…She thought of other times. So, so many others times she had been struck by powerful magic. Eluriel walked through the Rawlins, through Norwick, and on. She thought of other such time. One after another, so, so, very many. But after all of those came her two beautiful children, thoughts of whom cheered her in an instant. She took stock of where she was and headed for the treehouse, thinking of more recent possibilities. Beholders. Bugbears. Banshees. Ogres. Duergar. Chain Devils. Greater devils. No. All of these before as well as after… Mintas. The Sharran death magic. Had it done something which Torm’s resurrection could not reverse? She was loathe to admit it, but wishing something were other than it is does not make it so. She had decided the day in Ormpur to give him a child; that as soon as there was no danger of lycanthropy she would do so. Once he heard calls to return but had no reason to answer them. No reason to live. Ondehiraeth. An illness of the spirit that is the loss of joy. It kills us. Without joy the weight of years crushes. Without hope in dark times is our flesh willed dead. How could she have allowed that to happen to him? The day that realisation came to she felt such guilt. She looked at Llach and in an instant understood what it meant that he had not answered the calls. No joy. How many times had she chastised him for saying that trust leads to betrayal, before herself betraying him. She had turned from him. She hadn’t had the faintest inkling that his life was one without warmth and laughter and love. She hadn’t spoken to him in oh so long and it had not so much as troubled her. Such regret. Such sorrow. So very ashamed. Play she had told him, to stave off old age. She had stopped playing with him, and it had come. And worse; of spirit not years. May he never know another day without joy. And while she could not promise that she would ever be there for him any more than he could promise that he would ever wish her there… a child. His child. No greater joy in life is there than seeing ones own child. If there is any better reason to live and to –want- to live, she knew it not. Her decision to make, her decision made. She had not expected Meril to like it but it was not for him to dictate what she may or may not do with her own flesh. Things had never been the same between them, not after his rejection of Liala. She had never forgiven him for that, no more than he had forgiven himself. Or so he had claimed. Waves of pain as her mind’s eye conjured the image of his arms around that… that… That Eowiel. Eluriel was satisfied. No other word fitting for that particular female. His arms around Eowiel comforting her as she rejected his children. Him having no issue with that. His willingness to hold and hug and kiss and bed a woman who would reject his children. Rejecting them himself. Stabbing Eluriel in her love of them. Pain so sharp even now. Seeing Meril with them so oft made her picture that even now. When he rejected Liala, the one being in all the world she had expected to support her… that destroyed her. But his own children? No. No. Never. Tears were running down Eluriel’s face as she reached the forest glade where that very scene took place. She stood shaking her head but unable to shake loose the image. She focused. Sy’wyn. She wondered whether he had understood that it was him of who she spoke as others thought she spoke of Tindra or Lorelai. She thought so; Sy’wyn had ever understood the subtleties of her conversation. Dead with no wish to live. A life without joy but a thing to endure. Her resolve that none for whom she cares would ever feel that way. But from a desire to bring joy to Sy’wyn’s life, it had become her own most fond wish. She cursed herself for having given so much as a moment’s thought to the lycanthropy. Cursed herself for waiting past the day that appeared to have allowed the Sharran death magic to remove from her their ability to create new life together. No longer was her worry for Sy’wyn. Though she ought at least ensure he understands that it is her fond wish that he have a child regardless of who its mother might be. Her worry that she will ever regret having considered the consequences before taking an action. A principle so dear to her causing her pain for all the days of her life. And she ought to do her best to ensure that Mooncandy might live long enough to keep her babe safe as he grows from the size of her hand to adulthood. A careworn Eluriel focuses her thoughts there and calms. Him opening his light blue eyes in such trusting innocence. The small grizzling noises when he soiled himself. Those oh so tiny finger nails. May his days on Toril be many and wonderful. She collects the necklace made for Mooncandy and leaves thoughts of Meril and Eowiel and her deep sorrow for her own infertility behind her in the glade as she leaves it. Outside her tent high in the Wolf canyon Eluriel prays earnestly to Angharradh hopeful that her womb will yet quicken with life. And to Solonor for the blessings which will safeguard Maki’s mother.
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  "Raising a Rock" (For All of Us Raising Rocks)
  • therealorion

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  ((going with option #2, Saturday at 10am EST shudders at the early time))
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  Letter from the front
  • Magius74

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  Dearest mother, Today is a black day for the captives of Norwick. The word came to us that a host of undead minions were unleashed upon the squatter Ostromog and his dread host of foul miscreants. I don't know for certain, but I feel that the coward leader forced the captives out into the front so to act as a shield of defense. What a dastardly coward. What a black heart he must possess. We have done what we can here at the temple. If Pah were still around, he'd have a lot of digging to do. I'll be sure no one tramples on his grave while we're busy digging fresh holes for the poor souls of Norwick. After the dead were prayed for and laid to their rest, I returned to the line. It would seem that Ostromog and his petty band of buggers are quite incapable of meeting our ranks in the open. Oh, and the ale keg here is empty now. I wanted you to know that I am keeping with good souls here. Today I met another noble dwarf named Beourn. I had wandered off into a cave and he came upon me from the shadows. It gave my heart a bit of a jolt, but he lowered his weapon and removed his helm. I did likewise, and we spoke a while. It was good to meet him thus, for he said the cave I was about to enter was the gateway to the dread Oscura. I suppose that explained all of the vile serpents about the lower depth. We scouted for some tin ore down some steps and through a sandy catacomb. There were some strange creatures which resembled a fish, but with legs, and they bore weapons and sinister magics and wore odd shaped armors. We slew all we came across in righteous fury. Kelemvor be praised. I pray for you and aunt Jen daily. I am glad that you have decided to leave the city and take to her country home. I do not blame you, after hearing word of the slaughter near the docks last week. With Norwick captured, as well as the home of the right sized folk, the eyes of villany seem set upon The Jewel. Fear not, for there are good men and women of valor who will see to the restoration of all that has been lost as well as the defense of Peltarch. All my love, Raine
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  A meeting atop a hill.
  • yeahchris

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  Drifting Feather - Musings of Ama'bael
  • Nilla

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  A Night of Narfell Ones….. _Life often feels like a game of dice. One bad roll and things can go wrong. Three bad rolls and life can be over. This I feel like I have personal experience with, though I also have experience with being Corellon's chosen Champion, so my life not extinguished yet. What I speak of is an experience I had last night with a most fierce orc. I have heard whispers of this orc before, I think I have even faced him or his brother in battle once before. Most refer to him as Elfslayer. A beast covered in a myriad of scars, his axe near as large as I am. After a successful mission of blowing up the valley and caves to prevent orcs from attacking Peltarch… one managed to make it out of the rubble. Rather than run headlong at all that stood by, he requested a duel. Ardent so subtle appointed me, leaving me to wonder if she has that much confidence in me or wants me dead. His axe was rather… large. Though the truth is, I would gladly volunteer for the job had she not. My hope was to see if any held more hatred for these beasts than myself, for I would not rob them of the chance to be our champion that night. With no others stepping up or objecting, I stepped up. He was not one for words, which is fine with me. He merely charged head long, his axe creating a most fearsome arch. With my blade and shield raised we clashed and his hit struck me like a boulder. I must admit it was hard to keep my footing, though I struck back as fiercely as I could. It was then that I felt like the first one in this game of dice was rolled. He struck me with a blow so hard, I was unsure my hip was still in tact. While addled by this hit, it felt as is my second one was rolled, for the blade I so fiercely held was ejected from my hand. Not any blade, but the blessed blade that Corellon’s messenger Yew had brought to me… the blade that I was told to hold on to for it was my job to watch over the People with His blessing. It fell to the ground. If our Father had not been watching the whole time, I think it was when this blade struck the ground that His attention was gathered. With no sword in hand, I dropped my shield and reach over my shoulder for my great sword, it also a relic of elven battles long past. While I managed to land another fierce hit, and it felt like victory was near, despite my other stumbling, another fierce strike was issued and my third one in life’s game of dice was rolled. I so clearly remember the feeling of my knees hitting the ground and knowing that without healing, I would not be able to rise again. This beast however made the unfortunate mistake of charging past me when down and found himself filled with arrows before he was able to strike anyone else. I was able to witness this before I felt my spirit start to leave my body. I could only smile that the beast was slain, even if my own life forfeit in the process. Though clearly, since I am writing here, my story is not over. This is the point when my luck changed. This is the point when I felt Corellon watching over and sending his nod of approval. This is when I felt life restored and found myself springing to my feet, ready to fight on. All pain I had once felt, now gone. How I wish that Elfslayer had not charged ahead and not been filled with arrows. I would have wanted to see the fear in his eyes when he had counted me out and with Corellon’s blessing I was able to rise again and slay him. I would have wanted him to know and understand, even if it had only been for the remaining seconds of his life, that we are a blessed race and that no matter how many times we may stumble, we will rise again and fight until there is nothing left. I am most thankful none of us fell in our attempt to collapse the passages the orcs have so long controlled. But above all, I am most thankful to feel Corellon’s hand on my shoulder this evening. To be able to feel your god watching over you and pressing you forward is the most rewarding experience one can ever encounter. He needed not to show up this night for my faith in Him to be strong, but feeling his touch when needed most, my faith is an unbreakable wall… no matter how many powder kegs may line it._
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  Young Rissu's Journal-Diary
  • Syiedthebard

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  It's Only Skin Deep
  • Dondiah

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  Havons Song: Spin round spin round in rain ye dally Spin round spin round neath dark clouds rally To praise and sing its holy name And to bring it forth to shine ordained The sun in sky up high above Its light on ye ane wing of dove Like law itself it ever burns Ever as the world turns
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  Benji's Journal - Scribbled Notes
  • MexicanCookie

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  Benji's head was a thunderstorm of pain as he regained consciousness. He could feel a small calloused hand lightly slapping at his face. He blurted the first thing that came to mind. "What the fark." "Wake up Pa!" He was overjoyed to hear his daughter's voice in his ears, though the high pitched nagging didn't help his headache. Memory started returning. A bugbear scout daring to walk into the Valley. Grabbing his crossbow. A muscled arm wrapping around his neck in a choke hold. He let out an annoyed groan. "Ughh… what happened..." "Ma knocked you out. Pa, what's the name of the bugbears' boss?" "She wh… Ostromog?" He looked around in confusion still unable to tell where he was and what had happened. "Thanks Pa!" Junior hugged him and ran off toward the crowd. "Why?" Junior didn't hear him. She had already climbed a lamp post and started shouting something down to the crowd. Lamp post… do we have lamp posts in the Silver Valley? Benji looked around. Tall doors and muddy streets. Somehow they had gotten to Peltarch. Odd. A sea of bewildered, somber, and angered right-sized faces, but no wounded. The council must have found us a way out without a fight. Those Silver Dragoons are going to be -pissed- they didn't get a chance to slice into some bugb- His eyes snapped up to Junior, still perched on the lamp post shouting at the crowd. She threw a kick in the air. "… SO HARD THAT THE NEXT OSTRAFROG WANNABE IS GOING TO FEEL IT! TO WAR!!!" Dumbfounded, he watched her bounce off of the pole, gather as many warriors as she could, then sprint south to battle.
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  A Thousand Days of Autumn (Ardent Cashail)
  • therealorion

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  @5428c00cbc: "Oh clansmen, oh gods, I am struck when enemy arrow, I am torn by rival sword. Oh clansmen, oh gods, may I see my foe's dark marrow, may I dig hands into his horde." Old Song of the Wounded Some people mourn with hot tears and heartfelt sobs. Others cling to their loved ones, bringing those they care about close to them for safety. Others seek out the divine for solace and understanding. Ardent had considered and in a sense all of these forms of self consolation, she was assured this was the time of mourning before action, a time to pour out grief and then put on the mantle of responsibility the following day. She felt it was important to her healing to feed hobgoblins to spiders, cathartic really. It was not an easy task but the scout tread a careful path through her regular silk draped haunt, fingers holding Horizon's blood stained leather pouch. She whispered her plan to the stone and thought, considering the Silver Valley, it may have been heartily approved. She did not notice the spiders, they did not notice her. How envious she was of them to worry for little more than how to fill their bellies. @5428c00cbc: "Can you hear me, voices in the sand? Can you hear me, spirits that haunt this dry land? I am wounded and I am filled with rage, I am robbed and my children sell from a cage. The lands south, once she had climbed up the rope onto the bluff, nails scrabbling to find purchase in the wet soil, were another matter entirely. Patrolled by hobgoblin scouts that had somehow managed to spot Aranwe as well, she would be forced to cling close to the ground until she had spotted her prey. The waiting had begun. Within an hour, she saw one of their scouts. He was bullying a goblin who was attempting to wrangle a beetle from blocking the cave entrance. The goblin carried a club and was placing sound thuds onto the beetles hard shell and yammering in the worthless language of goblins. Between blows and yelling, it leaped away each time the beetle tried to turn mandibles upon it in retaliation for the strikes. However, the beetle made just as much indication it would move as it would go into an elaborate dance routine. It stood solidly even when the hobgoblin approached and grabbed the goblin by the neck. This caused a flurry of what were no doubt goblin begging, curses, more begging, something about the hobs mother, and then finally the goblin began to sob as it was held there. Large fat tears rolled down its greasy filthy cheeks and it pleaded with the hob to release it. The hobgoblin scout, not even close to being able to bully his own kind, laughed with a crack in his voice and held a sword above the goblin's head. In comparison to his fellows, his form was much thinner, his muscles wiry. Scores covered him fore and aft, a sure sign that he was a popular target for bullying among his own. Now he had chance to turn no doubt years of rage on something with little capacity to fight back at all. @5428c00cbc: "I sharpen my blades on my pride, I fletch the arrows with the crow's wings. Lo, run to the mountains to hide, Ask the hills to cover you, wretched things. My shield is the broken hide of my brother, my armor is the bones of my father. Beg the ocean over you slide, Cry the sands over you smother." She watched the goblin receive a beating, the beetle impassive as its mandibles dryly clicked. She had to be somewhat amused but it also gave her an idea, an idea she would tell the rest when she returned. The goblin escaped its captor and ran off in short order, bruises seeming to somehow make it flee faster than it could before. She tossed a pebble off her ledge and then another. The hobgoblin inclined his head upward with a curious expression and approached the ledge where the pebbles dropped off. Glancing upward, it was not watching it's feet and the spiked wires that were laid along the cliff ensnared it, snapping around him like a vise and digging painfully into his flesh. She had to act quickly now and was along the ledge like a flash, climbing down the old rope and approaching the hob from the rear. She held a dagger and pulled his head back with sharp grab, the hobs mouth opening to give cry when the dagger plunging downward, slicing both vocal cords but otherwise leaving him intact. "I don't need you calling the alarm." She said quietly and started to haul, still wrapped in trap wire, toward the rope. He coughed and gagged blood and made guttural sounds of pain and protest but she continued, wrapping him in the rope, climbing to the top of the ledge via his shoulder, and then hauling him onto the cliff. He struggled as much as he could, this area was much feared for what lived so close northward. His eyes bugged out, wide with fear as she dragged him along the wet grass and soft soil that clung to the stone around the goblin hold. @5428c00cbc: Fill my wounds with the flesh of my hated. Salve my burns with the tears of his loved ones. For I have hunted, achieved the long awaited. I have avenged fathers and sons. It was difficult and sweaty word, hauling the hobgoblins down the tree without murdering him in the process. Then shoving him into the cleft in the rock, pushing him through with a succession of kicks and bashes with her small shield, cursing his bulk all the while. Then dragged him back up a tree on the other side and to the end of a branch. He was near unconsciousness now from his beating and she tossed him down on the other side of the ravine unceremoniously,. He lay there for a moment, unrestrained, free. He rose swaying with weakness a moment and looking around. He saw nothing but trees gilded with delicate spider silk, undergrowth that hid shadows, and streams that flowed on from hidden rock clefts to plunge toward the unknown depths below. He gave a guttural grunt of fear and ran back toward the bridge. He never made it. She watched the greater white spider that caught him knock him down easily with her long spindly legs and climb over the top of him to sink fangs that briefly shone on the wan daylight sun. He twitched and shuddered and was still even as she wrapped him in silk and began to take him back up the tree. His eyes were left uncovered to the last moment, staring in horror at the tree she hid in. She wondered if he could see her, she waved and smiled just in case. "Ah Horizon, we have an idea. Their unity cannot hold, but it is bolstered by brief victory in Norwick. We shall have to break them down, coupled with defeating them on the field of battle. They are no more united than random things you shove into a jar. Also, I think the spiders like the taste." @5428c00cbc: "Oh clansmen, oh gods, I am struck the enemy with arrow, I have torn him with my sword. Oh clansmen, oh gods, I see my foe's dark marrow, I dig hands into his horde."
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  Thistle's Scribble Pad
  • LowerDenizen

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  _Basic music theory suggests that one note played solely resonates within itself. That the addition of two other notes within scale (a chord) resonate with each other so as not to clash with each other, but instead compliment the other. Three or more notes played together create a chord, and the chord is more then the single note, by virtue of the addition of the other notes, as well as a richer and more full sound. This is true for music. Like calls to like. This is also true for the weave. The weave is classically divided in to schools. Each school, like a scale brings to life certain things like a proper played chord. With magic, as with music, there is proper form, there is proper cadence, all things build to a certain note. As with music, certain schools do clash with others and create dissonance, they do not resonate with each other. Divination does not resonate with Illusion. Transmutation does not resonate with Conjuration. Though they come from the same source, the Weave, they are from different scales and are dissonate with each other. This is true for magic. Like calls to like. This is also true for life. Those we call friends, are those who resemble us most. Like a symphony, our conversations may carry different motifs, in the end, we play with each other within range of the other. The occasional dissonate note used only to build the highs and lows of the overall performance. The overall harmony plays through. This is true for life. Like calls to like. This is also true for self. When we are in a joyous mood, we are like a string, body and soul, vibrating at a pitch with our surroundings. We effect those around us, causing them to come in to tune with ourselves, in return changing our situation. When our moods sour, we bring others down with us. For our every action, like a well played dirge, cause those around us to reflect, and sadden. If this is true, then what might the perfect song do? Done properly, played in perfection, might it not then resonate with the Weave, with our environment, and ultimately within ourselves? For this I search._
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  Doogie's Daft Ditties
  • Vamilla

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  Rainabell There is a worry within my heart Raina, Raina Planted today by a slip o’ a lass Planted by Rainabell Whether she knows it or knows it not Sometimes it's hard to tell; She’s got a Daddy who loves a lot You silly lass Rainabell! Chorus: Raina Raina Orcs not a place for you I'm half crazy All with worry boot you Will not be all so exciting When they’re the ones who’re hitting You’ll not look sweet off your feet All bloody and more than half dead Or how it would sound There is a worry wi'in ma heart Raina, Raina Planted the day by a slip o’ a lass Planted by Rainabell Whether she kens it 'r kens it nae Sometimes it's hard tae tell; She’s goat a Daddy who loves a lot You silly lass Rainabell! Chorus: Raina Raina Orcs nae a place fae you Ah'm hof crazy Aw wi' worry boot you Willnae be aw so excitin' When they’re the wans who’re hittin' Ye'll nae look sweet aff yer feet Aw bloody 'n mair than hof deed
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  Grimoirs of Sterling
  • Sterling

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  _The morning tide bell marked the darkest hour when the Mor’Dea Salka made its port of call into the ancient slips at Fort Arran, along the edge of Sespech coast. Mythal or not, the Mor’Dea Salka made the voyage across the Sea of Fallen Stars without incident.  Abner and her captain spoke briefly about a potential date for which the vessel might return.  Mogul’Don Tor had tentatively set to return to these waters some years from the day, though his exact comings and goings were left to remain ever elusive.  He simply stated that he would send word if or when he did return. Abner stepped off, setting foot upon dry land for the first time in over a month.  It took him a while before his “sea legs” gave way to the memory of how to walk regular and upright.  As he was relearning how to walk again down the dark cobbled streets, the ships quartermaster accompanied the old wizard, himself seeming not to care at all about the swagger of a seaman.  Abner had his suspicions if his companions sea leg swagger was indeed permanent, wondering still if the old salt ever set foot upon dry land except to douse himself in tall tankards of strong brew or to purchase supplies for his master. They traveled together past the Customs officers, after the quartermaster paid the proper duty fees of course, and then swaggered together down the lamp lit warehouse row.  Tucked in between a large freight house and a shipwright repairs shop was a small seaport tavern, non-descript and darkly lit, smelling of stale ale and spiced potatoes.  The quartermaster sauntered on in for a pint before being about his ships business of re-supply and provision.  Abner had no idea where her next port of call would be.  Mogul’Don Tor and all his dealings remained a complete mystery, and his passage across the Sea of Fallen Stars was now becoming but a memory. The old Wizard overheard talk about a troop of soldiers from the garrison moving out to Ormpetarr in a few days time.  The Golden Road was well patrolled; being the main route of commerce sandwiched between The Nagawater Lake and the River Arran, and was the shortest trade route by land to connect the Sea of Fallen Stars with the Lake of Steam. There was only one route possible by ship which a vessel might possibly reach the the Lake of Steam, and that was to chance the mouth of the Lake of the Long Arm, off the Dragon Coast.  Then there would be the journey down the Wet River, all the while being towered over by the high peaks of the Orsraun Mountains, only to be spit out of the mouth of the river at the edge of the Deepwing Mountains.  Next would be the task of seeking the elusive entrance where the headwaters of the Winter Cloak River joins the Thornwash, which then empties out into the Lake of Steam adjacent the port town of Ankhapur. The challenging logistics of such a voyage ensured that the easy overland route from Fort Arran along the Golden Road to the port of Innarlith would forever remain the preferred shipping route of goods and persons between the two ocean bodies of the central and southern seas.  The journey between Fort Arran and Ormpetar was doable at a days pace if done on horseback, and horses were plentiful and cheap in the garrison fort at Arran. The day’s final light fell upon the remaining famed brass spires of Ormpetar, reflecting the setting sun like fingers of flame.  The large mansion of Tyrangal, the copper dragon (who is also known as Gaulauntyr when she is in her human form), sits surrounded by the remnants of the town’s former glory.  A Kelemvor monastery has some activity, as well as the famed Jewel Fest hall.  Though neither of these were sought as the old wizards final destination. The hour grew late, and the long shadows of the evening were just beginning to crawl down the streets of the city when Abner reached the library of the Order of Blue Flame, the headquarters of his order.  This was a place he had not seen since the days of his youth and apprenticeship as an aspiring weaver of the arcane some fifty years ago. Had it been so long, he wondered as he took the clasp upon the heavy oak door and knocked._
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  Cave paintings
  • Sterling

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  _Klonk comes wandering back from the swamp.. he is bloodied and has bite marks on him. He seems weaker than before. The big oaf sits down and stares out into the distance for a long while before building a small fire. He shoves a very hefty piece of dire rat meat onto a stick and begins to cook… After burping in satisfaction at his excellent cooked rat, Klonk takes out some of his paint gourds and begins to make a new picture He paints a big green and blue blob, but in his mind it represents a beautiful swamp. Inside the swamp he makes little stick figures with small pointed objects in their hands. He draws a picture of himself in the middle, with the imagery of his axe held high, victoriously smashing little kobolds into oblivion... He stares out at the dark shadows now creeping in across the surrounding trees. Night is falling soon... he stares for a long, long while in silent contemplation... After some time has passed, he paints a new scene... a blue glob of a lake.. and beside it a brown little blob, painted with huge white teeth... a dire rat! Then he paints red all around.. blood... and then around the blood green grass... Klonk imagines how he would paint the grass healer that came to save him... He doesn't remember the person or even a presence.. he just remembers being held like a child by the swampy marsh, and then somehow returning to his feet... and then running.. running and throwing an axe at the rat which landed a lucky blow... Klonk burps one last time... thinking to himself... "mmmm tasty rat...._
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  The Crimson Rook
  • Darko

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  From the brain of a Homicidal Maniac...
  • Frank The Fairy

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  (( Due to a discussion in IRC, I am dusting these old stories off and editing them to make them make more sense by removing some errors/typos and maybe change a little phrasing for clarity. Who knows, I might even start writing additions again. ))