Tales By The Fire

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  This topic is deleted!
  • Voight

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  The Days and Nights of Lence Arnimannes, Ranger & Cartographer.
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  MAPPING THE ICELACE FROM HEROES BLUFF TO KRONT - Pt. 3 Lence sits at the round table in the Temple, sipping on a cup of piping hot Mint Leaf Tea that Lady Yllalynn had offered him. His map of the Nars is laid out in front of him, and he copies over part of it to a smaller parchment. Logan wanders over, peers over his shoulder. He grins at the balding friar. "It's a good addition, Logan! I thought I would have to map on my own, but Kenna answered my call, and we met at the docks north of Kront. I would not have been able to map as much as I did without her! She is quite the swordsman with that curved blade!" Logan nods. "I know of Kenna. A master of eastern styles of combat. She must have been a valuable companion." Lence gives a grim smile. "She helped me map ALL of this. And now I make a map of that journey to honor her valor and companionship." Logan nods and wanders off, having met his quota of socializing for the day. Lence focuses on the winding path they followed along the Icelace scar, again wondering about the people, or creatures, who carved those paths out of solid rock. All things considered, it could have turned out worse. That Elemental on the banks of the Icelace was an unpleasant surprise. Luckily it showed little interest once Kenna took her sword to its kelpy form. For the most part, it was more eerie than dangerous, but that mess of crabs at that forest deluge was surprising. Stumbling onto the Nighthawk Tower was a serendipitous occurrence, but once the inhabitants of that rocky peak were dispatched, it felt like time to go. Exploring the tower will have to wait! Lence puts the finishing touches on the smaller parchment, wraps it up in a leather tube, and heads out the door to Peltarch, to deliver his... her map, to Kenna at her dojo.
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  Calistra's Journal - Expedition Narfell
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  Shine, Kenna's Reflections.
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  The One True Way ....
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  Goblin
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  Movalyn
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  Chronicles of Martoushca of Peltarch II
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  A long way from Mistveil Ridge
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  Maya was sitting at the edge of one of the riff along Nars Pass, her gaze locked on the small children doll coated with blood in her hands. She was staring at it as if it was hiding some deep meaningfull answers to the turmoil of crushing thoughts spinning in her head. The wind carrying the freezing chill haunting theses lands was making her clothes float around her rather frail shape. But since it happened... She was stuck, as if her body was barely more than an empty shell she was floating in. It all started with a trip to Jiyyd's ruins. Maya had heard before of some ancient monastery... Or what was left of it there. She was feeling dragged by the hope to find something left there, maybe some knowledge to strenghten her own technics, maybe something usefull to her. There wasn't so many monk orders around, none she was really aware of. Maya was expecting a lot of things, but none of them were prepared to face the awfull trolls there. As they were trying to survive a pretty vicious one, a man in armor appeared, studying them with a strange glance. Everything went fast, too fast. From what Maya was barely able to remember through the blurry tunnel of fast paced action, the time it took her to distance that troll, when she come back to Keeva, one of thoses mens in armor, a renegade, was trying to separate the sorcerer's head from her body. Maya took him down, saving her friend, her veins still burning with adrenaline, but the relief she felt at the thought Keeva was safe was short lived by the others gazes locked on them. As they were running away to leave Jiyyd alive, Maya noticed the fundations of some catapults in the distance. The catapults were designed to become impressive. Worse than anything she saw before. At this point, she had little doubts they would be able to reach the other side of the Scar and spread death there. Maya did what she could to spread the word, warn as many as possible, and, to her relief, some answered. Maya was intense, the fear to see another caravan attacked, to see more people dying after the time she spent bandaging and trying to save the people suffering from the last attack. She was almost still able to feel the blood covering her hands then. But it was just a big lie... As Maya and the General Thorn went to scout Jiyyd again, then came accross many catapults, much more. The General didn't took long to realize what Maya's lack of military experience missed. The position of theses new catapults... Wasn't making sense. It was a distraction... The orange tint filling the sky a few minutes later confirmed it, as some catapults, hidden elsewhere, were spreading hell in the distance, screams echoing from the distance. They made their way back as fast as they could, but it was too late... Another caravan... But this time... There was no one to save... Childrens... Womens... Mens... Nothing left but destroyed bodies and a strong smell of copper. Maya felt herself break. Was it a trap from the start ? Was it a change of plan to lure them after they realized the news would spread with witnesses escaping ? It was hard to say. But her mind was simply unable to process anymore, the voices of the soldiers coming to help echoing to her ear like a really distant muffled noise. Next to a teared off so little arm, in the general poodle of blood and destruction covering the area, a little children toy was there, displaying an embroidered smile partially coated with blood with a strange feeling of irony. She grabbed it on the floor, her blood pounding in her temples, and moved a bit aside to slide down along a tree trunk, unable to stop tears from rolling over her cheeks. Traumatized, visions of the dead bodies spinning in her head long after the soldiers finished to take care of the bodies, she eventually managed to stood, a dreadfull determination spinning in her head. Pale like a ghost, still tainted with blood, she moved back to Nars Pass, close to that bridge were, no matter the effort, some scoundrels and thugs would always come back to try to ambush some travelers. One of them would know. They HAD to know. She needed it almost as bad as she needed to breath.. To find something to focus on ; the hope to finally put an end to all theses deaths and this suffering. Keeva found her, standing broken, unable to articulate a word, the bloody doll still in her hand. She tried to comfort her friend, to bring her away, but they were interrupted by a group of grim faces in heavy armors. The kind of armors Maya recognized way too well already... The renegades. One of them was walking in front, visibly pleased to fall on the two vulnerable looking womens. The two others walking behind with crossbows, and the man with a mass and a shield, weren't looking less intimidating. The leader's words weren't even making sense to Maya's ears. Something was twitching in her gaze as she stared at them, her reddish eyes and the stains of the tears over her face contrasting with that inhuman pallor she was displaying. Maya wasn't listening to them, asking a few times... Or rather... Ordering Keeva to leave. But her friend wouldn't. Keeva was trying to convince them to let them leave. The renegades strangely agreed, provided the two womens would surrender their gold and their belongings. But nothing in this world would have moved Maya's away. A part of her knew she belonged here, as much as she did back then with Marvin, when they were still childrens. She was probably about to die, this time... definitely. But she was at peace with it. The second it was obvious to them she wouldn't surrender her gold.. The moment they joked about the catapults... That instant they would make a move... Maya was ready. She gave a vial to Keeva, as discretly as she could, expecting her to flee, then bring one to her lips, disappearing in front of their eyes. If there was a limit to the amount of potions you can sip down, Maya was way past over it. She pulled roughly a bunch of vial from her leather bag, dropping them quickly in her mouth, swallowing gulp after gulp, a decent amount of the potions leaking over her chin and dripping on her clothes. The magic mixtures were already making her whole body tickles, then radiate with an intense feeling of power. It was almost too much to bear... But compared to her state of mind, it was just a distant reminder she had a physical body. She appeared as she crashed into the leader, the velvet gloves around her hands, a gift from Reemul, turning almost as hard as stone as she extended her fingers, striking the space between his helmet and the torso of his armor. The man tried to hit her with the pommel of his sword to create some distance as he was emitting some gurgling noise, struggling to breath, but she was already all over him, hitting his joints, using his body as a shield against the crossbow holders. The one with an heavy mass and a shield was already starting to cast some divine spell. Maybe it was by luck, or maybe an alternate divine intervention, but at this time Reemul suddenly appeared, charging forward with his horse to take him down. Maya was lost in her own frenesy. A bolt whistled in the air, flying toward her. She turned toward it just in time to catch it, her heart beating like crazy. She broke the bolt, staring at the woman holding the crossbow who was looking back at her with an hatefull expression. Before she was able to load again, Maya ran toward her, jumped to strike her with both feets, then, falling on her back from the momentum, she kicked herself up on her knees with a kip up and closed the distance with the stunned woman trying to stand. She spinned to land a low kick straight in her skull, watching her collapse to the floor, her neck making a weird angle. Maya glanced around, rage, frustration and an intense pain burning in her chest. She was physically fine, but as much as she could have tried to prevent it was for greater goods, she wasn't in control. She lost herself to pure anger, seeking revenge for the horrors she just witnessed. It wasn't satisfying. She was feeling as if a fire was burning deep inside of her, wanting to consume more and more, its hunger growing with each more bite. The fact she killed them was only adding more weight to the pressure about to crush her down. She wanted to cry, to scream, but she was suddenly feeling nothing but really cold. And among the many thoughts spinning in her confused and traumatized head, one was pounding faster than the others. Whether she won a bit of time getting rid of thoses or not... There was still catapults out there. More of thoses mens... And probably more caravans to be attacked.
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  Pugor Henken of the Troff Legion
  • gimpster138

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  Esmeralda Tiller-Calchais' Chronicle
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  Tales of the fox
  • Kronan

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  Xiulan Ming - theme song -
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  Blue Raven's Journal
  • Kerby

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  A series of books shows up on the shelves of Spellweaver's Keep. They are plain journals, all written in the same uniform hand, by someone who must have been a scribe. The covers are all hand-made soft leather of various animals. The spines and covers with neatly embossed titles... a number and the title, "Blue Moon". If asked, the journals were acquired in an apartment clearing auction from the Bottleneck Apartments of Peltarch. If asked, the landlord of the building say that he was sorry to have to clear the place, the bank of Peltarch always paid the rent promptly. If asked, the bank of Peltach says that the account holder, one Blue Raven, instructed them to pay the rent on apartment 7a at the Bottleneck Apartments. The account ran out of money several months ago. Any that knew Blue Raven and asks the priestess of Selune at the Lighttower Temple (Lady Aurora). She says she hasn't been able to scry Blue's whereabouts for several months now and contacted the Monastery of the Bird in Damara. They haven't heard from her either. Her shop in Norwick was also emptied months ago for inactivity, and the Trade Hall masters still have many of her raw materials in their warehouse but will likely use if to teach young crafters if space becomes needed... since she hasn't paid dues or been seen in months. A Sunite circlet used by her order shows up in the gray markets of Uthmere. Boots matching hers, with Gnarl Horst's makers mark show up in Ghaunt Town. But there are no leads as to where they came from. ((Had fun on Blue and in Narfell over the years. Thanks for the fun. Adios))
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  Noemi - My Circus of Thoughts
  • Robyn

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  Entries 9 through 18 are filled with silly thoughts, notes for a song, comments on an unrequited crush, and concern about Blue Raven’s mental health. There’s mention of ongoing training and hiring some retired soldier named “Nick” to teach her how to fight with sword and axe. One of the entries is devoted entirely to her own failure to get past her continued distrust of elves. She recognizes the ill nature of her feelings, but the mistreatment in her past makes it difficult. She mentions how Ethuil and Alarn seem nice enough, but she can’t help but consider ulterior motives. Entry 19 I’ve been on two grand adventures in as many weeks. The first was to recover one of the masks, the “Visage of the Silver Arbiter”. It was located deep within Illithid territory as I had suspected. Sam (the name is surrounded with hearts) came along, and of course he kicked some serious ass. It’s utterly fascinating to watch someone with such skill. I wish I could do half the things he could. Maybe in fifty or so years (frowny face) The other was a terrifying event, where the lot of us were swallowed by a worm the size of the swamp east of Peltarch. There were strange creatures and even stranger goblins INSIDE the worm, tending to it’s needs. It was gross, disgusting, and completely unbelievable. We ended up killing it from the inside before being spat out. I had to bathe and scrub for two days straight just to get the stink out. Even prestidigitation didn’t help. I continue my instructions in Dwarven. It’s a strange language, but at least it has sensible structure. I haven’t heard from Thorin in some time, and that gets me worried. I think perhaps that my personal quest to make the lives better for the people of Peltarch is going to have to wait. I came back to the city after visiting Norwick and was presented with blood, demon or devilish bodies and a slew of dead guards. It seems that the return of the mask may have triggered some eruption in the fountain. What I thought was a simple corruption is something far darker and more sinister. We need to step up our search for the other masks. I was going to write something clever about wanting to be the hero of the story, but in the wake of so much calamity it seems selfish and out of place.
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  The Book of Vin
  • Necrofai

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  Day..... I have lost track of how long I've been here.... it hasn't yet been a year, but it is certainly more than a month. In the monastery time meant little. Each day bled into the other. A corpse was brought in, we tended to it, recorded their name and sent it off to be buried or cremated. Everything none in near silence, the flicker of our hands enough to convey what needed to be said. So different from here... Yet I find myself reflecting on this since despite how close I was to our lord I was there, how steeped in his works.... I have never felt as close to him as I have here. Twice. Twice I have slipped from this mortal coil only to be shunted back to this plane, bleary eyed and dazed as I woke up on a cold hard floor, an unfamiliar voice speaking to me with concern. Lately I have felt closer to my lord, and I can feel his hand on my shoulder, guiding me. This has not been as clear as recently when I ventured out with a group past The Deadhorse Inn. It was a large group, perhaps that should have led me to be wary, but many were people I had ventured with before and I found competent. And they were for the most part. We managed to slay many things that left me feeling a cold sense of dread just looking at them, so perhaps it is ironic that it was mere bandits were our undoing. The first was killed effortlessly before our leader Ax called for a scout to venture forth and see what was ahead, one more adept at blending into the shadows. But we had grown complacent, Axer who had been acting as a... "scout" charged forward to try and lure them back much to the horror of our leader. As he came galloping back... they followed. Bandits. There were a decent number of them, maybe 10 in total, but things descended into chaos as the others met them in battle. From the back chanting rang out and Blue Raven and I sprinted forth to deal with it. That was our error. Magic rained down on us and I watched my companions fall before my sight was ripped from me with a horrible wave of divine power. Blinded I ran, I was no good to them in this state no I needed to retreat and heal somewhere safe before I could come back and help. But with no frame of reference on where I was, I didn't manage to make it far enough away and as I raised a bottle to my lips I felt 5 arrows pierce into my back. I fell, my consciousness fading as I could feel my lifes blood pour from me until I felt his touch once more, urging me to rise. Divine power flooded me and I found myself back on my feet, my eyes clear and my body hale. My god had seen fit to bring me back, to intercede on my behalf, and I wasn't about to waste this blessing granted to me. Slipping into the shadows I began to help gather my fallen companions. Two others had survived, Noemi who had heard the call for retreat and Axer who had seen he was at a disadvantage and fallen back. Together we returned with the bodies and as the other two had seemingly decided that they preferred the Triad, I lent Noemi most of what I had not expecting to see the gold again. As I am barred from that temple, I went to seeing to more mundane matters such as selling items so that we could at least have something from this. I will admit I was still in shock. Would not anyone be in shock when their god goes out of their way to make sure you are safe? Anyways I returned as quickly as I could and found that all had been safely returned, barring Ax who needed ministrations elsewhere. While there was some irritation at my selling of what I had I ignored it, at that moment nothing could drag me out of the feeling of awe I felt. Soon Ax returned as well and what else people had gathered was sold earing us each some small amount of coin. And with that I returned to Norwick, begin pulled aside by the dwarf, Maythor, who gave me a skinning knife he had offered me week previously. I spoke with Ax after and found it rather... insightful if troubling in some aspects. He is of a practical mind but seems to be ashamed of it, idolizing those foolish heroes that if left to run rampant would see us all dead to their ideals. I should most likely speak to him at a later date, I will admit I find him a valuable asset and it would be a shame to lose him to folly. (four names are written in bold each described in various graphic detail on their deaths)
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  Raazi~The Maw of Entropy
  • Goddess of Spite

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  She hid her Gnomish Positioning Scroll, went down the other route of the Pixie's Roost through the Romani Camp into the valley, but doubled back out of curiosity. When she finds him, he's wounded. He's furiously fighting a gloomy fog of shadow, 'This is entirely your fault'! She abandons him- Unable to sustain the fight- One she started, ducking low so her bat winged cloak could fill with air, and erupted her out of reach into the air. Shadows clawing and clinging to her legs as she looks back down at Mac hewing stalwartly at an uncountable force surrounding him and tearing him to pieces. She runs away with such force she's exhausted herself only far enough to be within earshot-and she hears his final pained path down the path. Noticing people converging in front of her looking for Cormac so she doubles back, and starts to weep over his corpse. She makes up excuses, and it is Sebrienne as usual is the only person who even notices Raazi acting suspicious, her doubling backs, invisible, coughing up reasons for this and that. Sebrienne only being confirmed over and over, the woman Raazi is a horrible mean person. Raazi and Cormac could barely make eye contact in public, knowing what she did. She wanted it all back and the crow already sounded over head. The empty well within her caused her to trudge, and she become high with the reality of her choices. Everything she valued so much, a realm just for her, a man stronger than the planes itself. She had to hide. She had to pray to him And he sits there furiously defeated, bitterly withering on his throne in Deaths Rest, breath by breath. His heart beat stopped echoing the chambers. A lightening crack staining the starry sky picture like the surface cracks on a plate refused to be thrown away for sentimental value despite its harbored bacteria. The atmosphere holding up whats left was contorted like the legs of a suffering spider and shattered into the deep black void like a violent storm and remained perpetually unraveling to his horror, to his grief. His brothers mocked him, their vehement laughter slapping around him like a chain noose. "HA. Ha ha. Ha haha! haha ha HA HA! HAAAA!!!! YOU KNEW IT! WE TOLD YOU! SHE BETRAYED US! JUST ANOTHER WHORE! AH HA! HAHahaha! Even after -everything-, she still turned her back on her family! YOU'RE FUCKED!! HAHaha! You know what this means!!!" He knew. And the Hungering Star that always loomed off in the distance of his domain started to accelerate, no longer hearing the war drum of Cormac's heart filling the nothingness with love, pride, purpose... "YOU KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN!!" An old friend sees his pain. Salin V, who was there when Raazi did her best to rally strong folk to come to deaths rest, with every intention to dethrone him. Salin V gives Cormac a hope just enough for his last few heartbeats to pump his blood and reminds him of his heavy ax's purpose and Who it is that wields it.. And he spends his few hours on the material plane trudging into shadowy fortresses with the noble few who can stomach it. Raazi, having lost her grip on her sword entirely unable to help. She knew it spelt death for her and she couldn't stop his fate, horrified he may be even more reckless now that she's successfully wounded the man. It is this very mistrust that ruminates within her. It compels her to bring a curvy dagger deadly enough to simply have to touch someone with slight intention to kill them. It is gripped in both hands, and she once again watches Cormac from the shadows. The moment has to be perfect. Even if it is tomorrow. He is a liability to her new future. One fit for the heartless, the whores, the betrayers, the guiltless, the powerful, the evil... So when all the kind folk leave the table at the Dancing Mermaid and it's just him bitterly looking over the fog of the commons. She is there behind him. "Whats that for Magpie", Cormac has no fear but respect when he' goes to touch her hands to relax her dagger. But she lays her threats down at him. To keep his mouth shut about what he knows. He will be silent about what he knows. If even a peep, she threatens to destroy him. And by the end of the conversation she's in tears barely able to hold the dagger. Cormac's skaldic poems trashing her into a human being again and reminding her she's not alone still. That even if he hates it, he'll do it for her. He'll keep the very secret that is the reason he's going to face the his end.. ..She chose to serve a demon queen.. Not sit by his side, under the million stars he placed when she wasn't looking. That now hang in ruins like a shattered love fern... They kept up the lie: it only takes a few friendly glances to feign a good time. Only few knew his true heart ache, if anyone. The Prince Kasimir having had a very close eye on them from the start perhaps the first to know. Slowly, they separated till it was too painful to be near again. They did their best to stay apart. But a pile of pixie corpse in a beautiful glen perhaps will remember the truth, hidden survivors turning away from seeing their The truth of loneliness, facing every challenge alone now, Raazi recluses to places of beauty where she finds Nenufar, curiously watching her from the shadows. Curious of this particular quarry, picking each other's minds like cherries that survived in the shade. Sharing an out look not bleak but tangibly understandable. Her mortal hand reaching out to a fiendfriend to doom herself once again into physical solidarity and mental isolation. The simple subconscious outreach turned devastating as she felt the full weight of the succubus's apathetic desire to be fulfilled even if it betrays them both. Nenufar identified promptly what happened and took flight. Had she been a lesser fiend, she would of taken Raazi's soul there perhaps- but saw her purpose, her loyalty[Needle In The Hay - Kermit]. Raazi could barely contain herself from the torture of being let alive. A thrall. Like a hangover, she did everything she could to curve it. Even admitting to a few people that a different demon named Miranda, who she knew rather well had been playing tricks on her and nothing more, perpetuating this other shadowy succubus as a baddie. She needed people to think she would -never- turn and did so quite effectively. She catches Cormac at the docks, and crys to him in her overly tightened clothing and helmet she fascend just to keep a layer between her and the Succubus Queen as she served her new purpose. Raazi could feel Cormac's spite, she knew he was going to be the first adventurer to murder Nenufar. An inevitable feeling like something falling like an ICBM towards her queen lingering in orbit. The hero Cormac Randolph had the means to tear Miranda out of the sky.. She finds the courage to finally ask: if she can come home in a moment of clarity or fear. "Its Xaari all over again," he refused, knowing fully well how bad it'd gotten. She'd of lost it, the good man spares her but spears his heart once again. "What is it that makes it so easy for people to leave me..." Cormac now walking away with a hollow cup in one hand, weapon in the other. Raazi filled with whats left within herself, only to flounder about crying it out laced in leather and twine. Cormac swings the ax ruthlessly when he picks it up, but his arm always slacks unsatisfied after every bloodshed he commits. Less so for The Jewel, and more because- he was in the current heading to the edge of the fall no matter what, due to what had happened. He knows his way through the bard college like a grocery store. The doors like isles he could care the fuck less about until he gets to the one to refill his cup. His eyes sob, his heart knocking on the door of the bard's college trying to take flight once more. It wouldn't of mattered if She was on the other side or not. The Norns moved his feet 3 steps closer to the door. 3 times did his heart beat. 3 final words did he utter like the roar of a wolf you'll never hear again. "My name..its.." He freezes at the door. Death's rest goes empty.
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  Therapy: A Session With Cormac
  • KingCreeper

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  Berserkir A frenzy of steel and claws, Cormac in the fray drenched in the inky black of the Underdark and the sticky blood of those denizens fool enough to fight instead of flee. He moved well, he always did, stepping nimbly and avoiding flashing ax-heads and gnashing teeth as though guided by some second sight or sixth sense. A crescent of crimson opened just above his elbow, a close call left a paper-thin trail of blood along his cheek a heartbeat later, and had he not struck a killing blow first, the next swing would have almost certainly been fatal. A companion's longsword deflected the downward blow that was meant to end him, a blur of arrows streaked over his shoulders and under his arm causing his scarlet hood to flutter in their wake, the tattered frays of his crimson cloak spilled forth behind them before he himself had even moved, red tendrils like eager hellhounds hungry for the kill. The Quaggoth staggered back a single step - and joined the rest of its kind in whatever passes for the afterlife for such beasts. Cormac was not surprised to find that Dermin did not apologize for his lazy shieldwork, he explained instead that these creatures were difficult to taunt - that he couldn't always keep their attention. Neither did Cormac feign interest in this scientific evaluation as he drowned the deeper of his his wounds with an expensive curative. He merely raised his eyebrow and let out a rolling growl that seemed to say nonverbally "...is that so? Very interesting", or more likely, some manner of expletive. Their quarry had been called 'Deep Bears', though Cormac had elected to rebrand them as Cave Apes on account of their lanky arms and cave-folk 'ug-ug' way of talking. The thought amused him. It didn't much matter anymore. The cave walls had been painted in nonsense patterns of spattered blood and all had become quiet in the dark. If any were left living they'd surely saw sense and run to safer pastures. Victory, but this would not end their foray into the hateful deep places beneath Narfell's surface. The Elf, Ethuil, knew the path and he had kept tidy notes on the steps needed to traverse the maze that they'd have to cut through in order to reach the dark market of Ghaunttown. Cormac made fun of the Elf's bookishness. He'd never express his relief at knowing their passage was made much simpler for the planning. But it was as it always had to be. Kindness and softness were rare as winter sun from the big man whose only business was spilling blood. The deep maze would prove no different in the end. Heavy steps and wild bellowing told a tale that was articulated in the spastic rune-words that might've spelled out 'Danger' in deep axe gouges that had been carved out on the clean cut stone walls. The whole place was overrun with minotaurs, Cormac slew them in droves - their thick hides offering little protection against the biting edge of his great, heavy ax. Many more were brought down in clinical, sterile showers of arrows. Precise, Elven shots that sunk into rib cages, finding their way between and around thick bone and into tender organs, or piercing throats and eyeballs to bring about the sudden deaths of their targets. Dermin battered the ones that broke through with his tall shield and held them in place for arrow or blade to finish. All of them together moved efficiently. They were a deadly quintet, and Cormac was determined - as always - to be the keen tip of the spear. Reckless, proud. Violence personified. He would pay dearly for his boastful nature in the chamber of the minotaur king, the stormtouched mad creature that seemed kindred to a demi-god. Spells flew alongside arrows. Elite guards charged forth with their metal-clad horns, determined to gore - and what they could not catch with murderous horn, to smash with their greatmauls. Dermin and Cormac lead their own charge. Dermin barreled through with his shield raised before him, knocking minotaurs aside like a battering ram. Cormac whirled between them, untouchable, made invincible through his furious battle-trance. Both men came together at the end and on target. Dermin struck low, Cormac came in high. The horned king dropped to one knee, the battle was close to done - one more strike and they'd celebrate another triumph. Where the Wild Wolves Have Gone Whether by the grace of some trickster god, or the manifestation of Cormac's fated misfortune - surely one of his many curses - the bloodied minotaur managed to utter just one spell through ragged breath. Both men were stunned by the sudden blinding flash of lightning, the horned shaman used the opportunity to cast off another spell, and another, he rallied his elite guard - summoned 'demons'. It was already too late when the men regained their senses. Cormac caught a glimpse of the warrior in red, his companion, Dermin - his thick plate armor, his heavy shield, and he wished to be so burdened and well furnished. He saw arrows whip by, striking too late, cutting shallow wounds or bouncing off the spell-imbued hide of the warrior king harmlessly. Cormac coveted the safety that comes from striking from such range, he wished he could attack from afar - and began to falter. He watched as spells were uttered from the wizard's lips, and leapt from his dancing hands, and though even those would prove futile, Cormac reflected inwardly and found himself inadequate. He could only watch as Dermin withdrew, as the archers and mages were scattered. His kohl-painted steely grey eyes rose to meet the minotaur lord's. His blackened lips thinned, in fact he'd clenched his jaw to hide his terror - to stop his lip from quivering like scared child. He recalled at the last how Rika had called him heartless. The great minotaur's greatmaul caught him from the side and sent him flying. He would not recall the pain from the blow, nor from being dashed against the walls of the maze that had become his tomb. The world melted away, the sounds of the ongoing battle died with him. He snapped out of is fugue state to the sound of musical laughter, he was at first confused and then comforted to see Isolde's face at the other side of the table they often shared in the commons. Thick black snowflakes didn't drift down but seemed to fall like iron shavings from a sky that was made of shadows. The only colour he could distinguish in the dark were her perfectly painted bright red fingernails, he imagined the red of her lips, of the curls of her hair. None of it seemed particularly odd to him, he was enthralled it seemed - and he hung on her every word, every twitch of a smile that came to her lips. He tried to speak to her and found that he couldn't draw in any breath while the blizzard flurried about them, he was unable to articulate what he wanted from her. The soft look in her eyes made him want to beg. He wanted to be reminded of the dreams they shared, how he'd sold the idea of a simple life - a cabin in the woods - to her and how she'd been more than receptive, but happy. Out of nowhere she called him darling, suddenly she rose and looked right at him with a perfect grin that was so wide he thought it must surely hurt, and his heart raced. The shadowclad form of the red haired woman spread her arms and Cormac nearly rose to his feet, wanted, more than anything, to put his arms around her and feel her embrace - when a man's voice came from behind. He called her darling, he watched the shadowclad man step forth and steal the warmth that had surely been meant for him. He could say nothing. He could not move. This was surely hell, and he pondered on which of his sins could he be paying for, and just as the sensation of true helplessness was setting in - as their lips drew near to touching before his unblinking eyes... He imagined the smirk on Cray's lips as he said the words, before he could even properly see again - before he'd drawn more than half a breath. "Ye owe me a hunner'n eighty thousand". A sobering thought came to mind. Son of a bitch. Send me back to Hell.
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  Swords to Plowshares
  • Crazymojo

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  The Plan Varya writes in her journal Having discussed with Juniper who would allow me access to her portal, I communicate to the people on the farm as well as my mother and the other leaders that there will be a possible exodus through the south escorted by the Farm's strongest to her portal which would lead the Grain Goddess' people to Silverymoon. The weak, frail, children, and those who cannot fight will all be preserved in these times, though more still has to be done. I will either have to speak to the leaders there, or have Juniper speak on my behalf to see if a couple of thousand people will be able to be cared for during the period of war. I will also be providing 50,000 coin for any goods and services that can help them along their way, possibly more if needed pending on the circumstances. Grain Goddess, whether you feel me worthy of holy blessing or not, I shall continue to not falter in these trialsome times and will continue to ensure the safety of your faithful
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  The Gray Druid - The Diary of Aoth Sepret
  • its_a_fire

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  Have I not written to you in an age, my false Katrin? I barely know where to begin. Perhaps I must start with the corrupted elementals. Twisted by a engineer against their own nature, lead by the broken Dust, once an earth elemental before he was exposed to what the others called the “elemental chaos.” We took the Opportunity through a vortex and into the fortress that Elliott’s elemental friends had constructed before the chaos erupted. There we were forced to kill Dust, though I tried, Katrin, to spare him. If anyone should have accepted change over a single vision, it was him - but no, he would die for his cause. During the final fight, I was thinking about Virgil, the earth elemental who had been reduced to a thin wraith from the chaos, and about the dream of his that Rocky shared at that party in the Mule… He said it felt as if he was seeing past, present and future. But he said he saw you. Or someone like you. A trickster. A fox. You fought with a beast. A gnarled, rotten thing. With teeth that rend souls. Where others brought chains, you brought freedom. Where others stopped the wind, you showed them their folly. I do not know if it was a vision, a prophecy, or just a strange dream. I was glad when we learned Dust’s forces had abandoned the source of the Chaos in the Elemental Plane of Earth, and that Emir Zeva had begun the slow process of healing the Shattered Walk without us. I would have put the story behind me, shrugged off the failure to persuade Dust, were it not for Virgil’s dream and the old seer in the Lantan woods, who spoke a similar message. Cosmic forces play chess, and there are many pieces. As many pieces as there are grains of sand on the shore. But you are not one of them. Freedom comes at a cost, and you'll often feel it, but if you stay true to your heart, you'll be nobodies pawn. As all of this was unfolding, three cults in Narfell came to our attention and began to worth together. Cults of The Three Sisters - the Red Lady, Lady Nocturnal, and Lady Death. We later learned a group called the Unitarians had brought them together to summon The Formless Mother, this shapeless flesh that is eating away at the earth beneath us. Too late we came to learn the story of Frigus Mortis, our Jovial Axe, known as Felix Montague (or Mharrow or Mortimer). Once a knight of Thethyr but exiled. He found himself at Fordrim in the Icerim Mountains, a village burned by an ember that fell from the sky. Only a cowled figure remained, tempting others to join the flame. Too late we learned the tale because I had already taken the ember into my heart in the Giantspire peaks. The Fire of Devastation burns within me, Katrin. Me, who swore never to let another move me. Who lectured and railed and schemed against those who would have used terrible weapons during the war. So accustomed am I to the disinterested tone of the elemental faiths that I did not question The Flamekeeper, who had guided our hand against the Formless Mother. So eagerly did I read Kossuth’s teachings into his intentions that I did not recognize the flame for what it was - alien to our world, an aberration from beyond the stars. So I sit here, Katrin, burning on the inside and bald as the day my mother died with Kossuth's name on her lips. I wonder whether I am kind enough to risk my soul to quench the flame or whether I am fool enough to think I can control it? I wish to be neither of these, Katrin – but what is my move? What price freedom?
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  George Longcloak - In search of a legend
  • WouldBeBard

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  The sun stands high over Narfell. A few minor clouds marring an otherwise pristine sky, but there is no wind to drive them on. On a cliff overlooking the Icelace sits the young man, his bouts of writing interrupted by the thoughts running through his head. Unaware of his own actions, he touches an item lying next to him. He writes only when he occasionally snaps out of it. And then you get an answer. Reading back through my own words, I have come to realize something. For most of my life, I did not quite trust the gods. Certainly, I gave them praise and offerings. They rule countless aspects of my life, and I always had enough to be thankful for. They rule countless aspects of the world itself, and take their tasks seriously, even the ones whose task is to not be too serious. I respected them. Trust, however? No. The gods are not mindless, they are not emotionless, they are not devoid of desires. They are fallible. They plan and scheme, working towards goals of their own. Any semblance of balance and stability seems to come only from as many of these plans succeeding as failing and being countered by another god's plans. Not that different from mortal power struggles at all. And like the struggles in my dear Peltarch, I believed staying well clear was the best choice. To keep your head down and do what had to be done to protect those you care about. If you do not rely on greater powers, you will never have your world collapse when you find they do not answer one day. Steel can be trusted. Your hands can be trusted. Your eyes can be trusted. Surround yourself with allies, but always be willing to do it alone. And yet. And yet. Can I honestly say I have ever done it alone? Not counting my many capable and stalwart companions for a moment, though I would never forget them. To face the Far Realms so early in my career, not once, not twice, but thrice over. The crisis of faith it brought. To find solace in Helm's temple, then meet Kanen Hightower when I began to wonder. To arrive just in time to stop a hit by the Far Scouts on a girl that now proves herself most useful in finding out what N'Jast is after. To fall trying to stop the mage who made meeting the Hightower possible, and be met with Robert Holmesmead beyond the veil to warn me of what Rhodes was truly planning. To lay dying on the walls of Arrangar, yet have a god hear my plea and put me back on my feet. Pivotal moments, and there are many more. Each time, something put me where I needed to be. I used to figure it was just chance. These days, however, I cannot shake the feeling that I was always part of the game. By said chance, I started to carry the gnomish map around again. On a whim, really. Not three days later, it warned me of an adventurer falling. The curious thing was that it did not mention a name. I just had to go look, of course. I was outside the Mermaid with Cormac and Morgan at the time. They balked, but decided going to have a look see was better than watching flowers grow, pretty though they were. We were joined by Gnarl, and Raazi after, then set out to find the mystery fallen. I am sparse with the details, because so much of it is unknown to me still. What we found was a crater, with a large crystal lodged into the ground. We all knew the area, and that was certainly new. First, we figured the crystal had fallen on top of some poor sap. The more we looked at it, though, we started to notice the crystal's peculiar shape. Something that might be a torso. Something that might be legs. Something that could definitely be a head. Which had quite the crack in it. As I approached the head and examined the wound, I saw several smaller crystals inside, shining more brightly than the rest of the body. I did the dumb thing. I know, I know, I should know better by now, but I have seen, spoken to and fought so many Outsiders. I had never seen one like this before, and curiosity got the better of me. I touched a crystal. The moment I did, the crystals inside the head slithered. Stone, my friend, should not slither. A moment later, we all felt a searing, burning pain in our bodies. When it passed, we found we were all branded. I have something that looks like a cross between a branding and a birthmark on my left thight. Cormac has a like symbol in his neck. Gnarl has one on his tongue. Morgan has one in his eye. A strange twist of fate I shall not bring up with Elliot. Raazi has one, too, but I don't recall if she mentioned where. All star shaped. So far, the brand only seemed to have stopped us from acting aggressive towards the crystal, sending new waves of pain when Raazi attempted to kick it. When Morgan attempted to ressurect the creature, what we got was the spectral image of a large crystalline spider. It tried to communicate, in its way, with a series of clicks to represent numbers, and the numbers representing our alphabet. Whatever the creature was, it is expected to return with the new vessels. Us. Return where? "They" are waiting for us among the stars. This was not a neogi, though. What irks me most is that we are not immediately compelled to find a way back the "them". We may be the vessels that need to return, but this likely means it has more planned. I worry it will compel us to mark more vessels. With its message done, the spectral image dissolved, leaving the curious gnomish map that lured us there. Now it falls to us to learn what is done to us, and how to remove it. The others seem to have more options. Well, maybe not Gnarl. The map will have Legend Lore cast on it, and whatever other manner of divination spells Morgan and others can muster. Raazi could likely find gods know how many volumes on rare Outsiders over in Spellweaver. Cormac over in the College. And there I am with my bloody piece of steel in hand, right? I could head to either of those or Little Candlekeep and ask to look through those books, but the good books are all written in Draconic. Figures. Yes, my friends and companions can help. Yes, I asked them, and I trust them. It is just frustrating to have to wait, unable to act as long as I have no clue what I am dealing with. And so, I trusted. Trusted that I am not alone. That all these situations I am thrust into are not just happenstance. That the path I walk is the will of Helm. Dear Aoth warned me to be careful about praying. Place enough faith in a god, and they will place their faith in you. It seems I am in for it now. I prayed. A simple enough prayer. Asking for guidance. A sign to tell me what was needed of me. To show me what I could do against this new threat. I have heard His followers are occasionally granted visions when they are at wit's end. I assumed that would be the extent of it. To tell the truth, I had not expected an answer. Despite that I believe He watches over me, it seemed so insignificant. And then? You get an answer. The young man puts the quill down and picks up the item that lay next to him. A finely crafted steel hilt, fit for a bastard sword, oddly warm to the touch. Part of him had not believed it when he first found it. He'd even visited Helm's temple to have Alicia tell him what he already knew. This was his sign. His fingers run along the elegantly engraved letters on the hilt. "Ever Vigilant."