Tales By The Fire

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  Verika Evrilla - Burning Flesh and Death
  • RedMenace

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  _I traveled with Durion for over a year before he instructed me in the ways of magic. In this time I came to know him as he truly was. The dark rumours that circulated him and his mysterious and distant manner implied him to be a man of darkness. In our travels however I found him to be good humoured and irreverent. Durion was also a harsh instructor and his lessons in swordplay were often rough and frantic. "Your enemies will not go easy on you and so neither will I!" he would often exclaim in the middle of our sparring practice. "Your left is open, far more open than anyone else, compensate!" These frequent lessons left my body sore so to allow it rest they were often followed up by study and theory. "The weave requires expert skill and knowledge. Your opponent will not give you the chance to complete your weave at your leisure. Your movements and words must be as quick and precise as the swings of your blade." When the day expired and we were left to do naught but rest we shared words. I told him of my life in the community and my insecurities of purpose while he told me of his art and controversy. "In my youth my human side ruled me, driven and ambitious. I longed for power by any means I could reach for. This led me down the path of necromancy, animating the bodies of others to do what I could not." Durion reached over to his useless arm, gripping it tightly. "I was a foolish child, self taught and believing I was invincible. The back lash of negative energy killed my arm." "Was this before or after you became a blade singer?" I asked. Durion chuckled. "Before, I would most certainly have been cast out if it was after. This event is what led to my apprenticeship infact." Durion retrieved his sword and rested it on his lap, his eyes glazed over with nostalgia. "My master found me, nursed me to health and placed me under his wing. The blade singers protect elven society, including its ideals. He thought steering one with elven blood, as diluted as mine is, to the right path was a worthy symbol of that." "And you never used necromancy again?" "Not at all, I use it all the time." I balked, the accusations of his dark magic were true? He noted my aghast reaction and once again chuckled to himself. "I do no defile the dead and animate corpses if that worries you. An important lesson for you to learn Verika, one not all are aware of. There is no inherent evil in negative energy. Like all things that exist it has its place in the cosmology of our universe. Much like the blade I teach you to wield it is a thing that can be used for horrid evil, but its use can also do much to save lives." He could see I was not yet convinced. While it is a true that a blade could protect and murder alike it was not a force of nature. Negative energy did nothing but manipulate death and decay life. "An example then. With necromancy I could drain the life away from others to heal myself, I could drain away the strength of my foe 'till he was naught but a quivering mess on the ground and, once I'd dealt the final blow, I could animate and enslave his corpse to do my will." "This does not help your case" I interjected. Ignoring me he continued. "But the opposite is true. I could take my own life force to mend the injuries of others and steal away the undead slaves of others, freeing their bodies and their spirits from the torment others so selfishly inflicted upon them. There is no evil in death Verika, it comes to all eventually. Even elves." For years my studies continued, slowly progressing from theory, to cantrips and then finally to more proper circle spells. Wards, weapon enchantments and the manipulation of pure energy. However while I knew the movements of the weave, I had great difficulty in casting expediently. Even experienced mages used two hands to cast, a luxury I was not allowed. While I grew better with practice, a gnawing feeling lingered at the back of my mind. "How do you cast spells with a sword in your hand?" I asked one night while eating around our campfire. Durion smiled, unsurprised by the question. "I am afraid that is a Bladesinger secret, which I told you when we begun I'd never teach you." I was taken aback, he's taught me magic and he's taught me the sword but he won't teach me how to combine the two? Anger boiled within me and I threw myself to my feet "Then what was the point of teaching me anything?!" "Do not discount what I have taught you, nor should you discount the severe risk I have taken by teaching you in the first place." Durions words were cool, devoid of the fervour he displayed in lessons. Rumours say I am an exiled Bladesinger and while they are untrue they will become so if I do take you as a squire proper." I was reminded of what he said when we first met, that he was forbidden from taking students. "Why are you forbidden? What did you do?" "You were horrified when you learnt of my skills in necromancy, yet you accepted my reasoning because I am your superior." Durion put his hand in the ground behind him and laid back, casting his gaze to the canopy of the surrounding forest. "But to the other Bladesingers, I was their inferior, the new untested member of their order as well as one with human blood. They did not see it as I did, did not accept the value in its knowledge. They could not cast me out, despite the insistence of one, I knew far too much of their ways and their most secret meeting places. So instead they forbade me from taking an apprentice, if I could not pass on my weave to another then there would never be another necromancer Bladesinger. Their…reputation would remain intact." I could see the pain on his face, he had been rejected, completely and utterly, by his peers and would be rejected by history and lineage. The ways and teachings of his master and the masters before him would end with him. An ignoble, shameful end. "If the goal was to preserve the reputation of the Bladesingers, how did knowledge of your weave enter the rumour mill?" I asked. Durion smirked bitterly. "The one who insisted I be exiled was not satisfied, while it cannot be proven, I suspect he told the right people. If I was not exiled by the people I fight with then I would be exiled by the people I fight for." Durion fell silent for a moment then stood up, brushing his hand on his pants. "But enough speaking of the wretched past, it is late and unlike you I require sleep. Good night Verika, we'll continue your lessons in the morning."_
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  Machinations of Hyperborea
  • Gringat

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  Second Entry: Joyous Day! I write these from the study in Norwick's Temple of Lathander in the days after a particularly resounding experience out in the Rawlinswood. The details alas are not suitable for this book but it must be noted that within a cliffside cave was found a scroll (it must be noted, written in Gnim by a gnomish hand) of rapid lycanthropy. Such a repugnant item threatens that which makes humanity great! Gond was pleased with its sacrifice, and granted me a boon! Truly, my coming here was warranted and my faith well placed after all. The Cave: Located at RWX2-2E/5 at the edge of a cliff. Strange layout, including one loop that simply turns back on itself after approx. 300 yd. Chamber contained a riddle door with an animated statue that the party, alas, destroyed. When its crystalline eyes were removed and pointed at the door, it opened. Not available for further study. Circlet of Blasting Curious to find, as these are normally held by the Bedine of the Anauroch desert. Potentially of Netherese origin according to my studies back at the academy, I never thought I would see one in person. The band around the helm is able to collect, store and release solar energy through a mechanism I have been unable to determine as of yet. I am sure that in the grand old days of Netheril, these helms would have been capable of so much more, coupled as so many other items were with the power of the Mythallar! Activated Pixie Dust An even more unexpected find. These are a new invention! The activation process is unknown to me but the invisibility effect of the resultant powder persists even after strenuous movement of one coated in it. *A label is glued onto the page here, it reads; "For optimal results, sprinkle entire contents on head. In event Gnomish Whatchamacallits Inc. patented Activated Pixie Dust is diluted across several persons - results may vary." Gnomish Whatchamacallits Incorporated is an unknown entity which may in fact be local. I must investigate further.
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  Anheim (Black Cloak).
  • Attentus

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  Finally i did fulfill my promise to Tempus, to kill gnolls. i killed three of gnoll wariors by myself, using only potions & martial arts. They were alone or in a small group. They have deadly knockdown training, but i did succeed to stun warriors twice with my fist. i had to flee, heal & return to kill them. i killed at least two of their younglings as well, and wounded one more. … it was potions-expensive & dangerous holy trip. i did offer part of my spoils - two of Endurance Potions - to Tempus at his Shrine, after combat. Then, i stayed there to meditate. -- Anheim, a Warrior & Martial Artist.
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  A Nimja's book
  • Gonnar

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  Name: Margot Hair Colour: Black Eye Colour: Bodybuild: Normal Known Languages: Common and Halfling Aligment: Unkown Deity: Unknown Abilities: bare-hand fighting. Important information: Threat Level: Low - green
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  The Sons of Rathgar and other BS...
  • JayFal

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  As everyone who plays here knows, Narfell has a way of transforming the characters in it. UthgEr's ambitious nature led him to seek out fame as a militia captain in Norwick while UthgAr's wanderlust kept him out in the wild and acting like a 7 foot Mowgli (and out of in-game politics). I tried to build on this by making 'Gar more of an outdoors man and tried to found the Heyokarr Nars barb guild before kids, jobs, and real life start interfering with my free time. At the tale end, Uthger's popularity was such that 'Gar was frequently getting confused as Uthger by other players. Not only did this make me crazy, but this also drove 'Gar further out into the fringes where he was RP'd has seeking his roots with the Nars tribes. As part of a small story line, Gar was eventually re-rolled as Brightsword (his new Nars name due to his glowing great sword). Some fun facts: Thad Dvvags (Scutum's ever present and ever quiet ranger companion) is meticulous when he types. His grammar and his spelling must be perfect and this caused him to always be late to the conversation in Narfell. THIS is why Thad rarely spoke. He'd start typing a reply to something, look up, and find that the conversation had already moved on. The player behind Thad was also the player behind that crazy, pyromaniac elf named Coal. If anyone remembers him. The player behind Uthger HATED RP. It took a very long time to convince him to play and stick with it. In the end, I think the militia thing was what really drew him in.
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  A Farmer's Mind
  • Atel

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  Learning Netherese
  • estrellanuev

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  María nods quietly That's good enough. Nice to actualy know you now, Savstwra. We'll begin with the basics of nethewre, then. As with any language, the most impowrtant thing to leawrn is the alphabet, and fwrom the alphabet, the most impowrtant thing to leawrn is the vowels. Wrepeat with me: "y, s, is, ai, th" She waits for Savstra to repeat the vowels, then she repeats them once again, so that she can correct herself. While she does so, María stands up and goes fetch a book from the shelf behind them, then with a clasp of her fingers a quill and a blank scroll appear on her hand, too
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  Harvestmistress' Personal Journal
  • Mooncandies

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  A Chilling Reminder What had transpired the other day was quite honestly one of the most terrifying things I had to do. Hearing of the archpriest of Corellon had headed down to Jiyyd along with Dermin to fight a Balor, I couldn't let them go alone in good conscience. Rushing my way down there, I had been unfortunately met with Dermin speaking to a paladin of Kelemvor at that point, learning that Raryldor had fallen to the creature's blade. I took it upon myself to prepare to retrieve him. As much as there had been times where we were at odds, I have great respect for the good he does in Narfell and his vigilance when it comes to this land's well being. Trembling, absolutely terrified, I went under the guise of Greater Sanctuary into the lands, fearing that the demons might have consumed the body, or perhaps laid some kind of trap, or might perhaps dispel my ward should they have True Sight. I ran in there quickly and praise be to Chauntea was able to retrieve his form. Taking him to the pixie sanctuary nearby, along with Dermin, we were able to restore him to life with the Harvestmistress' graces. What was to come though did not bode well. He insisted the demon needed to be destroyed, that it would knock down the barrier quicker, and the idea of it escaping was terrifying. He insisted that the others who came thanks to Jonni's vision go back there and attempt to destroy it once and for all, figuring it may still be injured from when they had brought it to near death the first time. I was terrified at the prospect. The faces of the thousands of people in Peltarch that count on me for guidance and protection outside the walls with their farms, their orchards all flooded my mind. If I were to fall, who would take over? It in a way helped justify my cowardice. I was afraid. Truly afraid. He reminded me that it would come after my farms and lands too and I dismissed it. It kept tugging at me though, a sharp jab that provoked me in t heir direction. Upon entering Jiyyd where they initially engaged the demon, this time the Balor was ready. He had learned how to fight the priest from the first encounter. He had learned that, despite the powers we wield, physically we were but leaves to be swept aside by its flaming blade in hand, ones to be swept away in an instant the moment it engaged us in melee. Aoth fell, Dermin fell, and sadly Raryldor fell once more. My arrows barely grazed it. I was too terrified of the prospect of getting near those who needed healing as the creature pounded upon them, knowing that I would be its next victim. I only had one instance of greater sanctuary prepared as I prayed in haste, not thinking ahead of time out of sheer panic. That instance had been used to once again recover our allies. It was terribly draining, emotionally, physically, spiritually. Seeing the creature, fighting it, and restoring my comrades back to life. I have fought balors as powerful as this one in the past, but it was foolish to think we could combat such evil on its terms instead of ours. Fighting it with its army in tow, fighting it in a land where it could possibly traverse back from the abyss after we would defeat it since the two lands are converging. I have never felt so helpless in my life. Having been in the military, having fought in wars, fought with allies, overcoming odds and obstacles, this was the first time I have never felt so helpless. But I will not surrender to my fears. As of now, I will be redoubling my efforts to find a way to banish these demons permanently. I will support those willing to do so, and will fight with every fiber of my being to keep this land safe. What transpired that day is an unfortunate reminder of our mortality, and as discouraging as it is, the only thing we can do now is move forward and learn from our mistakes.
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  A Fall from Darkness
  • tpickles

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  When Gods Play It was early evening in Norwick and Grunk was meditating, while looking out upon the Rawlinswood, upon recent events in his life. It felt so long ago, his days with the Blood tribe, as if it was another life that wasn’t his. Perhaps it was just a nightmare that he had never lived at all. But he knew that was wishful thinking. It was his life no matter how much he wished it wasn’t. Images would drift in from that life, and Grunk shifted his thoughts away, to the peaceful way he had become. He fell into a trance. He dropped back into the present as the Norwick gate creaked opened. It was an iron clad human, wandering into town. They took notice of each other, exchanged pleasantries and the man introduced himself as Devlin before he wandered toward town. Grunk rose and went to talk to him. As Grunk approached, a farmer of Norwick ran up to them both in a greatly distressed state. He pleaded to the two as a basket was stolen from him by a group of goblins. Grunk and Devlin set out to find the basket. Not far out of Rawlinswood, near a lake that goblins often congregated around, the party stumbled on the group of thieves. Before Grunk could charge, Devlin began speaking in a strange tongue. Grunk, now confused, looked to the goblins. They responded. Devlin knew how to speak to them. Strange words were exchanged. Grunk, unaware of what was happening, squeezed tighter and tighter on his greataxe until his knuckles were white. He was ready for the moment the goblins’ civility would dissolve. That moment came. Devlin was closer so he was their first target. Seeing the way Devlin held his shield, Grunk figured he could handle himself. Grunk raised his battleaxe and charged the dart thrower in the back. His blood pumped wildly, his axe raised and fell hard on the dart thrower. Grunk made quick work of him. But already, the other goblin brutes were wearing Devlin down. Grunk yelled in an urging tone, “We go now?”, but it was too late. As Devlin turned to hear the call, he took a blow that laid him down. Grunk let out a fierce roar that could be heard throughout the Rawlinswood. In his blind rage, he charged the brutes. But he could not defend against their blows. They flanked him and were too fast. Quickly he became bloody and beaten, and not long after, Grunk fell unconscious. He came to, at first his vision was blurred. The goblins were yelling and attacking something else. And then he heard a familiar whine and smelled, what was to him, the scent of companionship. It was Stinkee. The boar must have heard Grunk’s roar and ran to his aid. But the boar was no match for his foes and was quickly wearing down under their rapid strikes. Grunk watched in horror as Stinkee was beaten down. He reached out, and in a faint whisper, meant as a yell, let out “No!” But his plea was not heard. Stinkee was dead. The goblins looked around for the source of the noise, eyes settled on Grunk and they readied their weapons to finish what they had started. In that instant, light struck through the fog rolling off the lake unto Devlin’s corpse. His body lifted, eyes opened and his armor shined with divine grace. He moved towards the goblins, his form rigid, his strikes flawless. The goblins did not last long. Devlin came over and tended to Grunk, who was ,at this point, weak but fully conscious. Grunk arose from his beaten state, but it was clear from his face that his spirit did not. He dragged himself to the body of his companion and fell to his knees weeping. This could not be the end of their story he thought. Had they only been fighting side by side, and not picked off one by one. Looking up, eyes full of tears, he again saw the fog splitting. A ray of light blasted down again to the boar's body. Grunk jumped back. Again a ray blasted down. A radiant glow emanated from the boar’s body. The stench was returned and Grunks eyes and nostrils widened. The boar blinked, opened it’s eyes and got up. Grunk realised, this was not the end to their story. It was merely another page. He fell onto the boar and embraced it warmly, which resulted in a ecstatic snort and wild tail wagging. Little did Grunk notice, but more than just life was returned to the boar. A new fire was kindling in the beast. This and the gift of life, were thanks to Sune. Who, had not the deity been present that day, Devlin, Grunk and Stinkee would have suffered fates much more grim.
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  Ortherion, Knight of the Father
  • Scout-Hen

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  Old Crafts and New Beginnings
  • Wingaboo

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  María Shrugs at the order Any way of owrdewring them is good. In fact, changing the owrdewr fwrom time to time is good. So I'm fine with it. She taps her chin My favouwrite studies awre awround nethewrese histowry and nethewrese awrtifacts… but anything out of owrdinawry seems to be a good field of study she grins and shakes her head at the wine I do not dwrink any alcoholic dwrinks, I need a shawrp mind at all times. she approaches him though, and snaps her fingers, a chair that seems to have life on its own runs to her and stops right behind her. She sits Fowr enchanting, you fiwrst need to know a bit about gems, because gems awre genewraly the best spell-holdewr. Thewre's othewr matewrials that awre good fowr this, of couwrse. Which gems and matewrials you know that would be good fowr this?
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  The Journal of Jerrick Rayfe
  • JerrickRafe

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  This journal, minus the previous entry, is being carried about by Leena Lynn Rayfe these days, and notes in the Druid Glen and elsewhere are being updated from the information kept within. Some people may gain access to this journal at some point, and IC knowledge gained of past events through it's sharing.
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  Lomyriomendur Nain's Nacht-Tales.
  • Attentus

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  Dear Journal, Fiendish spirit that guides me seems to come and go on his whim - sometimes i have extra powers of muscles, spirit and mind, surging through - another times i don't. … it's exhilirating when he's here, but when he leaves i lack. It's quite chaotic, as one could expect of the power coming from the Abyss. On another note - i did trade my conjuration gems for a well made ash longbow. Gems would be used only one time each, and a bow should last. It's a well made bow, with a strong pull, and quite light to carry as well. It's strong pull comes useful especially when a spirit is with me, other times i can still use it - but the shot's power is lesser by a significiant amount. It's crafter and seller's name is 'Z', it took him about two weeks to complete. My wailing arrows now have a proper device to propel them to their targets! -- Yours, Lomy - an Adventurer and a Bard with a flighty demon spirit.
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  Maybe She Will - Kaitlyn's words and silences.
  • Emerwyn

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  With my eyes shut, the sound is overwhelming. It rings about my ears, pulsating in distinct frequencies that I can recognise, but I can not describe. A somewhat whistling reverberation blankets over every other sound. Then I open my eyes and let them capture the wonders before them. I stand in a cavernous passage almost entirely covered by iridescent crystal formations. I am somewhere deep beneath the surface, I do not know why I know this, but I know it, and I do not stop to think of it further. The view is far too distracting, with those beautiful, colourful crystals twinkling. I notice then that right in the centre of this place, the crystals have taken a peculiar shape, forming a platform. I try to move closer, to get a better view. At one point, I distinguish a shape. Encased inside, there is a feminine figure, placidly resting in her crystal coffin. She does not seem aware of my presence as I continue to edge closer. I can now make out the shapes of her body and face. She is strangely beautiful, alluringly alien. A step closer, I can now tell her eyes are not shut, but they are not watching either. Or are they? Two white, iris-less orbs stare blankly and appear to see nothing as the female humanoid does not move and does not flinch. I am quite close now. I stretch out my hand to touch. [A hand-drawn sketch follows] This is where my vision ends, every time, ever since I touched that book. Every time the vision is a little more blurry, and now it seems to happen less often too. I believe it may have to do with the book being out of reach and its influence on me wearing out. Whatever the case… there are reasons to believe I am seeing D. S. in wherever she lays in rest, in wait, right at this moment. I do not know how this vision can be useful to my allies and myself, or if I can even trust what I am seeing. It could be a trick for all I know. I believe I should have myself checked for magic in case I have been compromised. After that, it is time to evaluate whether what I see can be relevant. I like to think that I am good at remembering places and details, and I have seen this place, this vision many times now. I could describe it quite vividly. What can one accomplish with that, and a little bit of magic? I will see if I can find out soon.
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  Tangerine Dream - Hens personal notes on Beeble.
  • Scout-Hen

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  –woops--
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  A song for Peltarch
  • Caoimh

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  Notebook of Invisible Ink
  • Scout-Hen

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  The test, or two. Hen would set down after her trials, she now had an official brooch and the basic kit. She was a Far Scout now and she couldn't help but feel happy about that she had a place to belong now… "Alright Hen you're sure you're ready for this test right? It is by no means a simple test and you must always remember rules one." "Yes yes Juster I know I know, Dead scouts never report back." "Well then follow me… I will take you to the location of your mission." So they walked out to the kabold caves which once resided in a much diffrent location than they did now however they skipped over the one hen knew of and before long they stood before the Warrens. The cave mouth was much different than the others, this one was clearly not for the feint of heart. "Alright Hen, inside this cave you will find the leader of the Kabolds, he carries a large beatstick just like mine… Now what I need you to do is slip inside and get me a headcount of all the kabolds in the cave and their assumed skillsets into catagories. Failure to give this basic information is a fail and you will not be able to test for another Tenday do you understand?" He looked up at her quite skeptically, it was clear he was unsure she had the skill to do it but she was animate about getting the test over with. "Um… yes of course! I'll be able to get it done no problem you just wait here and I'll be back in no time." Hen was not overly confident but she knew she had the skill to do it she just had to stick to the book… keep to the walls... embrace the shadows as friends and blankets to hide within while the patrols pass. So she set in Juster 'waiting' outside, little did she know he was right behind her his keen eyes and Raider shortbow ready for the worst that might befall the inexperienced Elf before him. Crawling through the cave was a timely process... one, two, three... eight... Priest... magus... warrior... elite.. they all passed her by three by three... four by four... the danger was not to be underestimated she often found herself holding her hand over her mouth and nose more than once to still her breathing as Kabolds nearly walked atop her. The whole way through the cave however she counted, waited... watched.. documented It was a trial of attrition by the time she had only made it to the end nevermind back out. Her brain was tired and her legs ached as all her muscles did from being nervous the whole time. Then she saw it, the boss and wouldn't you know it... he saw her too to the scouts dismay. However that was the least of her problems... now she had to find a way out and quick, she wracked her brain over and over, and before she even got the conclusion... one two three! The blood of the Boss Kabold was all over her face... Justers Beatstick had delt three deadly blows to its head and it fell over twitched and dead. He didnt look up though he took a long breath with a sigh.. "Sorry Hen, it appears you've failed your test and next time.. instead of Panicing make sure you take one of these." He would set a small vial in front of her, it was a potion of invisibility. "That is a Scout saver, an anyone saver… always carry a batch of them and you'll never regret it now lets get out of here I still want your head count." The way out went much smoother, hen knew the places to hide and wait out the patrols however the mood was heavy. She was sure she could make it and after the quickly gave the head count to Juster she hurried off quite upset to the tune of Juster voice. "You did well with the head count hen… now just work on the softness of step you can do it next time I know!" It was a week that she had to improve, it reminded her of the Jiyyd war so little time to learn to fire a bow properly to be of any help… however she learned and she helped it was no different she would overcome. So she did, one week later and 48 kabold heads and a teasing tongue stick out at the new boss kabold and hen was made a Far Scout... a Tenday later than she wished... but no one had to know she passed it on the first try it was just bad luck!
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  Nathen Wingates - Mystran Bard.
  • Flom

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  _"Her." On a couch, in the master's library, with goblet of wine and a solid book about some piece of Narfellan lore… That was where Nate usually spent his evenings. If the theater was alive, then the library was it's mind. It was filled with historical records, arcane parchments, and detailed maps. Yes, it also had artistic collections: poems, songs, plays... But they were on paper. Words on cold, clean paper, to be read and analyzed and thought of rather than experienced and performed and felt. Nate was right at home among the books and the academia. And, he thought, what's the problem with that? Bards are so much more than people give them credit for. They are scholars and academics, alongside whatever assumptions people make about what a bard does or how he or she does it. You do not need much more than a canny brain to serve others as a bard, really. We are in the business of information, of knowledge, of gossip... If you can provide them with that, thought Nate, people will surely appreciate the bardic profession. The library had for a long time been Nate's solace in solitude... Interrupted only rarely by a tea or a meal. On the stage, in the auditorium, with a foggy feeling he can't quite place: some sort of subtle sensation in his stomach ... that is where Nate was and what he was wondering that night. If the theater was alive, then the stage was its heart. It was supposed to be filled with music, laughter, song, stories, and poetry... Not on paper, but in the air, around and inside us. Ah, but for Nate, the stage was a dark and empty one. Tonight, and for every other night before it for as long as he can remember: no flames on any torch, no seats sat in, and not a song sang. Heh, songs. Imagine that, he thought. To sing here, in this place. Nate never sang in public; his songs were always private and personal. Even so, he hadn't written let alone sang one in years. He preferred plays, because he could write them in solitude and then ask others to perform--actors, directors, students looking to make an impression. He could do all of that, feel nothing at all, and still earn enough profit to keep himself and his college projects out of debt. The stage was Nate's least favourite place in the theater... To him, it was broken, darkened, and deserted. Why, then, was he standing there? Why had he been there for what felt like eternity? Several hours, at least. He had been searching for the answer for some time. Center-stage, alone, and in the dark. It made no sense. He was supposed to be reading, thinking, attempting to solve the latest puzzle or challenge involving Peltarch's politics or peril. Was he distracted or tired? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe that feeling in his stomach is something more, thought Nate. Was it his stomach or his chest, anyway? Or was it his soul? The feeling was like a butterfly vice, filled with possibility's invitation and impossibility's challenge. His thoughts sharpened, honed, and became clearer and more immediate: Your soul? A "butterfly vice?" Get a grip, Wingates. You're starting to sound like the tacky dialogue in one of your plays. Aren't you the one who spends all his time at the library? Don't tell me you're feeling something after all these years. In this circumstance, too? You're dancing with disaster. You always say a broken heart and feeling nothing makes everything easier, once the pain is gone. Easier to pull the strings, to play the part, to wear the mask. Easier to fake the laugh, fake the smile, fake just about anything... So what's the matter, Wingates? Isn't the library enough? Don't want to fake it anymore? Nate shook his head and drew a deep, shuddering breath. He exhaled slowly, trying to control his thoughts or... more accurately, his feelings. He had become so good at controlling them. Hadn't he? Why was it so difficult, now? The bard continued to search for the answer. He frowned and gripped his stomach. He figured out that the feeling wasn't really in his stomach, so he gripped the air, instead, and looked down at his hands. His eyes flickered between both... They hummed with arcane and the Weave. He tried to stifle the magic. To control and suppress it, as he'd learned to do. And it was harder than he thought. The bardic knack for magic not only became more chaotic, but more powerful the more emotional a bard became. Nate's mind raced with warnings and danger and risk, but his heart pounded and his soul sang. Why was he thinking in alliteration, and feeling in verse? Why did he itch to write a play--a poem, or even a song! Yes, a song, not for profit but just for its own sake, or perhaps for the sake of another. Others? The public? The public may have been worthy of the fake smiles and laughs, yet Nate couldn't bother to chant a single syllable for its benefit. If that were true, then why was he standing in the middle of the stage with this sudden urge to sing? . . . A crack of warm, shining light pierced the stage's icy veil of lonely darkness. A dainty, feminine hand pushed the auditorium's large doors open. The soft light reached farther and farther across the shadowy floor, chasing the gloom away. Eventually, it reached the stage, and illuminated the auburn haired bard standing in its center. When the light reached Nate, he squinted his green-blue eyes and peered up. Isolde Garibaldi stood in the open doorway…. with starry blue eyes, atop a perfect nose and crimson lips, her pretty face framed by soft red curls. The light behind her wrapped a silver sheen around her silky blue clothes. She lowered her gloved hand from the door and took a few steps, as she entered the auditorium. She made her way towards the stage, with her heels clicking against the floor, and her black cape flowing gently behind her. She looked up at the stage as she stepped nearer and nearer. "Isolde?" asked Nate. A faint smile tugged the corner of his mouth as she joined him on stage. "Nate!" replied Isolde. Their eyes met and she smiled. "I've been looking for you." "Oh. Well, I..." began Nate. He paused. There was a hint of realization in his voice, and his faint smile grew a little wider. "I've been looking for you too. What's up?"_
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  Ramblings of the Nomad
  • Vyzavenal

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  Having spent many months attending to his nomadic business, he has found his feet once more leading him back to Narfell, his time away having changed him little at least on the inside, yet more faint displays of draconic heritage have been growing stronger upon his form, scales tinting towards green, eyes becoming a little more intense and his steps were more sure and steady. Striding within Peltarch he was almost a new man, that same playful and mischievous grin playing about his face, acquiring a new book he would make his way to settle down on the western side of the city to watch the sunset with a glass of wine in hand. Zavi crawled forth from her hiding place and promptly claimed his lap, much as a feline would… if a feline had large butterfly wings and dropped glitter -everywhere-. "Well... I'm back and you are still the same chaotic land... lets see how much fun one can have this time" He lets forth a booming and echoing laugh at that.
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  Of Life and its Ballads - Kaitlyn's Repertoire
  • Emerwyn

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  _It's noon in Narfell, when Kaitlyn is spending time alone in Norwick. She is enjoying a fresh, ripe tomato under the sun which warms but does not burn, touches but does not stain. A gentle wind brings a flowery scent from the core of the Rawlinswood, right into her nostrils, which she gladly takes in, shutting her dotted emerald eyes for a moment, painting a soft smile in her lips. As the young lady opens her eyes again, she becomes the willing victim of mixed, beautiful emotions invading her senses. A moment of euphoria in which everything appears perfect - the warming sun, the soft breeze, the sweet scent bring to her head the tales and myth, stories and fables she's read and heard about. And so she decides to ride the moment, picking up her bass-lute, strumming a few grave, rhythmical chords, singing along an improvised ode to Narfell and its wild, untamed beauty. Where the lukewarm Sun shines bright Rolling across the sky Gilding the sands Where the zephyr is pure still The soothing starlight is dim Stroking the lands Where each step becomes a path The brooks and rivers talk dance with the willows Where old warriors tested their wrath The rhythm of a drum Across the meadows Narfell~ this is Narfell All an immense garden, this is Narfell When the gods created the Heavens They thought of Narfell._