Tales By The Fire

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  This topic is deleted!
  • Voight

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  The Witnessed Victories of The Mad Heroine over Inanimate Objects
  • Goddess of Spite

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  https://youtu.be/4niv522mbtM Episode 1: Eye holes. There are endless uses for the true strike spell and the cavalcade of martial art styles in the Nars leaves even the least capable of persons a little inspired. And so the lone dingus reinacts the final gorey blows she's witnessed during adventuring on a training dummy in the Stargazers Emporium with unearing accuracy and enthusiasm. Her severely bent rapier ricochets and deflects off the combat dummy's bucket head. "Take that! -And that! And that one too!" speaks Raazi with a whimsically heroic and determined voice. The moment is building up till she takes a step back and murmurs an incantation in the comfort of a training area. Her blade sticks into the dummy's ever widening eye holes with a quick thrust. "Ha HA!" she makes a splating noise with some air in her cheek ~A Gnome walks in and double takes at the grown adult woman playing with swords like a child playing out her favorite movies* "What are you doing?" ~The store owner answers for her, "Its a training area, its alright" ~A moment passes as Raazi is catching her breath. She doesnt pay much attention to the people behind her. With an abrupt and sudden twist, the combat dummy retaliates back and forth with stiff arms that contact her head without much warning. The world goes mute and she sees a shutter of imagines from the flurry blows as the dummy gains the upper hand. They say she went into an autopilot of defensive arcane contengencies and an impressive 3 whole serious health potions to defeat the fel incarnation of her violent imagination. The melee went on for minutes that seemed like hours. In the end, she kicked it over and tore its head off. Threatening the store owner at the mere assumption that he wanted her prize: the combat dummie's head. The reward of victory.
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  Meadow
  • Robyn

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  The Bathhouse My name is Erik. I’ve worked in the bathhouse in the city’s residential district for about five years now. While most of the attendants clean the towels, tend to the temperature of the water, and serve the clientele drink and refreshments, I often attend to more … intimate requests. My customers include bored nobility, wealthy visitors and other people of means. They seek me out as someone who caters with discretion, and is a cut above the those who work at the Regal Maid. There are several of us scattered throughout the city. A few others even work here in the bath house. Our well-being and security are governed by a patron who shall remain nameless. We function as a courtesans’ guild, but without the charter and recognition. Miss Meadow came into the bathhouse a few years ago. A slip of a thing who barely stood to my shoulders, she came to me informed and with purpose. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask. There are those who enter the bath house, the Alexis Baily’s and Isolde Garibaldi’s of the world who draw attention by their beauty and presence. Conversation often stops. People stare in desire or jealousy. Meadow was not one of them. She would often be at the bath house some time before I or others even realized she was there. It was a disconcerting feeling because I like to show some deference to my regulars. Perhaps given some attention and care one could consider her pretty and an abstract sort of fashion, but there was nothing about her that drew much attention, except perhaps for her tattoos. Her arms, shoulders, and back were inked in the most remarkable fashion. In a few instances, small scars had been incorporated into the designs to create a third dimension to the art. Most of them appeared to be dragons, serpents, and other fantastic creatures. I asked her once about them, and she responded with a smirk that horses and flowers were so blasé. I left the matter at that. She could be quite the conversationalist when she put her mind to it. She was schooled, bright, and intelligent. There was a point in time when a few of the socialites would join her in the bath, and their laughter and hushed whispers echoed regularly. The Wilkes affair, ended all of it. After that, she remained quite alone for some time. She still came to me regularly, though there was a detached loneliness to her. She was a good client, and I must say she had remarkable control of her body. This brings me to the latest incident, which happened last month. The Wilkes affair was quietly becoming a distant memory, yet Miss Meadow still sat alone in the corner. She seemed particularly morose today, and had not sought my attentions. Bruce came in with his usual entourage. The first son of a minor noble who stood to inherit a rather large estate, Bruce was handsome, loud and arrogant. His entourage consisted of other minor nobles, cousins, friends, and others who wished to garner as much favor as possible. It’s often not what you know, but who you know in this world after all. His bodyguard Kern sat outside the water, looking as bored as usual. Bruce and his entourage occupied one section of the pool. Miss Meadow sat in the other. I had privately hoped Miss Meadow would join them, but there were words exchanged. Suddenly, the boisterous conversion quieted, and Bruce assumed a most venomous expression. A couple of the ladies sitting with Bruce whispered in conspiratorial delight. Sadly, I hadn’t caught what was said, but I did hear what followed. “I think you heard me the first time Bryce”, Miss Meadow said, deliberately mispronouncing his name. Bruce’s venomous expression garnished a smile. He looked up at Kern and said with obvious delight, “Kern my friend, please remove the boorish cunt from my presence” Kern looked up grinning, his boredom replaced with malicious purpose. I thought to intervene, but Kern was rather large. I was no warrior so instead, directed another attendant to fetch the guard. Kern walked around the pool to where Miss Meadow sat. She seemed oddly detached from the situation. With a delighted sneer, Kern reached down and grabbed Miss Meadow’s hair. My gut twisted a bit, watching this unfold. The guards would arrive much to late to save Miss Meadow from being accosted. What Miss Meadow did was so fast, I was entirely unsure of what transpired. She twisted, her right arm flashed out, and it appeared as if she poked Kern in the throat. The effect was rather telling. Kern staggered back, eyes bulging, suddenly unable to breathe. He made a horrible gagging sound as Miss Meadow leapt naked out of the pool. As Kern struggled, she struck him three, perhaps four times in the side and back. It was if Kern was a marionette whose strings had been cut. His body simply went limp, and he went down with a hard smack as his face hit the tiles. Miss Meadow stood over Kern for a moment searching, before reaching and unsheathing a large knife from Kern’s belt. Then with an unsettling casualness, she walked around the pool to where Bruce sat. A few of Bruce’s entourage immediately hopped out of the pool and fled. Bruce seemed transfixed to his position in fear. Then Miss Meadow hopped into the pool in front of Bruce, holding the knife. I didn’t hear what Miss Meadow said. It was whispered quietly in Bruce’s ear as she ran the point of the knife on his face. All I know is that Bruce turned very pale and relieved himself in the pool. The guards came about ten minutes later. I and several others spoke to them. No charges were pressed, and Bruce hasn’t shown his face in the bath house since. Miss Meadow still comes to me regularly, the detached loneliness ever present. She pays well, and I treat her with the respect, intimacy and deference my profession requires. But the idle curiosity of the nature her background and the tattoos has been replaced by an underlying current of wariness.
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  Writings under the Moonlight
  • DrDreadLock

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  Asha leans back against the wall in the docks, the altar to the Moonmaiden sitting only thirty feet off. She smiles as the moonlight seems to direct itself down in a focused beam to the altar - the bright light seeming to bring the whole section of the Docks District to life in the darkest hour of night. A trick of the mind perhaps, she thinks to herself. Selunites are known to see things that would make others think they were less than sane of mind. She shrugs the thought off and looks down to the simple journal, opening it up she begins to write. 'Dwarves and Courage The Temple orphans wanted more stories tonight. Jumping on their beds in youthful protest when I told them they could not have them. Instead I ushered them to sleep and blew out the lanterns. I know I can't tell them about Bunus and his battlerager ways. Is it courage to race headlong into every situation, weapon swinging wildly as you do? Or is it foolishness? It could be a bit of both - I am guilty of both at times myself. Bunus is brave, foolish and stalwart. He stands firm each and every time we go out exploring. He is the shield that Selune heals through me. He would lay his life down for me, I know this inside. He is my friend and despite his stinky balor cloak, I love him dearly. I knew of the cave that he went to before. The large red X was said to be a warning - stay out! Beholders! Checking the 'GPS' and seeing his little dot not moving on the parchment made me nervous. I sat there for a time and watched to see if the little dot would begin to change location. Bunus, why did you have to go there, of all places? I gathered up who I could find, which was only Salin, the father of Six. Off we went to rescue my dwarven friend from the clutches of one of the worst nightmares to live on Faerun, if the stories are to be believed. The cave was dark and damp, but you could see them floating about in the darkness beyond, eyestalks slowly swaying to find more intruders. Every step you take, every scuffing sound of your boot on the stone floor sounds like an alarm going off. Your heart beat drumming in your ears. You swear they heard you as one eye seems to turn in your direction. The sanctuary should protect me from their sight or at least from most actions they might take against me. Salin is close by and invisible - he wouldn't leave me, my father would never forgive him he said. There is my poor Bunus, dead on the cavern floor, his body burnt and melted away from the horrible eye attacks of the beholders. I could see many of them hovering deeper in, so I quickly snatched up Bunus' horribly heavy body and sprinted out of the cave as fast as I could. I could hear Salin's footsteps behind me, and we didn't stop until we hit Norwick. The thought of those horrible creatures following us made my legs move faster than they ever have! It seemed.. easy. I expected them to find us right away and try to zap us into ash or whatever else they do! I should watch what I say. I still think there are floating eyes behind me at night. I have back my dwarven protector to keep me safe once again. Stay alive Bunus. Do NOT tell the children about beholders.'
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  The Days and Nights of Lence Arnimannes.
  • Lence

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  Lence sits at the table outside the Dancing Mermaid, looking at his supplies. He pulls out a hand-drawn map of Narfell, knowing that his skills are lacking. This map is no wonder, not like the ones Stargazer's has to offer to travelers... No matter, he thinks. This will do well enough for a scout such as myself... I must find other companions who will aid me in cataloguing the lands and making them known to all. I curse the gods, for every now and then, it's as if they don't want us to remember where we've been! He looks up, peers at the town square. Perhaps some companions will help him with this latest challenge... he knows there are underground tunnels that cross the river east of the swamps. But there are too many fishmen nesting in there... too challenging for one on their own. But for a party of intrepid adventurers...
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  Vexing Visions
  • Fadia

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  It was four years ago almost to the day that they found me. Derwyn, the mage. Boggs, the warrior. Myriah, the minstrel. Riordan, the priest. Poe, the thief. Myriah wouldn't survive the encounter. I probably should have died today. Several times over, if we're being honest. Our "lions" - me, Biam, and Amanda - went into the crypts with an angry dwarf and some gnome I'd not met before. Almost from the start, things went awry. I took a wound. An infection came with it, some magical thing spread by the ghouls down there. I felt my body weakening with each step. That queasiness burned in my gut like I was about to shit out two tendays' worth of dwarven food all at once. I was slipping. Not physically, but metaphorically. Whatever was eating away at me, I'm sure would've finished the job eventually. And there they were - Vick, and Meadow. They got me back up on my feet, at least, even if the others didn't seem to have any interest in whatever help they were offering. I'll owe them for this one, I can tell you that right now, journal. But then, just as quick as they'd shown up, they were gone. And we'd once again gotten in over our heads. The gnome and I wound up on the ground, bleeding out. Only some very timely healing kept me from wasting the life those two had just given back to me. But the damnedest thing is, I had another dream. While I was on the ground there. I know that I was only down for moments. The fight was still going on when I got back up. But it felt like I'd been down for hours. I know I didn't talk much after I went down. Truth be told, I've been kind of lost in thought since it happened. I was on a table. A burning pain on my arm. A light tap-tap-tapping wouldn't stop, and the smell of brimstone was all around me. I couldn't move. Couldn't even turn my head. But I was aware. And I was being spoken to. Told that I was being prepared. Prepared for what? I can't say. The room I was in was dark, and what little I could make out from darting my eyes this way and that gave me little clue as to what was happening. And then, they lifted me up. Carried me. I wanted to try and fight them off, and escape, but my limbs just wouldn't accept what my mind told them to do. I was a captive within my own body. Just as I was being taken to my cell, just as the door to it opened up, I was healed. Not in the dream, but in truth. And with no time to reflect on what I'd seen, I simply rejoined the fight. Now that I have time to sit and reflect on these things, I'm left to wonder at what I missed. I'm not sad to have lived, of course, but if I could have just stayed in that scene a few moments longer, enough to maybe get a look at who I was with, I feel like I might feel more satisfied with it in some way. Perhaps another time.
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  A less than impressive entrance
  • Kronan

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  Eve's Diary
  • Karnivor

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  By the walls of the great fortress of High Hold lies a curious oasis - a sheltered ever-green garden where fruit trees bear ripe and luscious harvest upon branches unbroken by the snow and harsh winds outside. Here, beneath a cherry tree at the far end of the garden, Eve reclines, slumbering the afternoon away after a night of watchful wake at the Dreaming Djinni. Her journal lies sprawled across her lap and a smudge of ink dots the hand that covers it. Within, the pages read thusly: "Children It's expected, without question, that as a woman you shall one day bear young - in fact it is supposedly the main mission of your life to be a wife and mother. Am I less of a woman for wanting neither (and if so, do I care)? More importantly, am I negligent in my duty for choosing differently? And finally, am I letting my parents down by willingly foregoing that which they strove so hard to attain; a child? The last question troubles me the most. Despite these questions, despite the lack of definitive answers, in my heart of hearts I'm sure of one thing. I cannot do the things I do now and be a mother too. I'm not strong enough, not ~brave~ enough to risk having something it would cost me so dearly to lose. Children are so very vunerable, so small and soft and fragile, so fumbling and foolish in their first steps into the world! How does anyone dare? How do parents not live in a state of absolute panic, day and night? Perhaps they do. They've every right to be afraid. There are monsters in this world. Some walk right amongst us, hide in plain sight, while others bear down upon you from outside, crashing down like a black tide. I've attempted to deal with both sides of late, though the first remains elusive. The latter though, in every way outsiders. Neogi is the name to fit to the lights in the sky; reprehensible creatures from beyond the stars, merciless slavers, mind-wrangling monstrosities with eel-like heads and spidery bodies. They are all too easy to hate, but difficult to fight for their seemingly innate ability to take control of one's mind - enslaving not only bodies but like mindflayers, enthralling and leaving those they use vacantly staring. Near Marren's Eve, we fought them and their giant minions and though the battle was bloody and fierce, it was not that which left our party's spirits broken afterwards. For amongst those unfortunates we sought to free were children, locked in a cage set with a horrific and volatile acid trap. I did not count their numbers. I'm trying, trying oh so hard not to recall their faces, to forget their cries, the sounds and smells that followed the unthinkable. Only one girl survived. I didn't look her in the eyes, did not ask her name, I just couldn't bear to. She was me, she's just like me only her nightmares will be filled not with fire, but with burning acid. She will wonder why, just like me. Why she lived, when they did not. She'll feel guilt and anger and grief too vast to bear and I - I can't help her. I can barely help myself and talking about it, to anyone, is still so hard. I told Zoma only because he asked, because I want to be honest with him as he has with me. But my throat felt tight and the words far away, ill fitting, pathetic. Just another sob story. He asked me if I'd ever tried to find those responsible and I faltered. He asked if I wanted vengeance and the words stuck to my tongue. Do I want to stare down the persons who took my parents life, do I want to end theirs in turn? Does it even matter, when that's what ALL the Zhentarim do, when their violence and brigandy is systematic? Do I want to kill them all? A part of me screams yes. But evil like the Neogi is easy to oppose, you're ever righteous in striking down a creature incapable of mercy or change. People are different. I can't just kill them all - not without becoming a monster too. And I can't wage any large scale war without the Silver Host. But maybe I can still do my part in killing the system - break apart the chain, weaken the network? A question for a later time. For now, I need to take the wins I can and let them strengthen my resolve. A hulking demon, another outsider, evil pure and simple, banished from this world through collective efforts. And unlike the last time, though there was blood and pain and struggle, the child so possessed was actually saved. His mother cried tears of joy and for once, victory was unspoiled and something to be savoured. I'll take solace in that - and in knowing Torm truly is watching over me. I felt his presence in those dank caves, felt that warm glow of light beat back the darkness threatening to swallow me, after the ground all around exploded from the giant worm's burrowing. I must be doing something right - or at least, he sees that I am trying."
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  Sir Jonald, a living legend
  • Gonnar

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  ~ A Worthy Death ~ "It is only because of Sir Jonald's brave heart and divine soul that I sit here before you to tell you this story. We were in the foothills west of peltarch, and we were fighting the usual orcs and worgs when it came to our comprehension that so many orcs had to be coming from somewhere, furthermore, be led by someone! So we decided to put an end to these orcs business by trying to find their lair and slay them all. We pushed through the frozen forest, dealing with the winter wolves and orcs. It was hard, the cold was chilling to the bones, but Sir Jonald and I pressed on without falter. We cleared the freezing woods, and we spotted a cave entrance from which we could hear a lot of Orc babblering. It was our duty to head in and end with their misserable and rotten existence. We encountered heavy opposition, from spellcasters, orcs with large swords, and arbalesters, but we still pushed through with the help of my singing and Sir jonald's legendary combat skills. After defeating dozens and dozens of the orcs, from the main floor and the upper floor, Sir Jonald detected some incredibly tainted evil from below... we thought that must've been the leader, and it was our chance to deal with it once and for all! We headed down the crowded cave. We fought even more orcs, from all sizes and power... but nothing , nothing compared to the Orc that was leading them. It was a towering, hulking, ugly, stink-faced Orc weilding two axes. Grishnak the Elfslayer himself, you might've heard of him before...a very vicious and remarkably bloody-lust orc. I knew Sir Jonald wouldn't doubt a single second, so I tossed my shield aside to be able to cast without failure. A Haste spell on him, to be able to keep up with the orc, who wasn't alone. Was accompained by one of their elite warriors. I tried to get my shield back, but they pushed us back and I had no time for it. The fight was tough, we managed to strike the orc several times, but it wouldn't flicker. It was bleeding but unyielding, not even stopping is relentless strikes on Sir Jonald. I was flanking, hoping that he wouldn't turn on me. It was already severly wounded, and I thought that'd make him go softer on his axe strikes, but I couldn't have been any more wrong... He viciously struck Sir Jonald, pushing his head against the wall, making him fall down and lose consciousness. My eyes opened wide, I wanted to scream, but the orc , thinking Sir Jonald dead, turned on me and cut me in half with a single strike. I died, I was there , cold on the ground.. while Sir Jonald innerly fought for his life. You won't believe me, but the last thing I could feel before leaving this world... was Sir Jonald's lament for not being able to help me at that moment, his pain at seeing me die. Even when he was fighting for his own life, he worried about me. Isn't that touching? I think it was because of that that he mustered enough strength to recover from the wounds. He didn't even think of running for his life! he instead took a chance to drink some healing, and immediatly charged towards Grishnak and it's minion. I cannot say how glorious and epic that fight must've been, because I was not present. Well.. I was, but cold dead. But sir Jonald, as I've said many times, is a man of honour, a man full of bravery, and even more... a man friend of friends. He defeated the foul orcs for my sake, for what they had done to me. And he carried my dead corpse all through the woods back to the city. And if you think this would be all of it, you'd be wrong... for he, in all his good will , after he raised me from the dead with the help of priest Galin of the Triad, ... gave me half of his gold so we would be equally poor, or how I see it.. equally rich".
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  Rika
  • Robyn

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  Tribe of the Great Worm There had been promise in the journey’s end. They had passed the grand sight of Mithril Hall to the east, and started the long ascent into the mountains. Rika had mentioned that a monument to her brother’s heroism had been placed along with the name of the dwarves that had defended the grand hall. She promised to take Simon to see it someday. Rika had trouble speaking Dwarvish, but understood it very well, a fact not known to many. In the name of her brother Magnus, the Dwarves had granted her access any time she wished. The first sign of trouble came when one of the tribe’s scouts Einar, had greeted Rika with some enthusiasm. They had grown up together, and marveled at Rika’s health and equipment. Though he regarded Simon with some suspicion, any friend of Rika’s was a friend of his, and he led them to the trail that would take them to the village. But Rika was worried. Einar was a good 20 pounds lighter. His face was gaunt. It was obvious he hadn’t been eaten well this past winter. Rika had turned to Simon with a worrying glance. Upon arriving at the village, a pall was cast over Rika’s demeanor. “Where is everyone…”, Simon heard her trail off as villagers started gathering around at their arrival. Simon put his hand on her shoulder in support. He knew not what to expect of these people. They were tall, taller than the average person in Peltarch, Norwick, and surrounding areas. With few exceptions, all had dark hair and blue eyes, much like Rika. They spoke in a language he didn’t quite understand. It sounded Illuskan but different. As they gathered around, Rika’s eyes searched the crowd in despair. Only when a middle age woman came into view did her eyes light up, and she ran to embrace her. They both spoke quietly for a moment, then at length. He saw Rika’s shoulder’s drop, then shake as hard wracking sobs enveloped her. They held each other for some time. Simon watched helplessly has his friend wept. He stood there awkwardly, no knowing what was said or what to do. Within a few minutes though, two people parted the crowd. A regal looking woman who bore scale armor, and a tall gaunt companion at his side. Rika turned to her in surprise and gestured at Simon. Simon heard his name mentioned at some point. The regal looking woman turned to him. Her gaze was harsh and cold, but respectful. Whoever she was, she had the bearing of leadership. “I am Gweshen Talistars, leader of the tribe of the Great Worm”, she said switching to trade speech. She gestured to her left, “This is Themrin, the tribe’s eldest shaman. As Rika’s friend we greet and welcome you. Come…”, she said, gesturing to a clearing behind her. “We have much to tell” It was there, surrounded by Rika’s people, that Simon learned what had driven Rika so ardently forward. The Peltarch Farscout had been right. Themrin spoke with authority and eloquence. Simon found himself in admiration of his speaking skills. Gweshin sat by his side as Themrin wove a tale of sorrow. The tribe had been preparing for Runemeet, a time when young men and women were fully welcomed into the tribe. It was a grand Uthgardt holy day, where people communed with their ancestors. It was during a lull in these preparations that they had attacked. Who “they” were remains largely unknown. They had attacked in the wee hours of the morning. Extremely skilled and full of powerful magic, they slew what tribe members were there before entering the cavern. There, they had aroused Elrem the Great Worm, and with the aid of unspeakable magics had slain him as well. The cavern had been defiled and looted before they mysteriously vanished. Amongst the dead included Petr, Rika’s father, his brother Haglund, and Rika’s eldest nephew Erik However, their deaths were not in vain. Despite the powerful magics, two of the marauders had fallen outside the cavern. When the remaining tribe had arrived, they had noticed one was still alive. Themrin described in brutal detail how that man was questioned. Simon went pale during the telling. Themrin was rather descriptive, articulate and seemed to delight in the details. Gweshin nodded at various points. Simon looked to Rika. Her face was a mask of cold and uncaring. The tribe learned that a faction of Zhents had hired a group of skilled “adventurers” to do their bidding. They had slain Elrem for vast sums of coin and magic. Elrem’s downfall had all but destroyed the tribe. Many fled to the lowlands. With great animation Themrin told the story of how Elrem’s spirit had spoken to him, and how he still promised to protect the tribe and their ancestors. But winter had been harsh, and with spirits low many perished. Without her husband, Rika’s aunt Margret had lost her will. She had wandered out into a snowstorm and never returned. That is when Gweshin stepped in. The tribe had never had a woman chieftain, but through grit, charisma and tenacity, Gweshen had pulled the tribe together to survive. After that, the tribe had unanimously agreed that she should lead it. At the conclusion of the story, the tribe slowly dispersed. Rika sat there, staring ahead, a look of grim determination on her face. Without saying a word, Simon knew what was on her mind. She was going hunt down and kill the people that desecrated her tribe’s holy ground and slew her family. By the look in her eyes, he worried for anyone that stood in her way.
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  Letters Home
  • Fadia

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  Field Guardian Varya's Journal
  • Crazymojo

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  Lauriella Sithmore
  • Winterhawk99

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  Lauriella's Portrait: https://onedrive.live.com/?cid=0306EF43E05A0B40&id=306EF43E05A0B40!28788&parId=306EF43E05A0B40!156&o=OneUp Portrait done by Puffy: Dm of City of Arabel.
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  Observational Art as Performed by Mashal Marshallomin
  • LustJaw

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  Silver Wings As silver wings thundered above mortals high, A lonely mentor trained a would be name. With expectations of a hero it would imply, We are only left with ourselves to blame. How much is it to ask for one more to care, Of the plights and wellbeing of the common good. When at the end of the story remains only despair, Indifference of choices never close to understood. Needless sacrifice at the cost of genuine souls, Another name on a long list for only one to remember. Why then do we look to adventurers and their goals, Their intent only as far as the next being to dismember. Rest now noble heroes your duty is now fulfilled, Sahno and Dormanak, you gave what was never asked. Curse this weak body and these hands unskilled, Unable to defy your chosen fate and all tragedies past.
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  Nathelin's Journal continue
  • Tomian

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  It’s been long time since I contemplate. The helmet served me better than I told Pious. I didn’t have heart to tell him the truth. (This is next part of story. It’s pretty long. End of story is located with another brackets like this one.) I went back to Damara for a moment after I got helm. When I got letter from them saying that they will break out the captives. There was a long power struggle between the Resistance and the Flames of Vengeance. In shadows the resistance gain financial and people support from nobles and lordships to even a little. Overall the resistance went far with constant caravan raids. It was clever idea but they went down the well too many times and they got tricked by bounty hunter groups and shady bandits. Those that escaped made it to the sanctuary and those caught by time go by they were sent into Flame of vengeance citadel. I had been waiting long time to help but even with willpower and courage lost, could not let those ones get tortured anymore. When headed closer towards sanctuary a flash of blade threatened my neck. I recognise two of them One that drew dagger was Teris’s personal scout and the other illusion underdark mage Glardiss. I was quick to reveal name and allowed them to remove my helm.. His spell determined my magic and he impressed and told me to hurry that time was near. The hideout was underneath ruins. We took several passages to get to underground caverns onto it connect into large hole with many rooms. Meeting room was in middle of the hideout with a big circle of tables and chairs. Papers of plans of the citadel and map of the lands details of the three village. The citadel was if I remember.. think north-east of the Ironspur, between The Galena snake and Icelace rivers. The villages caught my eye. One on left side that looked more like gathering of farms marked with a rat, the other that look more like outpost marked with a lightning bolt and the other with a shard of ice. I did not know what it meant but it didn’t sound good and when I asked they told me not to worry about it and that they will sneak in the citadel at the eve of night. I had a sense of forebode but I was already there to help. It did not help when I asked where the Paladin’s mercenary groups were and they reply that they do not need them to rescue the captives. It took a long trip and we went around the Trail’s end to sneak through ravines and mountains to get from behind the citadel. It was strange there was little flame of vengeance patrols or bounty hunters on the path. The six of us, The assassin Roderick brothers of Praka, The underdark gnome and a quiet no-nonsense female half elf scout from the Rawlinswood, myself and Teris our leader climbed up first and broke into lower citadel with a grapple hook and rope and we all climbed after and those that weren’t good climbers the illusionist bolsters us with magic. Something was not right. We were at dormitory level and most guards should have been aware and maybe awoke at presence. We were silent but they looked ill on their beds.. Vomit and excrement filled the floor some even looked like death’s door would have been..ughhh merciful. They were not merciful any chance they got they slit their pale death throats some calling for mercy and finding none. I just closed my eyes…..They took the dead’s clothing and dressed as the enemy walking past them all. They said that I did not need to dress up since I was in black leather with a helm. The had information that that once in a while rogues and assassin’s would come by to help test their awareness in strange game of hide and tag. I just closed eyes as they murder them all unaware that they die by one dressed as their own. All I could tell myself was this was wrong but only valid excuse was the the flame of vengeance were murderers of innocence.Finally the cells was behind the Citadel, it was easy to kill the jailor and the guards. After we freed the captives and make escape from behind the citadel they waited for us. The captain of the citadel a very mad powerful looking mage of Kossuth, looking of seared heat with his fire robes. A handful of guards stood next to him a few look same as sick ones but at least they could stand. Cassius the Captain of the hold begrudge remarked Teris’s clever plan. I couldn’t believe that I was too dim..Actually I can believe that I was too dim to realise what the plan they executed to infiltrate without issue. They had plan in advance to weaken the three villages nearby as distraction. She persuade a champion of Talos and a few of his giants allies that included a storm giant create storms and to strike the outpost to the south. Her other allies, Talona worshippers that took aspiration and inspired to be Plague Rats poisoned the farm villages to the south west of the Citadel. The dames of the western villages were taken by servants of the Frost maiden from the Great Glacier by orders of the new Ice-queen. They encase the whole village in frost. Most of the forces that was usually stationed in the citadel scattered to each of the village to put out the dangers. It shocked me that she was not only a planning genius but she had so much connections and resources to use. It came to a clash and I was nearly out of mind getting grips that we became the monsters that we fought against…Teris told me that the ends justified the means. She also told me not to feel bad for the villages. The Zhents ran the outpost the other villages supplied slaves and bodies for their Banite necromancer allies. I tell myself how did this all come into bad fruit. That wasn’t the worst part of all.. The underlings never had a chance. They were all demoralised and few sickly. They fell fast under strokes like all hope was taken away. Teris spent time torturing him with thrusts to his guts and spleen. The captain spat an insult, that we were no better than brigands and thugs. He was right. I should have said no when I got the chance. Could I had said no.. Chain breaker was right to call me coward before. Teris choked him and screamed into his ear that at least we were not what that word? Hypo-something Demon worshippers. She choked the blood out of his mouth. There was so much revelations to bear. Through much searching Teris placed the captain’s left on a strange looking hook hand sigil on the wall of his room. It took the illusionist spells to uncover the magic sign. The wall creak open and we shrine of deprave acts. Mutilate corpses, skeleton and profane half stich undead that was once Flame of vengeance warriors and people from nearby villages. A tainted book that name demon king sat on an Altar that look like a hideous monster with leather strange wings and very sharp teeth. I still don’t remember name except begin with Fraz. We did what Verika would do in this instance.. Burn down the whole place down. Who knows they both would get along.. After they pat each other on back and thanked me for help, I told them that I don’t think I will come back to help this was too much of ordeal and need more reflection. They told me that I will always have friend in them but I just left for Narfell and promised myself not to look back. (End of story) So this is where I’m at now. I reflect on things to come and have to deal with my emotions. I feel sick inside for all that happened, but I centre myself, got to move on with reflection and become better so I don’t ruin lives anymore. The Monks will make me whole again and I can reflect and learn to be better and one with all. I still think about what needs to be done. I will see Sahno soon.
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  Hold the Line
  • UnholyCalls

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  Meditations of Ormsyn Ryggraden - Cavern Druid of The Great Worm of Uthgar
  • Darkpowder

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  2 - The search. As within, as without, for the circle, the grove. Ormsysn sits again, contemplating the direction to something of interest.... But not this time to a natural resource as he often does to the nearest body of clean water or fixing his mind upon a stone such as Jaspar which could be broken down a fracture line to form a cutting tool. This time Ormsyn is seeking more than just a place or resources to survive, but a place to thrive. Calling to mind the image of the fungi that grow underground, placing many different types around him of the more unremarkable type. But he does not seek the great forests and caves of mushrooms that grow underground, but in correspondence he ooks within them to look for the nature of how they grow with the tiny creatures aiding their growth, and how the nutrients from the ground are used by the myriad of tiny plant spirits and invisible creatures contributing to the mushroom's health. Delving deep into the innards of the mushrooms structure in his minds eye, his focus goes to the sheltering caps, the explosive spore emissions of other types and the glowing aura of others. Asking important questions to bring forth back to conscious knowledge. Seeking out the underlying structures of the fungi, a formlessness, a commonality that marks them out as different from the plants that crave the sunlight, and yet makes all the fungi so different. Which dwell beside one another? Which are the curatives for the poisons of others? Can they be consumed to resist the poisons of other fungi? and Where to spirits of the plants grow so powerful as to communicate in more than just the language of feeding and surviving. Not consuming the mushrooms which can elicit rage or a trance upon many young practitioners of the path but again from within he is drawn down a path of activation despite his practical intentions as he feels himself merge with the formlessness of the thought, the thought behind the form. And upon this thought his mind is drawn again to greater knowledge, now seeking to where large concentrations could be found, be they places of light within the deep darkness or the forests of almost unimaginable size. He then looks for the trail, the thread all the way back to where he is, what animals have traversed close to these places, which live and hide among them and which even use them for sustenance or other craft. Then reeling that thread in, he winds it back to his physicality in conscious thought and brings back with that thought the insight of stillness, to act as if fully possesed by vision in the darkest places or even blind as well as what he may be able to follow to lead him to yet another place of meditation.
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  The Notebooks of M---
  • its_a_fire

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  Annulus Conflagrus - The Ring of Fire
  • Darkpowder

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  The Sixth: Establish favourable political influence of your faith and see to it that it establishes itself in its rightful place as a superior faith. ::: Personal Journal Entry of Vertus Dahl, faithful of the Disciples of the Phoenix ::: 18th Before Shieldmeet: It was on this day that my trial by fire completed for another cycle.The defences granted by the harnessing of the power and veneration of Kossuth firelord prevailed as did my own fortitude in the 6th Trial. Trial by the other elements and aspects of fire. The hardest of them all, as they steel the aspirant to approach the most challenging of all for the disciples of the phoenix, as unlike brethren who follow a lawless path, or a path of malice or self-serving nature this path must still be carried out before progress can be made. To manipulate and cajole, threaten or bribe, supplant other goodly faiths or remove those of influence preventing our climbing to political position. These are not of the nature of the Disciples of the Phoenix who hold that both the sanctity of life, lawful authority driven from the place of kindness and compassion and the placing of others above your own will is the highest ideals of the order. It is said in the text of the annulus conflagrus that through the elemental aspects of fire, will insight and wisdom be gained as to how to accomplish the trial of the 6th no matter your political, or compass of good or evil. What follows are my notes obtained in these trials adapted from the Annulus Conflagrus treatise on the terraces. Notes would be quite different or the earth, air or water for those who hold no value to life or law Fire as of The Earth: The ember While immersion within a volcano, is reserved only for the highest of the terraces and elemental archons I did light a fire with the bow and dry sticks of wood to create an ember to which life can be breathed into it to cause sufficient flame for a fire. The fire has to be taken to a snow covered place of hills or mountains, using a slow burning fungus only found in the rawlinswood - then maintained for a day and a night without letting the fire die out. Fire as of the Air: Steam An intense wind must be envisioned and caused to be created amidst the forge of a smith, either by your own labours at the bellows or granted by the firelord until exahaustion and collapse, or until the smith tells you the task is done. You must bind yourself to this smith for this duty for a tenday at least, taking no more than the minimal of sleep and never more than the smith themselves, preparing the forge each day as directed by them as a humble apprentice, whether the aspirant has any skill at the forge or not? Fire as of the Water: The boiling cauldron Bring forth your own labours of sustenance and nourishment to those who need to eat or workers hard pressed making a life for themselves, such as miners, farmers, soldiers or the downtrodden and destitute. The cauldron must be prepared by yourself alone and the necessary skills gained at the hands of those skilled in the kitchen or campside spit. Objectives and Insights from the Three Tasks: Demonstrate your command of fire to those who could well be assailed by it, a known enemy of fire giants or an expedition to cold lands and demonstrate that extension of this fire from the south to the north is the essence of the Disciples of the Phoenix bring about a consideration that not all of the faith of Kossuth are the builders of pyres to pile their victims upon. Find an ally favoured by the firelord a smith favouring moradin perhaps or gond and place yourself at their service, protecting them at the forge with the prayers of kossuth and placing yourself in their service. This will aid in the acceptance and prominence of your faith among the dwarven kin or the smiths of a certain town or region. Deliver your food and place it at the most challenging ouf outposts of the land, ones which are hard pressed for soldiers, of the Icelace in defiance of the endless chill, the mountains and snow of Blackbridge and the damp and rainy Norwick to the guards on duty there. This will aid in the perception of humility of the Disciples of the Phoenix, where usually only the proud confident wielders of the firelords power are known.
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  Looking at the world sideways: Vick Blake
  • Darkspyr

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  ALONE Darkness moved around him, like a physical thing, it had a heaviness to it, clinging to him as he strained through it. It tried to crawl down his throat, eat at his skin, working to dissolve him and make him one with it. A hiss issues from the dark, an eerie exhalation of air, a point of reference in the unending oblivion. He turned toward the sound, orienting somehow in the utter blackness, and drifted toward it. In endless time and no time he came to a point, where darkness seemed to give away to another presence. He could see nothing, but knew something was there…….waiting. One thing he knew, and knew well, was patience. The dance of emptiness, of time without meaning, and so he faced the darkness and waited. The change was creepingly slow, almost unnoticeable, but in utter darkness any change at all can lead to perception. It was cold and soft and smothering, but he was patient and waited. It slid over his skin like a knife and whispered softly into his mind, but he was patient. It scraped along his nerves and wept empty tears into his soul, yet he waited. Gathering his will, he focused himself and snapped his eyes open. The room lay quiet and dark around him, the only sound the wind outside his window and the night noises of the world around him. He lay for awhile, letting the chill leave his limbs, and the darkness drain from his mind. Then he was up and moving, a drifting shadow in the darkness, moving through the city, a living ghost haunting the alleys and darkened corners. Then up he went, like an animal he scaled the walls and ran across the rooftops, higher and higher he went. Leaping and griping, his fingers and toes sure as they found crevice and ledge he climbed and then came to rest. He could look for miles from the towers heights. He settled into a shadow and tried to process the dream. He tilted his head back against the cold stone and stared up into the darkness of night and tried to remember. It had been long ago, but sometimes it seemed only instants. He had always been the odd one out, smaller and leaner then most of the others. Easy prey for the larger and stronger, the streets were a brutal land and children were ignored in their poverty and cruelty. But, though he was small, he was smart and quick and learned the worlds lessons well. Trust was but a tactic to lure in future prey. Friendship but a painful loss, not yet conceived. Physical pain, but something to endure and then gone. Hunger but an emptiness to be filled to fuel survival. And so life went from the time he left his mothers skirts until his 8th year. Her survival meant he needed to be away from her and so he roamed. He climbed and hid in the nooks and crannies of the roofs. He slunk into the sewers in the bitterest cold, gaining some warmth from the excrement of the city. He fought when he was cornered, but that became rarer as time went by. He learned to avoid those who might harm him, he became a living ghost in those years. Unseen, overlooked, ignored….those were survival. He stole when hunger cramped his stomach, when the cold bit deep and the nights grew long. He saw less and less of his mother, sometimes months would go by before their lives might drift together again. He was probably 8 when that happened for the last time. For once he was not hungry, the winters cold had passed and food moved through the port, easy pickings for a small nimble fingers. He had even managed something extra for his mother and he sought her out in her small back room at the brothel. Like always, he drifted in, as if he did not exist, overlooked by any that might even care to glimpse him. Her door was open and he slowed as he approached, sliding along the wall so the floors bore his minimal weight with no sound. He glanced in low, snapping back quickly as her eyes met his from but inches away. Empty battered eyes, devoid of all life and pain. The cuts and scrapes not even having a chance to bruise before death had found her. He stepped into the room, over the body and looked around. Just a discarded rag, used up and tossed aside, the description seemed to settle into his mind. He blinked his dry eyes, thinking perhaps there should be something to feel, but he had started building his walls so young that his foundations were set on bedrock and would not shift. There was nothing for him here, if there had ever been...but still something held him to the spot. Voices approaching drove him into the dark recesses of the rafters as the madam led the guard in. He watched and listened as they spoke of the sailor who was her last client. The madam looked put out that the body was tying up the room and wanted it removed quietly and quickly, the guard just looked tired and bored. Once they were gone he moved through the rafters, listening and watching, until he had what little information he could glean, and then he drifted into the night. He found him passed out in a dark alley, vomit and blood still covering him. He wreaked of liquor and rotten teeth and unbathed humanity. He looked at the man with empty eyes then heaved and rolled him over. Pulling a small piece of metal from its makeshift sheath, he studied the man, as if he were a dog to the skinned for a meal. He had sharpened the metal over many a long night, rendering one edge sharp as a razor. The man had not even grunted as he rolled him so he decided quick and clean. The large veins on the inside of the legs would be the quickest so he cut the cheap cloth away and set to work. It only took a few minutes and the man never stirred, as the pool of darkness spread between his thighs. He looked up into the dark skies and wondered for the last time, why he felt nothing….and then he was gone. He sighs quietly and looks down from the stars and out over the city. It seemed quiet and peaceful in the middle of the night if you did not pay close attention. The dream was coming more often and he felt a restlessness that was not normal to him. He rubbed the worn silver coin between his fingers and frowned. He had made his pledge over a quarter of a century ago, but it still called to him. The Lady had always been honest with him, hers a knife edged existence. He snaps the coin into the air and then snatches it back. Luck, the fickle bitch, how he loved her sense of humor and spite. He idly dances the coin across his knuckles and purses his lips as he remembers.