Tales By The Fire

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  • Voight

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  Sebrienne's Journal
  • Robyn

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  Classes Classes have ended for now. I had my exams and passed … barely. It frustrates me to no end that I have to study twice as hard to do half as well. I have more power than any two students combined, but my knowledge of all things arcane is pitiful. Even the first year students who can barely master second circle spells know more than I. It’s embarrassing. For a project, Salin had me make a chart of how often my “slips” were occurring, and for each one rate the severity. The slips occur when I lose my temper, experience fear or anger, even if I’m not conscious and dreaming. I did this for three months. We went over the results together in private. He said it was a good exercise for “extra credit”, to help me pass when I probably shouldn’t. While I was grateful for his kindness and the opportunity, the results were somewhat upsetting. We figured that at the rate my power is growing, and how often the slips occurred that I have a year, perhaps two … three at the outside where there will be a tipping point, and I will probably lose control entirely. The “events” will come stronger as time progresses, making me a danger to everyone around me. I came within a hair’s breadth today of killing Raazi, for some imagined sleight. It was like I was riding a dragon that wanted to eat her, and all I had to do was let go of the reins for a split second and let it. I’ve read a lot of books about my condition in Spellweaver. Sorcerers who acquire power before the age of 10 usually experience some kind of hardship. Those before the age of 7 usually never live to puberty, often killing themselves by accident. I had power at the age of 4. The lightning I released in the market was third circle. The only reason I survived thus far is for some inexplicable reason, I was largely immune to my own power. Brother John told me I had been tested for dragon, infernal and outsider heritage, and assured me that I had none, and that I was just an unfortunate person gifted too young. Is it possible he lied? Why would he do that? What purpose would it serve? I’ll probably never live long enough to find out.
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  Annulus Conflagrus - The Ring of Fire
  • Darkpowder

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  The Seventh: Favour first those who do show respect and tithe to the faith of the firelord, but show the renewing aspect of fire first to those not of the faith as the priority of the disciples of the phoenix. :: Vertus remarks first in a quiet moment by the fire in the Mermaid to himself only :: "The lawful resolution of the knights of the cleansing flame is challenged at all times by the ever changing and chaotic nature of what crosses one's path, but so must it also be said that this is a test of the brotherhood..,.. But what a find i have made.. it is truly a sign of greatness to come" :: Vertus then emerges, and speaks in public, close to a collection of braziers lit as usual to ward off the chill of the night.. his countenance bright with the fervor of his faith, speaking with some charisma to compliment his muscled frame :: Soon friends! Soon there will be a great surprise and reckoning of the enemies of the faith, but until then see the bounty of the firelord brought forward for you all. While i need little for he sustains me, the toil and costs of our lives in this city drain away warmth from our fire, and coin from our purse no matter how hard we work... Am i right friends? :: he remarks as he hands out cooked meats and hot bread and pastries from the ovens of the mermaid to those outside:: To those brave enough to seek to venture from the city to put an end to the enemies who threaten us, the undead... :he pauses with dramatic effect: the unknowably evil, the orcs, the kobolds.. the list goes on... I say this to you. Seek me out, Vertus, knight of the cleansing flame and fear not the fire of your enemy, and may your weapon blaze with the fire of Kossuth, as you break through the lines of your enemy. I'll be there at the borders of the enemy waiting for you to set your weapon afire with the divine heat of the firelord. Not for an extortionate cost, and not only to the faithful of the firelord. No, but to all. Walk through their fires with impunity, laugh at their magics, and watch them run from your blades of fire. Save for the sloshing damp steps of those who follow Itishia who would rather see you all in a watery grave so long as their rivers and coasts are clean and preferably without the rich trade of your boats. Will i refuse your donations, or even a tithe from the faithful. No of course not, but you need not unless you are inspired to strike down your enemies once you feel the power of the fire in your hands. Soon friends, he pats a huge and heavy wrapped package on his lap. Soon we will see a reckoning to the uncaring and cold waters, soon even the coral and the weeds of the sea will crave the warmth, nay.. the cleansing and joyous hearth and blazing brazier we all stand around thankful for it...
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  George Longcloak - In search of a legend
  • WouldBeBard

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  And so, it is done. As far as I can gather, at least. My leave started out well, if strange. There was an uncommonly thick fog on the land which seemed to cloak the world in silence, aside from occasional murmurs, and threw strange silhouettes everywhere. I bumped into Isolde talking to a man offering her a job. Searching for and retrieving a cloak that was taken from him in Waterdeep which he had chased all the way here, following rumours of a performer wearing it. I was worried the man was quite mad, talking to himself. When she stook the job I decided to tag along for her safety. Night fell right as we took the job. The fog grew thicker and more ominous. The shadows, too. Everywhere we went, we were haunted by this soft music. The bards seemed to be out all over the city. On near every corner we found one playing this tune on brass wind instruments. Other people behaved strangely, too. On edge, as though they felt they were being watched, always ready to bolt or fly off the handle. Following clues, talking to the right people, bribing some, cajoling others and menacing one or two more got us where we needed to be. A couple of fists flew and a fool or three found out. Just some bruises and a bloody lip. Nothing too uncommon for a night in the docks. In a room in the Pissing Goat we found a woman wearing the cloak who'd set a table for two. She had been expecting us. Or rather, she had been expecting the man who had been shadowing us the entire time. A lover's quarrel. That's all it was. A woman that felt neglected and led the man on a merry chase. We left the couple to their privacy. Such a strange cloak, though. Affected weather, light and mood. No wonder the night had seemed so strange. It was all so innocent, in retrospect. Strange, yes, but whimsical. Not at all like what was about to unfold. We were in the commons, laughing and talking with our companions and the many adventurers of the land. I wish it could've lasted longer, but it didn't. Aoth had gone to the College and then came back and simply said it was happening, right then. Most didn't need an explanation, so we rushed to the College. As the details were being discussed with the ones not aware, I realized I was ill prepared and travelling light. I made a mad dash for the Bag of Holding to stock up on all that seemed appropriate. A different cloak, my blunderbuss, potions, spellcrystals, grenades, bombs, powders and sidearms. And rope, of course. After seeing Asha and Cormac hang from that burning bridge, it seems good to have it on hand. I was excited, I won't deny it. Weeks of preparation, and now it was here. While the thrill of battle never dulled over the years, I can't remember the last time the anticipation was so great. I wonder if the others felt it quite the same way. That rush you feel in your gut, like stepping into a ring the first time, the whole world slowing down around you as your body teeters on the cliff's edge of fight or flight and you step willingly towards fight. Feeling like your blood is on fire, wanting to run like an untamed horse, knowing you will have to hone that fire into a steely calm, sharp as the edge of your weapon. This was a fight I had never fought before, against an enemy I never imagined. I remember giving Isolde my Last Letters, more out of tradition than worry. I remember giving two thumbs up and a grin to Jonni when he said we were probably all on our way to die. Reckless abandon, and brazen confidence. The first leg of the journey went well. Into the College, following one of the hundreds of hidden pathways until we came to a room that held a tunnel entrance. Here came the first fight. Just a mage. An old man in a mask. He said nothing, just set right to his duty of killing the intruders. He was strong. Very strong. Still a man, however, and we brought him low without losses. The tunnel was a long drop, near straight down, far too deep for the rope I brought, wide enough that I could not jump across. Some polymorphed, others were given the benefit of a Slow Fall spell, and down we went. It was during the near free fall that the next masked mage accosted us. Floating ever downward, he was descending right along with us, casting his spells. As silent and dispassionate as the last. Polymorphed Aoth tried to distract him by throwing her bat self at his face, to little avail. Jonni turned back human to fight him, I threw my bombs and powders at him in an effort to distract him. It made little to no difference, so I pushed off from wall to wall, halberd in hand in an effort to impale him midfall. The endlessly long drop afforded us time. A comical sight it must have been, if not for the gravity of the situation. Eventually, we all managed to find a way to join in the fight, and the mage was dead before we hit the ground, our casters polymorphing back to their flying shapes. The mage made an unnerving splat and bounce, coming down again without the mask. It turned out this one was an old woman. I remarked she flew poorly for an old bat. Gallows humour, right? I might've upset Aoth with that, mind. Hope she didn't take it personal. There had been four of those masks, someone remarked. So two more mages to face before the end. The third wasted no time to meet us, as we walked into the cave complex that held the rune, our flumph friend nowhere in sight. Again, a tough opponent, but still human. Another old man. No rhetoric, no indignation, just an uncaring attempt at stamping a group of bugs beneath their heel. He, too, was dealth with. The nightmare didn't start until after all this. When we found the runes, and Jonni reminded me not to look at them. I wonder now if they were really that much worse than the things I did see. Our objective was clear, keep the flumph safe to do what it could. Seems simple enough, yes? Jonni made it clear yet again. Every sacrifice was worth keeping the flumph alive. When they came, that's the first time I understood. Why the dread in Isolde's face when she told me about the abberations didn't quite match the words she used. All the flowery vocabulary she possesses felt banal compared to the edge in her voice when she spoke of those creatures. And now I know. There are no words to explain what was down there, but I will try. I must try. If I can describe it, perhaps I can wrap my head around it and let it go. Shapes. So many, many shapes. Of skulls of all kinds, of black inhuman limbs that had no business bending the way they did, of shapes that were part human, part snakes and ants and centipedes. They shifted and changed, they came together and drifted apart, they were shadow and flesh at the same time. They surrounded you and threw spells and themselves at you with no sense of preservation, cackling and rending flesh with heir touch. And in the midst of it all, they tried to pry into your mind and fill it with fear. I'm certain I would still hear their whispers if worse hadn't happened. When they appeared, I ran at them as soon as my eyes settled. I didn't spare a single thought to the consequences. I did not wish to have time to think on what I just saw. Headlong into that dark mass, halberd first, hoping to draw blood. And I did. They weren't immortal, at least. Not that strong at all, in fact. Oh, but they had numbers and dread in spades. I did not even need to watch where I swung. I would hit something. In the end, I could not avoid looking at them. Even the ground was littered with them. I lost any kind of oversight in that fight. I do not know who was doing what. I know I fought side by side with Jonni at one point, with Rey at another, then to the back lines to fly into the ones who were attacking Isolde and Shesarai. It all blurs together. Sometimes the attacks abated, but the reprieves were never long, and I could find myself slipping even as I kept leaping into battle. Dread heaped upon dread, grinding you down like a millstone. Every shadow could become one of these things. And the worst of it was still coming. The flumph eventually told us to flee. We had succeeded, but we weren't through the woods yet. A backlash from interrupting this "battering ram" of a ritual was about to begin. For a time yet, something from there could touch our plane. Could touch us. Only for a time, however. Stay out of reach long enough, and we'd be safe. The reach of that thing, though... All my senses are jumbled when I think about it. I can feel its droning voice. I can smell the pain of its fingers prying into my mind. Hear the slithering darkness it caused. Taste its hands on my skin. No potion or spell protected us. It drained us of any strength we had. We stumbled out of there like halfwits, our minds being robbed of faculty, falling into a different cave system while following Rey. I do not remember much of what happened beyond that point. Isolde was helping me along, but we got separated. I think it got me first. That darkness. The madness. The time spent in the embrace of that thing. I try to remember, but I cannot. Something tells me I should stop trying, for my own sake. I came to in a gondola, back on our way to Peltarch. The voice of Isolde singing woke me. A curious song, like no other I'd ever heard. It seemed all wrong, somehow. Yet I felt in my heart and in the subsiding darkness and fog that she played it perfectly. It was the most beautiful sound imaginable. I drifted into sleep not long after, the exhaustion getting to me. I only got the rest of the tale from Isolde yesterday. Of their seemingly endless trip in that cellar, through that darkness. Getting separated, her just trying to hide in a corner she found. Jonni pulling her from that corner, drawing the creature's attention. She found Jonni again later, staring blankly ahead. Breathing, but... gone. She found me in the same state, near the flumph. She thinks the flumph kept me from the worst of it, lacking the training and experience that Jonni has. In the end, they found that gondola, and tried to escape through an underground river. Not immediately, however. They decided they would let that horrid thing chase us until the backlash ended and it was banished to the Far Realm again, to keep it from finding the surface. Every sacrifice. Isolde said Shesarai lead me into the gondola while she led Jonni. I should remember to thank her. It was Rey, however, who stubbornly kept rowing when all others had succumbed to that creature. Rey that brought us to the current that dragged us out when our strengths failed. It was a night of horror for all involved. None of us got out of that without a scar, but they aren't physical. The fear and panic touched us all. The flumph believed Jonni's and my mind were cracked, and we likely would've remained that way had Isolde not been able to wake us with that cacophony of madness she learned a long, long time ago from a bard driven mad by the Far Realm, himself. A night of horror, but we succeeded. We were there to guard the flumph, and we did. To hear her tell it, I did admirably. I'll take her word for it. Either way, the runes have been deactivated. Their entrance has been shut. I hope she's right. I pray that thing did not make it through in time. I sit here and write in the light of a Radiant Amulet. I volunteered for the night shift, for an indefinite amount of time. I sleep during the day, in the light of morning. I can't stand the dark anymore, but the idea of laying my head down and going to sleep at night is somehow worse. Just nerves. This will fade as so many sights before it have. The young man pushes his chair away from the small table, then walks out of the guardhouse in the gateway to the city's military district. Outside he takes a deep breath of the cold night air. His eyes dart to the shadows outside the circle of light. Movement? He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. When he looks again, nothing is there. He slowly walks under the portcullis to look into the streets and watch the snow fall on the quiet houses. White walls, dark walls, slate roofs, thatched roofs. Shuttered windows, lit up windows, and even the dark windows that seem to be leering menacingly at him in the dead of night. All those people dreaming their dreams, living in peace, completely unaware of what happened beneath them, aside from a handful of tremors. Worth it.
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  A Melody Mechanical by Isolde Garibaldi
  • Karnivor

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  Parlay 'Parlay my ass, Nauran', I replied, incredulous at the notion of Talbot's supposed invitation for diplomacy. I 'know' what he wants, and I've seen all too clearly the lengths he'll go to to get it. Scenes from the College attack replayed inside my head, Vanoogle pressed against the wall, a sword driven into his gut. No. No, this isn't a parlay, this is just a different approach, another tactics employed when the first wasn't enough. Just like Talbot's long ago dinner invitation at the Mermaid, it was only ever about getting his way. Intimidation and bullyism had failed to see me comply, and so he tried charm. 'You should've played ball', he said wearily, staring at my image in the creche-forge. But Talbot doesn't want to play, not the way I do, not for enjoying the back and forth. He wants to control the players, dictate the game. 'It's a 'trap'.' This much, Nauran conceded, but continued to insist that we should go, that I might attend as a projected image only, and that he had a means of escape if it came to that. Apparantly he had been dealing not with Talbot directly, but with the blue-eyed construct, who would wait until nightfall when the 'invitation' expired. Where I saw looming risk, not just of capture but of tipping our hand, Nauran saw a chance to learn - but the only things I really wished to know, I felt quite certain would be not be on offer. We argued back and forth - to my increasing frustration, lately it seemed Nauran and I could never disagree on anything without it spiralling into an aggressive, confrontational near row. I'd brought the Oscuran mage into the investigation quite recently, for enjoying our past collaboration on the Chirade case. Despite Nauran being at odds with some of my friends and distrusted by many others, I thought he might offer a clear and dispassionate view on things, as he had before. Now, however, Nauran presented his views as though they were the 'only' rational course of action, as if he was always right, even where I felt certain he did not see the full picture. He seemed to bristle each time we disagreed on anything, dismissing my idea of breaking the strangle-hold of Mechanus on the soldiers through song and dance as ludicrous. Even after being told by Artemis also that exactly this effect had been demonstrated, more than once, he did not quite believe me. Yet of his own conclusions, he was all too certain. I remembered fondly our discussions during the Chirade investigation. Things were different then, perhaps because we were both on the outer fringes of the case. Now that I found myself smack in the middle of the plot, things between us seemed fraught with tension. I usually enjoy debate, enjoy different points of view for making me see things differently myself - I'd invited Nauran into the fold, partly for that very reason. I wanted him to help me twist and turn this mystery about - not to drive me near tears of frustration for insisting we do things his way. There's never just one right way – there's never just one or the other either, back and forth, left or right – just like the creche-forge, if you walk far enough to the left, it becomes right. Reality isn't linear or fixed – as I'm sure Godfrey and Godfreya would agree. Yet if our will shapes the world, it was becoming obvious that mine and Nauran's did not harmonize. The sun was setting across the rooftops of the city when I finally caved. Alright, 'fine' – we may learn something that could prove valuable, and neither of us are without means of escape when the trap would inevitably begin to snap shut. Hopefully… It awaited us in a secluded area of the foothills, blue eyes glowing in the dusk. Every encounter with the construct brought the same pang to my gut, the painful reminder of our failure to save Taschereau. In accordance with Nauran's previous negotiations, the construct allowed for a set number of questions to be answered – but as I had predicted, anything of relevant strategic value was off limits. 'Tasch' could only provide the answers to such questions as Talbot allowed it to, and it did so in a heartbreakingly inhuman manner, its voice metallic and emotionless. -Why the parlay? 'The General wishes direct interactions between himself and the bardess, as she has displayed an ability to compromise the integrity and security of the General's structure. He wishes to come to a better understanding of this ability, and discern the bardess' intentions with it, as well as propose a course of action.' Well duh. -What are Talbot’s intentions for Sally Williams? 'Former Lieutenant and Traitor Sally Williams', the construct insisted, continuing: 'The General's orders were to hold the city until his return, and open the gates for him. The General has since considered Former Lieutenant and Traitor Sally Williams' value and intends to offer her the means to redeem herself and shed her current status.' Heh. Bet you anything that 'redemption' involves a certain little something no longer in place, 'General'. -So Talbot does still intend to return to Peltarch? 'Yes.' -How does 'Tasch' cast spells in its current form? 'This one's form is made of rare metals from the plane of Mechanus, same as those used to create Inevitables, known to be capable of spellcasting. But its form is not purely mechanical. A fraction is organic.' Curious… but we knew the metal was rare, that's why the flesh is needed to substitute the rest. Could there be a weakness in that though – might Tasch yet respond to the Godfreya effect, or might the organic parts hold the key to the restoration of his true self? -Which parts are organic? The construct gave a precise and chilling response – it appears Gazuenheidt had created a clone, a duplicate in flesh of Taschereau's original form. The wretched gnome cut away its limbs, fusing head and torso within the shell of the construct so that flesh and metal merged. I shuddered, taking note of the information but failing as of now to see how we might make use of it. Nauran received his due reward for bringing me to the rendez-vous: a specific scroll from Tasch's spellbook, called Mage's Private Sanctum. And now for the steel jaws of this trap to trigger… The 'offer' from Talbot was the following: 'You will meet with the General in person, and allow the General to stabilize the aura contained about your person. In exchange, the General will not march unto Peltarch.' Yeah ~right~. 'In the interests of the greater stability of the region, as well as the integrity and security of the General's structure, the General adds the following clause to the offer.' Okay, get ready Nauran – here it comes. 'Submit any and all gems you currently possess that contain ties to the creche-forge, and allow for a magical scan upon your person to be conducted by Tasch. And in exchange, the General will not order the regiments that have been stationed around this plateau to carry out their orders.' There it is. That's Talbot's 'parlay' – do what I say or 'else'. 'Tell the 'General' he can take his offer and shove it, Tasch', I said in an even voice, a giggle almost escaping as the construct did just that, diligently. 'Relaying message: shove it.' It seemed slow to realize this meant no, but past the treeline, in the darkness of the hillsides, we heard them approaching. Footsteps, metallic greaves in perfect, clockwork unison. The blue-eyed construct's eyes glowed, but it had yet to make any hostile move itself, perhaps still working out my words true meaning. Time to exit this particular stage. Invisible, we fled towards the city gates, where I raised the alarm. Nauran, meanwhile, took it upon himself not to seek safety but battle, commencing to rain down fire and destruction upon the approaching clockwork soldiers. No, no, no… don't kill them, just hold them off..! There was nothing for it now – whether Tasch was studying me in the distance or not, I had to try. I had to put my plan to the test, and free as many as I could before they were all dead and lost. I was 'not' having another massacre at the gates – not this time, not knowing I could prevent it. Time for dress rehearsal, then. The amplifier rod gleamed in my hand, slender and light, encased by smooth black leather and snaking, swirling mithril coils. I held it close to my lips, so close the tip almost brushed against me, and sang a single, humming, vibrating, buzzing note. The note filled the air, it echoed far into the foothills and the soldiers paused, momentarily, before pressing on. Nauran was still fighting, fireballs hurled through the air. I hummed the melody – a slow and haunting melody, the notes droning, almost electrical. My lips tickled, a spark of red dancing in the air. And then I sang. I shut out the sounds of battle, shut out my worries and concerns, let the melody claim me, the words fill me, spill out of me in a haze of red. I swayed, on top of the wall, as the haze spread, thickening into a crimson fog. Beneath me, the battle began to grind to a halt – some soldiers stopped to sway with me. Others began to flee westwards, but their movements seemed jerky, intermittent, the machinery malfunctioning. The haze grew darker, a storm brewing within, wisps and lashes of colours erupting in the air. A thunderstorm in red, with rainbow lightning flashing, zapping, jolting the frozen soldiers. And then I saw her, a flickering image hovering in the air. Godfreya, long dark hair and uneven robes fluttering with the storm, swaying with the song. She smiled, that bright, wild smile, and stretched her hand out to… something… At first it's all a haze, but then I see Godfrey's image flicker into view as well, his trim moustache curved in a smile. He takes her hand, and together, they begin to dance. Below, twenty soldiers all bend over and reach for their heads, screaming in agony, wailing, curling up on the ground, hands digging into temples and skulls as though something snapped within. All at once and in a rush, it came back to them – everything they are and everything that was done to them, everything they were forced to do as prisoners in their own bodies. As the first Defenders came rushing to the scene, my song trailed off and the red haze began to dissipate, revealing the scorched battle field and the bodies of the fallen past the gates. And scattered around it, twenty groaning, traumatized soldiers. In pain, in agony but alive – alive and free of Talbot's chains. It worked. It 'worked' not just on individual soldiers but on a whole group. Twenty could have been how many more, if Nauran had just held his fire? If he'd had just a little more faith in my plan, how many more might be saved? It's a question without answer – for all that the walls might've protected me sufficiently while I sang, it's just as possible that the soldiers might have breached it before the haze had enough strength to stop them in their tracks. For now, I'll take what I can get from this, I'll take the twenty and confirmation that my plan is possible not just in theory but in practice. Not even Nauran can deny that now, even though he insists it isn't the most reliable method. What still worries me is that confirmation might have gone both ways – that Talbot now knows precisely what I can do and will work out a strategy to counter it, rendering the next and crucial attempt a failure. Regal's Fjord has 'got' to work – and Sally Williams, in arriving at the scene herself, notified us to an upcoming meeting to discuss the particulars of the next course of action. Nauran, just before we parted in more amicable mood, revealed that the scroll he acquired from Tasch will allow for undetected scrying, the next time we attempt to snoop. Now that 'is' clever. Why couldn't he just have told me so to start with, instead of attempting to boss me around? Of course, he thinks I'm the one being bossy. Am I? Or am I not bossy 'enough'?
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  Therapy: A Session With Cormac
  • KingCreeper

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  https://youtu.be/k1vqbkh1-oM Heat blasts down from a black sky, a swirling cyclone buzzes with lightning over head; the heart of the storm is a black sun too immensely bright/dark to look at without going blind or insane. Tilled fields roll on forever in every direction, and Cormac Randolph sits in dreary silence. He cannot move. He cannot speak. For he is himself at this time a mere scarecrow, propped up upon a stick crucifix - the poles of which are driven up the back of his loose shirt and long-ways through his loose and ragged sleeves. A lady's sun hat, broad brimmed and made of straw with a bright pink flower embroidered in it covers his stuffy-guy head complete with sewn in X's for eyes. A thin smile is sewn into the sack material that makes up his face as he observes the dusty oblivion - horror that stretches out before, and all about him. A trio of brightly dressed figures mill around in the dusty dry dirt. He is aware of their singing, a touch of bright loveliness in this barren nightmare. The closest one is singing nonsense words as she plants her crop. A bright yellow skirt with a blue blouse and corset she wears, a black bow in her red hair. She sings prettily her nonsense song and makes herself busy with her work. The stuffy-guy watches as black winged creatures circle above, a deadly brown viper slithering stealthily her way, fel beasts drawn to this anti-Snow White's song. The stuffy guy's heart is full of fear for the life of this lovely girl, yet with his stuffy head and sewn lips he can utter no warning, he simply rustles in the desolate breeze. Second has platinum hair tied up with a plain black band, blazing silver-gold even in the bleakness between the blackened sun and the scorched earth. She hums along with the other's song, and is dressed in a simple blue dress with a white shift. White stockings disappear up under the wide skirt and her dainty feet are adorned by plain black shows. She is nevertheless lovely to behold, young and vibrant. She beats at the earth with a rusty iron tool and her stunted crop is little more than a patch of broken earth, the kind of red dirt that hasn't been kissed by rain; cracked and void of life. This 'Alice' beats the earth and kicks up dust. The stuffy guy's mind is full of thoughts of hope, of curiosity and wonder. The third figure has wild red hair and she sings to the sky, and dances upon the earth; she is dressed in an elegant blush-pink ball-gown, all done up with fabulous lace and embroidered with pearls and gold. A golden tiara adorns her head and on her feet her delicate shoes are matching pink. This princess Aurora; the Sleeping Beauty dances boldly beneath the tempestuous sky that forever threatens to storm and bring its deluge. She has planted nothing and tends no crop, and yet her field seems so close to coming to life. The scarecrow on his pole's soul feels calmer knowing such a one has faith in the dismal field. In his stick and scrub stuffed head he can almost imagine the things that might bloom here. Sunflowers; Moonflowers. Silver daisies or fiery orchids. He is at peace and all is well in the world as the three tend their respective plots. The fluttering of wings by his head startles him from his placid daydreams of silver and gold flowers. Sharp, needle-like talons puncture his ratty shirt and sink deep into the stuffing in his shoulder. The exquisite pain is very real and yet he's unable to cry out, or wince, or shudder in response; he is just a stuffy-guy held up by two poles that have been crudely lashed together after all. And while he can't turn his head to look at it, he knows that there on his shoulder sits the beast that haunts him; the valravn. He feels the warmth of its breath as it pecks at the loose string that makes one of his sewn X's that are his eyes, and he feels as the string is first unfettered and then drawn out in its great length. To his horror, as the sack peels away from that place he realizes that he can see clearer - plainly with his own iron grey eye. He tries to blink the blood away, a few droplets finding their way into his open eye from where the string had been stitched in, the salty thick liquid stinging his exposed eyeball. The winged beast speaks in a man's voice by his ear. "Look at how they each care for thee in their own way Cormac. This one tends thine own heart. That one eases thy mind. And this one; the dancing one, she cares for thy very soul. But for how long? Look there with thine own eyes. Look on, I bid thee, for this is the future that is sewn by thee..." And as he speaks the woman that sings in her yellow skirts turns about, soaked up to her elbows in blood and caked in dirt. The deadly snake that had been approaching her is lifted in her hands, panic washes over the stuffed scarecrow as she kisses the top of the serpent's head; he hadn't seen how perfect her face had looked or how tempting her bright red painted lips had been when her back was turned. He felt weakness, and he loathed himself for the lust that warmed his hay-filled belly. This Snow White figure dropped the snake into the dirt before approaching the stuffy guy, and yet she addressed the valravn on his shoulder - and her laugh was like a crystal song, and her voice was a touch long yearned for. "It won't be long now little friend, the things that ail him are coming into the light; soon, my dear. Soon you shall feast upon the crop. For here grows the heart of a hero in this ugly earth. Ah! But it is yet too small for you. Soon, my dear". And as she spoke the serpent slithered to the budding crop in the ground, a beating heart that spurts blood in steady pumps into the dusty soil, the snake - as Cormac observed - coiled itself around the beating fruit and tightened about it; black tongue flicking. Black fangs threatening. The man knew terror and the foreboding feeling grew in his chest. A coldness that was not altogether out of place in this dire territory. His spirits were not uplifted when the red haired pantomime Isolde with her black bow whirled gayly away, singing her bright song as she went back to tending her crop. His anguished heart. "And look yonder at the young girl" commanded the valravn in its man's voice. "Look there and see the fruits of that one's labor. She dwells within thy mind, yes? Cultivates your thoughts, brings forth such thoughts in thee as 'consideration', and thoughts of 'warmth' in thee. Look ye at how thee burdens thy companions; more than merely faithful is she; she is as a salve upon thy weary consciousness. I know she soothes thy thoughts of rage, of cruelty and torment. But look now at how close she is to breaking -- soon, Cormac, soon thou shalt dwell in darkness. Soon loneliness shall be thy only companion". His iron grey eye, grey as the wheeling storm above flitted out in the direction of Sebrienne - Alice - as the lovely girl stood beating the dry earth with her iron tool. He noticed now that her humming was pained grunting with each swing, and that her small hands were bleeding from endless toil. She sounded tired and looked to be on the verge of giving up. Puffs of dust boil up from the arid ground and the land yields nothing, yet the girl tries so hard. Sweat soaks her blue dress and her white shift is blotted with dirty stains and bloody hand prints, the dust must surely sting her big blue eyes for they are ringed red and wet with tears that threaten to spill over. The stuffy guy knows well that she is strong, and yet his mind is filled with anguished thoughts of how she will surely leave him to seek greener, less terrible lands; lands far from his troubles. His guilty thoughts of what might grow there; what could grow and blossom, and how bountiful it all could be are repelled and forced down and away whenever they spring up like weeds, plucked away by melancholy and hurtful notions of abandonment, of false or misgiven affection. Then spoke the raven-wolf into Cormac's ear. "And what of the dancing girl? She prays for thy soul. She dances for it and pleads with the gods for thy salvation. She has the kenning, aye, t'is true; yet for all its worth she knows not what ails thee Cormac Randolph. Perhaps she has cast her spells and looked out to thy future; delved thy past; or sought understanding from thy present. But what crop comes from dancing alone? None - does thou not see? Thou cannot be saved son of Magnus. Son of Morrigan. Son of Legend. Son of Story and Song. Thou cannot be saved by any of them. Not thy heart, thy mind, nor thy spirit. Thou art doomed". Asha, the red-haired Aurora danced in the dirt; the hems of her pink gown and underskirts all splashed with mud as she whirled and stepped. The tambourine she slapped ringing out with the sound of her own beat. Tears streaming down her dust caked cheeks in black little lines and turning the field beneath her rose-coloured shoes to red mud. He could hear her begging the gloomy sky to relent, to drop its rains down upon her and her 'sisters', to end the drought and to let Cormac's spirit grow strong again. Lightning lit the swirling vortex and disappeared into the black sun at its center. The only answer that came to the dancing gypsy princess was bleak and empty void; silence broken only by ceaseless wind that seemed to come from every direction - and yet sucked the air out and away from ones lungs and made it hard to breathe. There was no hope there in this blasted land, no seeds had been sown after all, just the coaxing dance of the red haired princess in her golden tiara that hinted to the nature of such a thing; Hope. She danced close to the stuffed man and she tugged on the brim of his lady's hat, and as she pulled his stuffed head closer and down to her face she kissed his stitched lips deep, and with uncommon passion. The vertical stick that held him in place snapped at the neck and is head tumbled off. The woman laughed and danced with the stuffed head in her hands, the sudden crack caused the valravn to fly off startled. Blood ran down the front of the gypsy girl's embroidered gown and dashed the lace and pearls with misty spatter. His iron grey eye stared up at the reeling storm clouds, at the laughing smiling, insanely weeping face of Asha until all went black; and he awoke alone, and cold. He clung to the dream in his first waking moments for as long as he could, sought meaning in the weird visions - but all drifted as he left his quarters to relieve his nagging bladder. All that remained would be a sick sense of guilt, bitter remorse, and an emptiness in his heart.
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  The Gray Druid - The Diary of Aoth Sepret
  • its_a_fire

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  I was wrong, Katrin. I was certain Horgrim had doomed himself. Either the hand of the dead god would destroy him in its own quest to pollute the land or he would learn to control it and decide its usefulness was not yet extinguished. I was prepared to end him, should the latter occur. But Isolde, her kind heart never depleted, had the right this time. The arch magus was freed from the cursed artifact, and he is now resting, whole as ever. Now it is Isolde’s turn to pay a price, but I suspect she will pawn the damned sword onto another, willing host. Horgrim’s undead staunched waves of the far things. We easily dispatched the remaining legions when Horgrim could no longer control his army. It is not the tide of horrors that leaves me trembling, it is what came before. We have a vision of the unfathomable intelligence, the Gatecrasher, the one our arcanist may serve. Tall, humanoid almost, but with a neck that never ends and arms, a plethora, spiraling in all directions. We felt it in our minds this time. Like someone dining within our skulls. Is this who is to COME FORWARD? How does one shield the land from that? Too terrible to look upon, too beyond the senses to strategize against. I wish I had paid more attention to our Conjuration tutors, Katrin. But then, could you had stood before that army of nightmares? Could Ephesta, ever my better? The past is not the home for my wishes. I am no arcanist, no planeswalker. Toril herself, the elements, are my tools. If only we were certain we had time! Now to find solace. I hear Isolde and Reyella downstairs, waking the rooster with their laughter. Reyhenna with them. Shall we see where this night ends?
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  Vin Domne's secret notes
  • Gonnar

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  //updated.
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  Movalyn
  • Kayleb

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  ((Will finish this soon))
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  Goblin
  • Kayleb

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  The Blackguard strode through the dock area, black cloak billowing, flanked by an acolyte. “So you say this tracker is one of exceptional skill?” The acolyte swallowed his fear down before replying, “Y - yes my lord. According to the records we managed to salvage from the ruins of our temple, he has a reputation for being an excellent tracker.” “I hope so, … for your sake” replied the unholy warrior menacingly, his voice echoing within his dark helmet. “The Black Hand is not as forgiving as I am. “ The pair arrived at a docked ship that was unloading cargo and slaves. The acolyte approached one of the sweaty sailors. “We … err … WISH to see your CAPTAIN … at ONCE!” “Oi I be thar Capt’n.” “Right,” stuttered the acolyte “.. well … permission to come aboard?” Without waiting the Blackguard strode up the boarding ramp and onto the deck. “Pull up your anchor.” The flustering Captain, who had flowed the blackguard onboard, replied cautiously, “Well we still be tied up to the dock me … dark … lord… we – “ “You will regret making me ask again. PULL UP YOUR ANCHOR!” The Captain whistled at some crew members who began hastily hoisting up the anchor. Eventually it broke the surface and was dangling beside the hull of the ship. “Bring it up onto the deck … please” the acolyte asked, in a submissive yet serious tone. The Captain glanced at the blackguard, who at this point had the captain totally unnerved. He whistled again and nodded to his crew. With a huge effort they managed to bring the weed covered anchor up onto the deck. “Bring it upright please.” At this point the crew began obeying the words of the acolyte and his master rather than waiting for a whistle from their captain. The “anchor” turned out to be a stone statue of a goblin, with a curved metal bar slung over its shoulders. Its arms were draped over the bar scare crow fashion. The ankles were together with feet apart providing a base onto which to tie the rope. The acolyte pulled a lump of fleshy stone from his satchel and began rubbing it over the statue. The stone began to darken, and then change colour until it was the hue of yellowish green goblin skin. Grobble sank a little under the weight of the metal bar slung over his shoulders, “ -heavy … how long you want me to … hey … where is-“. “You are Grobble?” asked the blackguard in a deep, menacing voice. “.. yes … but if yoo do the ask because yoo look for the one who did the crimes … it WASN’T ME! I swear. Besides, I am the good frend of yoo, and I never do cri-“ “SILENCE!” Barked the blackguard. “You will track down the one responsible for the destruction of our temple.” “Oh … well … I not the slave. So … I’m not going to do it.” The acolyte, along with the crew of the ship, were both stunned and slightly amused. They were sure the goblin would be brutally slain. “ … for free. I mean … slaves do the doing of things for free because they are the slave. But yoo have to give me coins. And not just the copper ones. I need a gold coin for THIS job. Maybe even TWO!” The iron bar over Grobble’s shoulders tumbled onto the deck as the goblin wriggled loose. “Very well … creature. You may have coins. Ten of them. If you bring back to me inform- “ The ship lurched as panels along the keel suddenly warped, letting water gush into the hull. The ship quickly tilted on its side, sending the blackguard and most of the crew into the inky black water. Grobble scrambled up onto the side of the boat that wasn’t submerged and managed to leap onto the dock as the vessel vanished beneath the waves. Some of the sailors had managed to escape the sinking ship and swam over to the dock, but the acolyte and the blackguard were nowhere to be seen, their armour dragging them straight into the depths where, legend has it, untold horrors lurked. “Hmm ..” Grobble grumbled. “how does he give to me my coins now?” Some of the slavers spotted the goblin, and began moving toward him, hoping to gain product for their trade. Grobble took out his bloody rag, “Boy! So glad I have THIS! I think it did give to me luck! Yes you know that if you eat the heart of a HIN that you gain the LUCK of it?!” The slavers went back to what they were doing “ … not that I have eaten the heart of a Hin of course … because that would be the crime. And ANYONE who says that I DID eat the HEART is A LIARr!”. At this stage nobody was really listening. [[Mostly an explanation of where Grobble has been while I was AFK for the last 5 years.]]
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  The Mystery of the Eye by Isolde Garibaldi
  • Karnivor

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  Aftermath One by one, like pearls on a string, we came tumbling out through the shimmering green veil of the portal, finding Horgrim's black-cowled figure chanting, our steadfast anchor to the prime, back to home and hearth and loved ones waiting. The ogre was visibly weary, relieved at our return though his glowing green eyes kept scanning for a smaller figure in our midst. Aesso - the sparkling girl who chose to make an ogre her friend, who treated him like a person and cheerily strong-armed the rest of the adventuring band into accepting the starkly rational-minded mage who fit in nowhere else. Horgrim had done all this for Aesso. But the girl who stepped out of the portal, last of all and with an awkward shuffle and confused expression - she was not Aesso. Sarah Snow mumbled timidly, bewildered as she looked around to each and everyone of us without any sign of recognition: 'Where am I?' The last that she remembers is crawling up in bed, in her simple inn room after that disasterous performance. She fell asleep and she dreamed - she had the strangest dreams… Sarah frowned now, rubbed at her eyes as though she had only just woken up, noticing Horgrim with startled apprehension. I introduced them quickly and then let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding: at least she hadn't screamed - I think it might've broken Horgrim's heart if she had. The ogre mage gave Sarah a long stare, mumbled disappointedly and then turned abruptly away. With the briefest of farewells, he made his departure, teleporting off to brood on his loss. And it 'is' a loss that the amazing, wonderful, willful and bubbly Aesso will never again walk in our midst, stir trouble and create marvellous, wildly creative and chaotically whimsical things. Aesso truly was Amazing - but she is never truly gone. Not while we still remember. A miraculous gain however, a wonderous marvel that we hoped, but could never have counted on achieving, was rescuing Sarah Snow. 'Do you know Sarah Snow?', asked Aesso with a quivering sob in her throat, Silvia the Fey shaking her leafy head. She didn't know Sarah, no one did - but now, we've all been granted that opportunity. Aesso wanted so badly to know who Sarah was, ached to remember, just as I ~know~ Sarah Snow yearned with all her heart to find out what she could really do, what she might show the world if she became all that she could be, through Beeble's deal. But the two can never meet, they're forever separate like two sides of the same coin. I like that simile quite well, I think. I like to imagine that Aesso isn't lost - we've just flipped the coin because it's Sarah's turn to shine now, to make friends and stir up her own version of amazing, whatever that turns out to be. Heads and tails are both just as good, just as wonderful in their own right - only different. And at the center of the coin, within the metal that glues the two sides together, beats the same sweet, kind heart. We set Sarah free from her most painful memory, cheered her on when the crowd was full of jeers and boos. And that's exactly what we need to keep doing now. Just like with Tristyn, pulling someone out of dire straits is not enough - to truly rescue a person in need, you have to keep being there for them. It's not always about surviving the epic fights, but the stumbling blocks in our daily lives. To be offered a hand when life drags you down, a shoulder to cry on - that is as much of a rescue, of just as great importance as braving the proverbial dragon. Perhaps the most important lesson I take with me from the story is this - the importance of kindness and care, of laughter and joy, friendship and love and all things bright and beautiful that not only enhance our lives, but actually build us up and makes us stronger. That, not strength in arms or might in magic, is what allowed us to do the impossible.
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  Assorted Makoto Things
  • Crazymojo

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  Random Brainstorming and Thoughts of a Blue Dragonblood (Written in mostly common, now and then with High Shou kanji in the mix with her grasp on written common not quite perfect yet, she scribbles some random thoughts in her journal.) -I need to start making connections with suppliers for goods and services that can help expand future operations should I make my own business. -Good to see more capable men adventuring and going about on adventures. When I first come here it feel like mostly women do the work, and the men I travelled with were all crazy when I first came here. -I need to work on my skills for small talk. While its almost legendary when it comes for blue dragons, growing up in a society where I only speak when spoken to until the shackles that kept me tied were finally shattered after exile. I've only really known business, exploration, and fighting most my life. Maybe I should conduct some tea ceremonies among other rituals to open up to people more... -Kill kill kill, all the time. I grow bored of the martial challenges I face. I have proved time and time again that I can conquer most of the foes in this region with enough preparation, as well as amazing allies I have made here. Greater Demons and Drow still pose a significant challenge though. Also travel to what they call here 'The Lost City' still eludes me. I have yet to find anyone wanting to go, or notifying me if they wish my help. -I like some of the new people I met. Sadi, George, and Bran are all very useful. I have taught the latter too quite a bit in regards of how to fight as well as having supplied them. Seeds I planted with my rental service and training have grown quite well and will continue to bloom. -Its good to see more potion makers in the region. Samples of potions of silence I was given have proven to be immeasurable in usefulness, with myself and a capable group of allies making short work of the Mazelord and his minions. -Too many shitty red dragons and an annoying white dragon in the region. Sadly staying here will not yield much in regards to finding those who share the blue draconic bloodline. At some point I should take some people I like and make way to the deserts in hope of finding one. I have so many questions! -When are these damn fire giants going to attack. If I prove myself and protect Blackbridge well enough it should earn me more clout. Also, I have pledged to offer 100,000 to help with anything Blackbridge might need though due to fragmented leadership in lieu of events that transpired, no one has accepted the offer with the the only caveat being that all purchases and coins used be written down in detail -Why is all food bland. Ever since the scales started growing food has less and less flavor. Flesh from animals does satisfy cravings and tastes good with enough salt and spice, but I can barely taste anything else. -Actually, that's not all quite true. Certain metals have their own unique flavor and as long as they're soft enough I can eat and digest them quite well. Gold taste best, silver's alright. Platinum coins and gems are good to suck on or swallow whole but my teeth and jaws aren't quite strong enough to bite through them. Now and then I get cravings to eat people, but the urges are faint enough that temptation is rarely a thing.
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  The Conspiracy
  • Kayleb

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  ((Bumping for possible recent IC relevance. While previously contained in privately held documents, Marty is sharing this information publicly, and with Peltarch's press.)) EDIT: Also fixed up the old links to other forum posts that were broken. They should now lead to the actual form posts they are referring to. This is so anyone investigating the validity of these statements can see that they are on the public record.
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  1 - 0 - I
  • Karnivor

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  [People] I have settled on the word [people] by which to designate most, if not all humanoids. By popular usage, this word includes humans, half-elves, elves, halflings, gnomes, dwarves and half-orcs, though excludes orcs and many other humanoids deemed monsterous by human standards. Though the differentiation appears arbitrary, I will reluctantly accept its use for it provides a short-hand in describing at least a faction of humanoids. Words are invariably imperfect and coloured by the perspective of the species inventing them. Elder Mistwalker and Elder Hargakku are excluded from the term and indeed many of this designation would consider them monsterous. I agree on the former. I do not consider Brictiu, Redwald and the others of the Circle [people] either. They are druids. They are [connected]. I do not care much for [people]. They lie, both with intent and without, out of habit, out of malice, lack of self awareness or for social convention's sake. Those conventions, that myriad of unwritten rules of conduct, I do not master. I do not possess people skill, but with an increased level of threat, comes an increased need for allies. While the Circle has welcomed me, Brictiu's assignments also sent me into collaborations with others. It is in the meeting with unknown people, in my people form, that I feel most exposed. [Deviant] by comparison. Problematic: I avoid facial expression. People read these so keenly, with such nuanced and acute understanding of each minute twitch and shift of muscle, that any deviance from the norm will register. My first attempt at a [smile] caused visible discomfort and alarm. This fearful recoiling was the opposite of my intent and I have chosen stillness of face ever since. As a result, people think me cold, but this seems preferable by comparison. The real difficulty lies in communicating with words alone, when so much of what people mean is at odds with that they say. An example: one adventurer began talking of themselves, making claims of this and that personal quality in a great many words. I listened closely, but in studying their subsequent behavior, found no correlation. At first, I believed the words a lie; self-deception and perhaps there is truth to this too. But in future travels with this same person, I began to glean the true message. It had nothing to do with the words themselves, but rather the stream of them were pouring out like an animal's call, crying: 'Hear me! See me! Me! Me! Me!' Such sub-text is ever present. And whether I wish it or not, my expressions or lack thereof send a message too - I can read it on people's faces, see it reflected in their eyes, no matter how carefully I choose the words I speak. My many queries on the words of others are met by the same looks and few, if anyone, seem interested in explaining or analyzing why so much of what is spoken makes so little apparant sense. [Small talk] is filled with these conundrums. 'How are you?' or 'How have you been?' are queries to which one is not supposed to truly provide an answer. No, despite the possibility of reaching deep and earnest content through attempting it, the only acceptable response, according to social convention, is 'Good' or 'Can't complain'. This small ritual is akin to dogs sniffing one another's rear, although I would argue the latter exchange filled with more meaning. Something about this practice jarrs - the posing of queries to which there is no real reply. To follow convention, to not appear deviant, I should try to follow the norm. But I wish not to lie. And so in this [small talk], I often think closely on what to respond, only to realize the other party had no interest in my response. It is exhausting. I have no interest in [small talk]. I desire big talk, to speak of meaningful things, in ways and words that matter. I wish to dig deep, reach high, find real insights and maybe even share them with others. With Grove, words were few but rich with meaning. Everything held meaning as he shared with me the riches of the world of green, the glowing, pulsing network of all that lives and the revelation that I am included in it. Not simply observing, pretending. Not deviant. With Peroido, I attempted to learn new things. This servant of Silvanus is quick of wit and bold of spirit, like the fearless squirrel dancing up and down the mighty oak. He would entice me to adventure and coax me to learn the social protocol. To make jokes, to play on words, and speak to adventurers for assistance. But I am more like oak than squirrel; slow to change and to grow. He is absent now and I wonder, did he look for something in me that I failed to provide? In my hesitation to attack the Rocs that claimed his life, did I say without words that Peroido is not my friend? I admired their fierceness, thought their aggression stemmed from a nest nearby with young to protect. I wished to leave them be, but it was too late for that already. I was simply too slow to realize it. He was disappointed in me, afterwards. I tried to explain, but my words came out wrong. I attempted to show support through my actions since, but did I ever say he was my friend? Would this have mattered? Perhaps it would. Perhaps this, the explicit declaration of friendship, is amongst the few spoken words that actually do matter. If so, I should say them to Grove as well (though I think he knows), perhaps to Asha too, who seems ever willing to welcome my presence. It mattered to George. George, with whom I shared meaningful words and deep thoughts, surprised to find his queries not for convention's sake but stemming from genuine curiosity. He asked, truly intending to listen. Otherwise I would not have told him all that I did. It is strange, with what ease my words came that day. Is it because I had written them here, had already formed the outline of these thoughts that they left my lips with such abandon, or is it for the way in which he took my words in? The type of thoughts I fix to these pages, I never expected to speak out loud. But George's mind is full of queries and he shares his thoughts with generous sincerity in turn, providing insights which may yet make me reconsider my stance on people. Perhaps Peroido, and in a more subtle way Brictiu and the Elders, were right to push me on this matter, insisting I should be more sociable. I am still disinterested in skimming the surface, in words without meaning, but perhaps once past that barrier, interesting depths can be found? I will dwell on the potential merits of [people] a while yet. George is not quite one of them, anyway. Not anymore. He is a friend.
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  Writings under the Moonlight
  • DrDreadLock

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  The heat from the sun overhead is warming after a chilly night of sleeping on the roof of the Witch and Seer. Asha grumbles lightly and rolls over to her side. A pounding in her head accompanies the movement; a painful reminder from the previous night of revelries. She uses her arm to shield her eyes from the sun as she peeks an eye open to survey the surroundings. Above her in the tree, two doves coo lightly as if saying good morning to her. Asha smiles and shifts a bit to look at them, her stomach suddenly churning as she does. She crawls quickly to the edge of the rooftop and without waiting to see if anyone is below. She empties her stomach over the side of the building and down onto the grounds below. Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she eyes the large form sprawled out on the grass near the shrine. The woman is covered in a blanket of grass, moss, and odd sticks. If not for the steady rising of the nature blanket, she might think that Reyhenna was dead. Asha laughs a bit as she watches the woman sleep under the makeshift cover, and the laughter brings about a new wash of pain from the wine headache she is nursing this morning. She crawls over to a shady spot under the tree and curls up to keep the sun out of her eyes. She takes deep breaths as she tries to fight back the ill feeling in her stomach. Getting out her journal to begin writing in the hopes of distracting herself from the hangover. 'Friends. Do I really have any that are my own? Are most people just acquaintances? Who doesn't know my parents, or my grandparents, or my aunts and uncles? Most people I meet do. They sort of take me under their wing and help guide me through the dangerous parts of adventuring. "If I let anything happen to you, your father will kill me or never forgive me!" is a usual comment from them. I understand, and I appreciate that they care, I really do. I would consider some of them friends, even if they are friends with my parents. Reemul He is kind to me. He will often come up to me and ask if I could use this object, or that object. He gave me this wonderful mace. I was searching SOOOO long for a mace to use. He says I am the only person he knows that uses a mace and he would rather I use it than him selling it. He charged me nothing. I feel a bit bad about taking charity like this but he insisted. Who am I to say no to his genuine offer? George I really don't know much about him. He seems fun, though. He is quick to help; he is brave, he is an accomplished warrior, and he likes to enjoy life after the danger is gone. Drinks, food, and enjoying the camaraderie us adventuring types share. I look forward to learning more about him. Isolde Isolde is my fathers friend. She is protective of me, but she doesn't stop me from doing anything, or even lecture me for things I do. She is one of the people who always have that eye on me because of my father. She is so beautiful, so passionate about fighting what she perceives as wrong. Yet she is so forgiving and willing to give second chances. She would have made a good Selunite. Vick Vick often seems on the negative side of most peoples opinions. He has a grating personality. Yet at times, I can see the good side of him as well. He will randomly offer up healing to people or quivers of arrows. I hear people joke he is like a bank of True Resurrection loans. Or if you need something special but don't have the coin to get it just yet. So many people care, I feel. Even if they have a hard time showing it. Reyhenna Her comments make me laugh. Where she comes up with this stuff is beyond me. I am known as Seerbaby. I have been given the task of helping Thaddeus find her a mate. She has a belt.. and.. you know what? Best to keep some things off the books. She is so strong, willing to face down any opponent. She is so brash at times, and often causes many issues with her hasty actions or words. Beyond that facade is much more, though. Genuine caring for the city and her friends or family. Raazi I'm not quite sure what to make of her just yet. At times, she seems so lucid. Other times I feel like I must step in and tend to her as a Priestess of the Moonmaiden does with other Touched people. I think I will need to watch her more. Tory Tory is Vick's and Maria's daughter. She often seems flighty and unconcerned with some of the most horrible things going on around her. An enigma, like Raazi. I'm just not sure what to think about her yet. Salin (Six) Ashald The younger Salin, so clean cut and handsome in his Cerulean uniform. He is much like his father. You can watch the gears slowly turning behind his eyes at every mysterious situation, like some gnomish thinking machine trying to find the answer to all life's unanswered questions. I like him and he is dependable. Cormac This fella is a new one. Hrrrh. Black lipstick, large axe, bulging muscles, with an almost angelic voice. Something about him just draws you in. We have great conversations, something you wouldn't think you might find with a barbarian fella like him. He is loyal to his friends, and will gladly put himself between you and whatever monster wants to make you its snack. ------------------------------------ ------------- ------------------------------ I happened to walk into a mistake as I exited the Mermaid. Volpe had accidentally turned us into various other forms. At first, I was an ogre. You should have seen the look on the Guards face as we left the city. He had some stories for the other Black Sails that night. There are so many forms we all took, I forgot them all! Isolde was a cat. Reyhenna was a light. Raazi was a goblin. Mako was a manticore. George was a fire elemental and a silver dragon. Tory was a goblin. Vindel was an animated suit of armor. Helmed horror maybe? I got to be an ogre, a ruby golem and a dragon as well! Raazi and Tory got a bit out of hand, attacking Volpe, so we had to subdue them when we reached Norwick. I got to FLY though, spreading my massive dragon wings and heading off into the sky. What a rush! It was so amazing! Focus on the good parts! Some silly fun that brightened my heart after the ugliness of the trial and the war in the city. Some light to push back the dark thoughts. To help push her image back some more. I won't forget her, but I can't have her there all the time. We live in a world full of enemies, or so we are lead to believe. The best way to defeat an enemy is not with weapons or spells. The best way to defeat an enemy is to make that enemy a friend. My head hurts, and I feel like vomiting again. Ugh. The wine helped, but now I am regretting it.
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  The One True Way ....
  • Kayleb

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  Written shortly after the destruction of the temple in Oscura. The ant hill washed away by the rain, the ants perish house of worship in ruins, the "faithful" scatter. . It is better to build a house on stone than on shifting sand. is better to accept the void, than it is to grovel at the throne of false gods.
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  Chronicles of Martoushca of Peltarch II
  • Kayleb

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  The penguin darted through the water; it’s back barely skimming the surface of the Icelace. She had been away from home for too long, and her desire to be back added haste to her movement. She wasn’t really sure how long she had been away for. From her point of view it could have been around a year, but she had entered into an astral trance while paying homage toward the Mountain of St Jerrick. Time can pass strangely when in such a state. The penguin dove a little lower into the water, before sharply changing direction upward, bursting through the surface and flying up onto the dock. Upon landing she staggered a little, her flippers and fins tired from having swam so far. If her beak could smile it would have, her heart being overwhelmed with joy when feeling the familiar, splintery wood of the dock beneath her flippers. But her feelings suddenly sank. Everything was wrong. The smell of acrid smoke filled her nostrils, and many of the buildings so familiar to her were now in ruins. “Qua Quark qu-” [translation – “Holy Sheelah, …. what the fu-“] A titanic shockwave tore through the docks, shaking the ground and shattering windows. The penguin was knocked off her feet. A cloud of burning dust erupted from what used to be the courthouse, as debris began to rain down onto the street. “QUAERK!” [translation – “SHITE-SAUCE!”] The dazed aquatic bird clumsily got to her feet. She gazed in despair at what remained of her home’s justice – a rising cloud of dust and falling, shattered stone. Like a tempest, all the fears of her past crashed up against her soul. Before long she could hear shouting and battle. She dived onto a commando roll, tumbling into nearby ruins. She pressed her back up against a broken wall as a running battle surged past her. She would have joined in the fight but had no idea which side to fight for. Once the din had passed, he penguin’s skin began to bulge and boil. One bulge grew into a large hump on her back and transformed into a backpack and bedroll. Another erupted out of her shoulder, sprouted a blonde mop of hair, and grew into a head as the penguin head retracted into the new head’s neck. One of the flippers stretched into a circular shape and became a shield. A white daisy was painted onto the front of the shield, while a host of scabbards housing throwing blades, darts, and other cruel looking throwing weapons lined the back. The penguin’s skin began to darken and became a suit of black, dark blue leather armour into which the body of a halfling woman inflated into shape. Marty peered out from behind the wall she had hidden behind. The coast was clear. She made her way stealthily through the streets, hoping to find someone who could tell her was the hells was going on, and maybe reconnect with the Legion chain of command … if that was still a thing?
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  The Iconoclast
  • Flom

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  The Princess Jorino has declared the Seafarer Guild an enemy of the Crown, in a public paper. This follows a lock-down of the Docks district, again through the Princess' Defender Regiment, and again the point of which was to disrupt Seafarer business. I asked Jessica Whyte how she intends on addressing the issue. "It's already being taken care of," she replied. I feel a bit unnerved by Jessica. She seems different. I can't help but wonder about her lanceboard scheme, and those pieces she knocked down. A symbol for death, surely. But then I remember she is no killer. She is cruel, yes, but not a killer. I know this, because I have known her since she was a small girl. Today I thought I heard Jessica speaking with someone in her office. I entered, silently, and I swear I saw someone - a small figure, cloaked in a rather regal, expensive, rare looking cloak, but... When I squinted to confirm my sight, there was nothing. And Whyte, of course, was silent. Staring at me. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Nothing," I replied, and left. I was sure she was was talking to someone... Reyhenna Jorino, it seems, has left the military. It happened so quickly I can't fathom how. She published her venom in the papers, this time directing it to the Bank of Peltarch. And then apparently a crowd of rioters attacked the bank. Following this, a military tribunal was held, in which a littany of Jorino's military misdeeds were conjured up. Apparently her regiment, which is far too large for the current General Sally Williams, is to be split up. Rather than let that split happen, Jorino decided instead to defect from the military and create her own mercenary company. I asked Whyte what she thinks of all of this. Surely, I suggested, she must be happy that her opponent Jorino has been defanged so. She smiled, and simply said: "Yes, it's a step in the right direction." The Magistrate Shannon d'Arneau has apparently convinced the Regent Damian Fisher to raise taxes in a manner that specifically targets the Seafarer Guild's generous rates. And apparently the Regent's daughter, along with the Royal Council - Roslyn Underhill, Jonni Aelthasson, Isolde Garibaldi, and others - support the maneuver. Naturally, Jessica Whyte is most displeased. Again I asked her what her plan was to settle the issue, or re-negotiate with the Crown. And again she replied, "It's being taken care of." Today, for the first day in a long time, Jessica Whyte was her old self again. At least, she felt the same way she did before, some several years ago. She even confided in me. She told me she was hesitant about her plans. A vaguery, to be certain, but I welcomed her approach, even though I had no idea what her plans might be. "Perhaps you should revisit your plans," I counselled her. "Perhaps," she conceded. "Perhaps I can help?" I suggested. "Let's go for a walk," she said. We walked then to the pathway to the East, leading to the Royal Estates. I heard Princess Jorino spent most of her time there these days. A curious destination, I thought. Surely she was not going to visit the Royals, let alone the Princess. Then of course we found Princess Jorino, walking along this path, with her companion, the beautiful Isolde Garibaldi. Again I am left breathless at the sight of this Bardess. We were luckily stuck in the rain together. All four of us (myself invisible), plus Whyte's assistants. Under a canopy from the walls nearing the pathway. I was distracted by the beautiful Isolde. When I finally regained my senses I noticed, and I believe, Jessica was trying to tell them something. She was turning around an issue and I could see, finally, when I looked Jessica's way, that her eyes flickered the manner they do when she tries to muster the courage to explain something embarrassing. I confess, however, I have not seen her this way since she was much younger. I remembered then that Jessica Whyte and Reyhenna Jorino used to cooperate, not so long ago. Prior to the Docks Union debacles, they were rather closely aligned on certain issues. It was at that point that the beautiful Isolde Garibaldi surprisingly remarked about Jessica's teeth. Isolde pointed out how yellow and ugly Jessica's teeth are. It is true that ever since she began to smoke tobacco and pipeweed, Miss Whyte's teeth have grown yellow and indeed it has not helped her complexion either. The contrast between the gorgeous Bardess Isolde Garibaldi, and the rather dishevelled Jessica Whyte was so glaringly obvious in the moment that I felt rather awkward. It certainly reminded me Miss Jessica is most physically unappealing. In particular, when compared to the miss Garibaldi. It is painfully clear. And the assistants all saw it, too. Many of them tried to hide smiles because it was amusing I suspect to see such a contrast between the hardened Jessica Whyte and the very pretty Isolde Garibaldi. I believe I heard one of them stifle a laugh. At that point Jessica's eyes stopped flickering. She had an assistant show her a mirror, to inspect her teeth. Then she shut her lips and fell quiet. She stared ahead, and waited. She waited for the rain to end. And when it did, we moved along in the opposite direction. Away from the Royal Estate. And away from the Princess, and Miss Garibaldi. "Where were we going, again?" I asked her. "Just for a walk. We're going back home," she replied. Since that day, I have not seen Jessica Whyte smile with her teeth again. Today, I saw Jessica pacing in her office. She seemed most reluctant to proceed with or talk about whatever it is she is concerned about. She fell silent for a time. I noticed, out the window (note that her office overlooks the docks), the Princess Jorino, standing alone by the pier. "There is the Princess," I remarked, candidly. "She's early," Jessica replied, to my surprise. Early for what, I wonder? Was Jessica even expecting her? I wondered, indeed. Not for long, though, for Jessica immediately reached for her coat and made her way out of the building to speak with the Princess. I followed her, stealthy and as invisible as always. When she finally met with the Princess, Jessica had the same look in her eyes as she did the few days before when we were stranded in the rain. Hesitation. I am convinced she wished to confide something to the Princess. Perhaps even ask for her assistance. Then the Princess remarked, "You are nothing to me, Jessica Whyte." "You are irrelevant. You are an absolute nobody, who will never do anything worthy of anyone's memory, anywhere," the Princess continued. "You are so far beneath me I cannot even see you," Princess Reyhenna Jorino concluded. I could see that Jessica's face was growing red at this. Out of embarrassment, surely, for I certainly felt embarrassed for her at the stark words. Then, however, after a minute or so of this, Whyte seemed ... almost relieved, in my eyes. She grew quiet, and unnaturally calm. Eventually, Whyte simply replied: "Thank you." Then we left. Today it was announced that Triloquist was the real culprit behind Lorrin Wilkes' murder. I remembered Whyte's lanceboard, in which she used the "T" piece to knock over Lorrin Wilkes. "T." The same letter which begins the name "Triloquist." The name of the one behind Wilkes' death. I am gravely unsettled. I must speak with Jessica about this. I was on my way to ask Jessica about Triloquist and Lorrin Wilkes' murder. That was when I saw Jessica meet with a strange man. The man was unknown to me. And yet, he seemed to know the entire layout of the Seafarer Headquarters. He walked in and appeared to treat the place as though it were a quaint cottage on a riverbank that he used to visit when he was an infant. He had a small, gray beard, and wore a businessman's clothes. He was quite adept at conversation, given his interactions with the clerks and staff. When the staff asked for his name, he didn't give one. No one seemed to recognize him and this appeared to amuse the man, as though he recognized them. Whyte, however, did know him. Indeed she appears to be the one who invited him in. This time, I decided to not only be invisible, but also to avoid Jessica Whyte's notice. I made sure that, even though she quaffed a potion of invisible sight, I nevertheless used my natural stealth to avoid detection. I dropped eaves on the conversation. The man told her that he escaped from another realm, and only recently returned. The man seemed to know all it was that Whyte had been up to in recent times. The man then congratulated her on what he called her "successes." The man asked her about Lorrin Wilkes, and asked whether she was the one who set the events leading to his death in motion. Whyte seemed almost proud that the man was even asking. She did not deny it. Then the man indicated that he admired Jessica's tenacity, and in particular, her plan involving a one Mister Elias Frogmouth. He asked her to confirm that she was indeed the one behind Mister Frogmouth. Again, she did not deny it. The name Elias Frogmouth immediately brought me back to the lanceboard. The lanceboard, which Whyte used to explain her plan. Her plan which, when stripped to its bare minimum, was a plan for murder and for war. It dawned on me, as I listened to the two speak, that Whyte has been and continues to be cooperating with Triloquist. I realized, then, that she must have used Triloquist - convinced him somehow to act against Wilkes and, indeed, to act against her other enemies. It further dawned on me that Wilkes was dead, and that Whyte is the main beneficiary of that death. It dawned on me also that the lanceboard was a plan to plunge Peltarch into war. I remembered all of those pieces, organized and cajoled by Elias Frogmouth. All those pieces, coming to Peltarch and then Jessica Whyte knocking over those pieces that represented the royal family. All those pieces, knocked over. And the "J.W." piece standing in the center. I immediately snuck out of the room. I was on my way out of the Seafarer Headquarters. I was on my way to the Magistracy, to the Crown, to anyone - to let anyone know - when I suddenly froze. I could not move. Though I willed my muscles to obey and run, they could only rebel. And stand perfectly still. At that point, a -different- man, an elderly man, far older than the one Jessica was in the other room speaking to, approached me. This elderly, different man had blue eyes, and wrinkled skin, wearing a black hood and cowl. It was as though no one else in the Seafarer Headquarters could see him but me. He was very obviously a spellcaster of some sort. He wore around his neck a small horned symbol on a simple string that I could not quite make out. I recognized him. From before. I had seen this man here a year ago at least. He smiled at me so indifferently that I knew he meant me harm. And yet I could not shout, or yell. Or even run. This different man then walked into the room in which both Jessica Whyte and the other man were speaking. Shortly after, Whyte exited the room, alone, and ordered the Seafarer Guards to take me away. I have been placed in a prison capable of containing a mage. I tried to escape, but the prison nullifies my magic completely. And I never was one for brute strength. Nor was I ever one for picking locks. She came to visit me only once, since. "Did you think I wasn't having you watched?" Jessica asked me. I didn't know what to say. Then I remembered her lanceboard scheme, Triloquist, and Elias Frogmouth. "I didn't think you were capable of mass murder," I remarked, bitterly. "Then after all these years, even you don't know me," she replied, her tone so cold I shivered. Before she left, she had the mercy of leaving me with my book and a quill with ink. "To write in, so you don't get bored," she said. "It isn't as though anyone will read it." Old, odd men and women in black robes and cowls whisper to the elite and the powerful. Strangers that I have never before met appear to know more about this city than people who have lived here all their lives. I re-read this book, and the pages I have documented and I know that something is amiss. Yet my disappointment in Jessica Whyte has overcome my fear for the future. I don't feel like writing, anymore. I don't feel like much of anything. [DM Xanatos Gambit] [Plot Finale - The Iconoclast.]
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  Arrath Duskdane - Inner demons
  • Gonnar

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  Arrath had spent the last day in bed, feverish and not feeling well. The itching had been worse, or so she thought, and she had spent all night trying to ignore it out of sheer will alone. Not very succesfully. At some point during the night, the itching stopped, and she fell asleep. She woke up, freshly, and dressed herself in some comfortable robes. While she was doing that, she looked at her arm, hesitantly. Nothing different. She looked at her other arm, to compare. Nothing strange. Wait... She flexed her "healthy" arm. Arched a brow in surprise for a moment, but shruggd, finishing dressing up and just heading down to get some food from the innkeeper. Once she arrived to a table, she tried to call the waitress attention by waving her hand. It was too crowded, however, and she wasn't noticed. She tried again, this time with a potent voice "Ey, Waitress, here". But the Inn was too noisy too, and her words were buried by the laughter and shouts of adventurers and drunk workers. Annoyed, she slammed her hand against the table. It broke apart. She startled, as if that result was unexpected. She definitely didn't hit it that strong, did she?...
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  Looking at the world sideways: Vick Blake
  • Darkspyr

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  Smoke on the Water Even after weeks the city still smelt of fire and rot. Rubble lay scattered, though the bodies had been removed. The walls were being repaired. People drifted back into a semblance of normal but moved quickly and purposefully and did not stay out much at night. Even the laughter from the pubs is subdued and forced. Smokes legacy remained, even after all these years. Distrust and division sewn deep into the fabric of the city. All parties vying for power and wealth. Many of the players were the same, only a few new faces. No one accepted blame for anything, just finger pointing and surges of violence, writhing like maggots in a corpse. Even Triloquist was but a symptom of the issue. So many areas of attack left open to any that cared to try. The lizard kin were some of the first scavengers to come and try for a piece of the victim. A tentative thrust at best…..testing. He sits on the roof of the City Hall watching and listening. For 3 decades he had done such, roaming the streets and alleys, rooftops and gables. But now it felt different, more broken, more raw then ever before. And the question finally arose: was it even worth trying to save anymore? King George would be spinning in his grave if he had seen this. Everything he had worked so hard on torn apart and set on fire. Too many people to close to the problems and none willing to step back and see that they themselves are a part of it. He looks up into the darkness of the night and wonders when outside forces will make their next move. With the major powers in the land crippled and Peltarch tearing itself apart, the enemy moved freely within the lands. Soon, yes, not much longer now. Would it be like the histories he read of Jiyyd, could be.