Genzir's Journal
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Are you smart enough to work a beat-stick?
The tired, bloodstained people walked through the gate to Giantspire foothills and sat down around the fire, a trail of rusty darts and kobold guts behind them. Then they started to smile because they knew they had made it through the lair of the powerful kobold Scalesinger and survived. Not only that, but they had killed most of the kobolds and captured their arms and mail. They'd heard about the Scalesinger flails and how rare they were. They would be rather less poor by the end of the day.
The druid, known only as Wolf, was leaning on a big rock, shaken after falling in battle against the Scalesinger's archers and nearly dying, while his companion, Raisa, consoled him. Genzir sat around the fire with the others, puzzling over the strange flail with the learned priest, Mecizq. It looked quite magical, but nobody knew how to work it. The characters carved into the handle were so faint they could barely see them. And they looked crooked. They sat there looking at it for several hours.
After they had rested a while longer, Genzir did the one thing that would give them a chance to figure out how it worked–he enchanted his own mind to make himself more clever. His lazy expression brightened a little as he looked at the glyphs again.
"Aha! These characters are Draconic, and they're in an ornate calligraphic script, which is why we couldn't read it at first... okay.... uh... hrmm... this one says... song... and this other one is the number four... but it's at an odd angle from the character for song. And these other ones say success and half and they are set apart from four and song."
He paused again.
"Somehow, these characters should tell us a phrase that activates the weapon's magic."
[the geometrical relationships here are pretty much accurate, unless maybe you view it with a different font than me]
.h.a.l.f….....f.....o.....u.....r
......................s
.s.u.c.c.e.s.s...........o
......................................n
..............................................g"Well... you can also pronounce the character for song as tune... and we must remember that Draconic usually uses no word for the verb 'is' or 'to be', or for the connector, 'and', so a relationship of 'is' or 'and' may be implied between any of these four characters."
He trailed off again...
And then he spoke, his voice betraying a little pride. "The words four and song are at a thirty-degree angle."
"That's it! One half is the sine of thirty degrees--the angle between 'four' and 'tune'.
"So the symbols read 'success is half, and one half is the sine of four and tune'... 'Success is the sign of fortune'," he muttered to himself.
"So that's the command word! Success is the sign of fortune. A typical Draconic pun. Why didn't I think of that before?" he wondered aloud.
Speaking the command word, he casually tossed the flail from hand to hand, then passed it to Mecizq, quietly regretting that the spell would soon wear off and bring his intellect back to its normal, rather un-extraordinary level, while the old dwarf, Rognar, carried the flail to the market to see how much gold it would fetch.
[If you figured this out, you have a lore skill of at least thirteen, and you are as big a nerd as me. Congratulations!]
EDITED THE RIDDLE SLIGHTLY 2:04 PM CST
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**The hawk said to the badger:
Prepare to be eaten! I will swoop down and seize your tasty flesh, you slow, fat animal! You are bound to the earth, ever digging holes, hiding from the sun and sky. I fly free, going where I please, taking what I will for my dinner, or breakfast, as the mood suits me. You are stuck there, a pathetic victim of habit and your own slothful nature, a prisoner of winding burrows. Your paws are always stained with black mud, your food is nothing but grubs and roots and whatever the earth offers or chance delivers. A pathetic creature you are, but you will make a tasty meal!
**The badger said to the hawk:
Have you never eaten grubs, hawk? They are tasty, and so are roots, nuts, berries, and mushrooms for that matter. My burrow took many hours of hard, patient work, but it's shady in the day, warm at night, and cozy all year round. Surely it's more comfortable than your nest, up there in a tree and exposed to the elements?
**The hawk said to the badger:
Disgusting creature! I have nothing to do with the earth, and it has nothing to do with me! I can fly high above the ground, with nothing around me but the wind and the rain, far away from all that filth you live in. Why would I ever want to live in a burrow? Why would I ever want to eat mushrooms, roots, or berries? They are fit for lesser creatures. But I am a proud eagle, and I eat only raw flesh. You will eat anything because your tastes are not discriminating. I would never want a life like yours.
**The badger said to the hawk:
I am what you envy, oh predatory vulture! These years of grazing upon the rich fruits of the earth, the juicy berries, pungent mushrooms, and succulent grubs, have made me strong and fat. See how I struggle and resist your greedy talons?
**The hawk said to the badger:
You're not resisting me, you just hate the freedom of the sky! You hate flying and everything about it, and you won't learn, no matter what I do. If the only way you will know the joy of flight is to be eaten by a hawk, then I will do what is best for us both and make you my breakfast.
**The badger said to the hawk:
If you don't let go of me, it will be your death, and maybe mine as well! The wind may carry you, alone, but you cannot bear the weight of another. With no ground to stand on, you will fall into the pond!************
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The Emerald Tower rose from the hill, offering itself to a cloud-streaked sky, a monarch among the stalks of jade-toned grass that swayed and rustled a soft, droning chorus in the chill breeze. Upon its balcony, a red-and-white-clad man leaned forward, staring past the hawk that circled and screeched and cast sidewise glances at the humble earth, past the clouds that folded and puffed into bears and turnips and pies, onwards, beyond the sky itself, far ahead, maybe to some distant constellation or nebula.
Perhaps to Mystra's starry domicile, now his dear and stalwart friend's new, eternal home. Now he knew loss. The faint smell of ashes, sharp, months-old but still sharp and mingled with the blood of goblins, lingered in his nose. Still. Loss upon loss. He looked back down at the greenery of the valley.
Amidst the rolling hills, a fat and satisfied badger shuffled out of its winding burrow and sniffed at the cool morning air. As the hawk made its frightful descent, feathered crest fluttering furiously in the rushing wind, the man, oblivious, studied the stonework of the balcony, looking for flaws in the mortar. Satisfied that it was sound, his gaze drifted, and the lines in the stone became a soft blur. The sound of laughter, of that bracing, scratchy, indignant voice and snow-white hair, was now vivid and clear. Gone. Despite their best precautions, despite their patient labor, raising walls of green earth before invader's axe and bow. Then his eyes raced to the sound of flapping wings as the hawk drove regal claws into its indignant prey, lifting it clean off the ground and into the air.
And then, motion. A slow stirring in that same volcanic soul of long-forgotten swarthy Calishite ancestors who had piled up bricks of mahogany earth in dark times when cruel invaders had ravaged the land and left no stone resting upon another. From the ashes, new things would rise, as they had, as they always would. He turned around and went straight back into the sheltering walls of the tower, that safe, dim place where wonders would now, again, be born, where the Promethean fires of high floating candles shone upon blank pages of unwritten books and labyrinthine patterns in black, venerable ink.
The hawk beat its wings behind him, clutching its prey in a desperate grasp, falling with each stroke as it neared the still waters of the lake. Struggling, its maddened eyes glaring back at the shore, hawk and badger together tumbled into the cool pond. Sodden feathered wings beat in futile strokes as the harrier rolled down below the surface, into a lonely, wet grave. The water rippled, and stilled, as the badger, startled, and born upon the water by its ample girth, paddled back to the shore and shook out its fur, drops of water twinkling in the morning sun.
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@5b701a4572=Genzir:
My nephew is going to study in Silverymoon to become a wizard. His uncles have merchant contacts there and make the trip every year or so. Who knew so much talent would come from Riverbough?
They want me to give him some words of advice. Just… advice. What can I tell the lad that would be of any use? I suppose, half of giving good advice is knowing the person. Mirna's family are good folks. At the Keep I've put so much effort into emphasizing principle, promoting ethics. That won't do here. He is already a friend, I just need to make sure he's a wise friend.
[the next page is filled with a jumble of words and unfinished sentences]
@5b701a4572=Genzir:
Make sure you never forget to ask questions.
That should do it. I'll have to show it to Mirna, see what she thinks.
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@1c988e3ca8=Genzir:
Recent events have kept me from my meditation exercises. I will have to pick these up again soon. Attentus taught a new method to me and Rose, but I haven't had as much time as her to practice it. Having Mirna here has made it easier for me to meditate, because we do it together, but not to transform myself. And I spend far too little time with her as it is.
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@0f8da819e0=A:
The Word is the distilled essence of good deeds, and conforming to the Word, one becomes good, however one cannot comprehend the Word without good intentions. The Good exists both in the realm of Word and in the world. It is the bridge between them, and the Imagination crosses the bridge. Purity is therefor nothing but becoming good by reading the Word as written upon the world, and acting on the Word by doing good deeds.
@0f8da819e0=Genzir:
Looking back on the past ten years, Narfell has proven itself the usual mix of those who are evil and wise, good and wise, evil and foolish, good and foolish, and those that dwell in some vague middle-ground. The wise enemy is less dangerous than the foolish friend. Norwick is buzzing like a hornets nest hit with a rock. I wonder what clumsy non-diplomacy is behind this?
[neat sketches of letters and geometric figures have begun to take over the pages of the journal, crowding out the text in places]
The words are breaking and bending under the strain of these new meanings. I have let go completely, embraced the symbols, I feel myself becoming them. And yet, I'm still here. Nothing has happened. By my latest calculations, they form a circle, unbroken and yet, somehow inadequate. They end up right where they begin, without having traversed any new terrain.
The only solution is to start incorporating something new into the progression of symbols. The circle must be broken so that it can be reformed, more whole, complete.
@0f8da819e0=Genzir:
I think I see a way out of this conundrum. My form limits the extent of my comprehension, and yet, further purification is becoming difficult if not impossible. These barriers can only be flaws in my understanding that I am not aware of. I have learned a great deal by taking the physically strong, but ugly form of the troll. The crushing weight of my feet, the strength of my arms, being so tall that the towering half-orc warriors look like dwarves, and the grass and shrubs being shredded under my feet, all of this was new, and often unpleasant. The form of the hawk, the bat, the owl, and the hound were likewise enlightening.
There, I have it. The transformations that I must undergo will be of the body as well as the mind. In better understanding the former, in identifying its demands and limitations, the latter attains ever greater freedom. The forms must be chosen carefully. I don't have much time and there is a lot of work to be done. The Weave is not fixing itself and I have to be ready to face the challenges to come. I must be purified. Perhaps Oghma will bless my efforts this time.
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@304475994c=Genzir:
Vasuga just gave me the last of the lessons on enchantment. I think I'm taking a liking to it. The exercises are fun. I should try them on Dad. No, better. A lot of my problems with those dear, dear villagers who can't seem to get their heads around my trips to the woods could be solved this way. I could say it's all Faldir's fault, but he's clearly a bit touched. Why don't they understand that? And to think of what a Suggestion spell could do for negotiating contracts… good thing we're an honest family and I'm an honest merchant! But still, as far as the dear, dear villagers are concerned, I don't see how it would make much difference. They ran a harmless old woman out of town the other day on suspicion of being a witch. That book on ethics Vasuga gave me is right. Deception is Force, Ignorance is Evil. I wonder if that fellow is still in Silverymoon? I should go look for him.
@304475994c=Genzir:
She wants me to study goblins and kobolds. What's the point? They're goblins. And kobolds. Seems like exactly the kind of narrow, over-focused subject she loves to criticize the academies for. Aren't there more elevated themes I could be exploring?
@304475994c=Genzir:
Elves sure do have a lot of dishes. We're leaving for Chult tomorrow. I can't wait to see the library.
Our last day in Chult. My soul is on fire! Who is this Green Man? This is precisely the secret I ought to have been searching for. I think I've learned a deeper truth about magic from this Green Book than anything in all my lessons and practicing. I must travel to Mulhorand and pursue this. Perhaps all the elvish I learned washing dishes can be traded for passage on a caravan.
@304475994c=Genzir:
I am in Mulhorand. The truth is inscribed upon the bare, rocky page of the land in letters of green. The color of life, but life itself is nothing more than order. The balance of the humors, and the balance of water and salts in the body. The balance of water, sun, heat and cold in the earth. And the balance of negative and positive energy in the Prime Material Plane. All things in their proper place, that the whole may maintain each of its parts. Each one a letter in the great word, a stroke in the glyph. Green, the color of plants, of life, and the color of the serpent. The dragons were the first possessors of this knowledge, and now their language is the one we use for casting our spells. And spells, what are they? They are nothing more and nothing less than what they seem. Words! In a language that the very elements, the very substance of the world understands, listens to, is calmed and excited by, seduced and repelled by, obeys or refuses to obey, knows, speaks, answers back in. I can't do it justice. Tomorrow I will leave to pursue my studies in the land of Narfell. Whatever point Vasuga had in sending me to study the goblins there, there must have been more to it than I gave her credit for. I should send her a letter tomorrow. I think I need a more tangible reminder of my devotion to Oghma. I'm going to start shaving my head.
[written below in Bugs' hand:]
I told you so.@304475994c=Genzir:
I'm half way to Narfell and almost out of Mulhorandi tea. What was I thinking?
@304475994c=The:
In ignoring our selfish desires, ceasing to obey our lower nature, the soul's design more closely approaches the Good Word. This Word may be twisted or distorted by those who are mis-directed in their quest. Lichdom is an example of this. The meaning of the Word is written across the pages of the chronicles in the language of our deeds. It is sung in the songs of Bards.
@304475994c=Genzir:
A specter has risen over the Nars region: the specter of the crystal collective. Our past is always with us. It would be without the crystals, they're just making it more obvious. I have learned something from them that I don't think I'll ever forget. They understand the importance of law and order, even if they are over-reaching.
@304475994c=Genzir:
The affairs of the Keep are finally in order, more proof that that fellow from Silverymoon was right. I wonder if he and the Green Man were friends?
@304475994c=Genzir:
It has been some time since I've reviewed my notes on the Green Book. Its lessons are written across the page of my soul in an ink of light. And it has given me a good deal of insight into spells of language and words. Several of these projects are making more progress now. I don't expect to gain great insights from them, but they are an important symbol, an emblem of Truth, and where would we be without tangible reminders of things we already know?
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excellent little story. adds some flavor to the game in an area a lot overlook.
thumbs up
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Please feel free to comment on this story and riddle OOC'ly or IC'ly.
