I am not a violent man. I do not typically wish harm onto others, this is not who I am.
I am however a perfectionist.
As i am not as well attuned to my bow as my father was, one thing he taught me is to never miss. There is never a reason to miss. ever. If a shot can be taken, there is no reason why you shouldn't hit your target.
The elf has thrown off my personal inner calm by making me miss. He has disturbed the bond between me and my bow. Not only did he make me miss, but then he ran away like a coward. I shall have him, within the next couple of days.
In other news, there is a new player in the mix. A follower of the first.
Also a very rude man.
We were having a nice, jovial conversation, which may have involved the removal of a few of his knuckles. He left mid-conversation! He just...left. Not only is plane shifting very illegal, but to do it in the middle of a conversation is just plain rude. I did however give him a permanent wound in his hand with the fatesteel arrow. Which is funny, since he is a planeshifter that follows the ruler of the elemental plane of chaos, and if he ever visits, his hand will explode. What fun. Also I will always be able to pick him out in a crowd as he has a gaping wound in his hand that will never stop bleeding.
The List:
The Elf With One Eye
Coleworth
Friday, January 16, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Break 2 - Taran Ullivarn
Order in Chaos
As Taran threw his last fire orb at the remnants of the shimmering gray chaos liquid on the ground, watching it hiss and crackle before harmlessly evaporating, he slumped his back to a nearby wall and slid down to a sitting position.
Cleanup. Figures.
He huffs a couple of breaths in the cold air and pulls out a small cup from his hip bag, mumbling a few small words to Boccob, and watches it fill with pure clean water. "There are a few benefits to this whole divine thing", he thinks as he takes a small sip, letting the liquid roll slowly down his throat.
This might not be Dragon Slaying, but it's definitely interesting. These things, twisted by Chaos, were certainly new. And this First thing, well...fairy tales aren't supposed to come true and the more he read through and deciphered the book, the more likely it seemed that they were.
He managed his way to a standing position and made a last glance around the dark, cold room before he trudged his way up the stairs and made his way back into his personal rooms inside the wagon that was bigger in than out.
He had managed to pickup a few other small books relevant to this particular tale from the "Priestess" quarters in the Church of Pelor, and after blessing away any taints on them, he began as only a military tactician would. He picked up a map at a local market and started plotting points of interest and rumor. Each book only really gleamed a few bits and pieces, but amidst this heavy feeling of powerlessness and reaction, it was something.
Gods be damned, but he was tired.
As Taran threw his last fire orb at the remnants of the shimmering gray chaos liquid on the ground, watching it hiss and crackle before harmlessly evaporating, he slumped his back to a nearby wall and slid down to a sitting position.
Cleanup. Figures.
He huffs a couple of breaths in the cold air and pulls out a small cup from his hip bag, mumbling a few small words to Boccob, and watches it fill with pure clean water. "There are a few benefits to this whole divine thing", he thinks as he takes a small sip, letting the liquid roll slowly down his throat.
This might not be Dragon Slaying, but it's definitely interesting. These things, twisted by Chaos, were certainly new. And this First thing, well...fairy tales aren't supposed to come true and the more he read through and deciphered the book, the more likely it seemed that they were.
He managed his way to a standing position and made a last glance around the dark, cold room before he trudged his way up the stairs and made his way back into his personal rooms inside the wagon that was bigger in than out.
He had managed to pickup a few other small books relevant to this particular tale from the "Priestess" quarters in the Church of Pelor, and after blessing away any taints on them, he began as only a military tactician would. He picked up a map at a local market and started plotting points of interest and rumor. Each book only really gleamed a few bits and pieces, but amidst this heavy feeling of powerlessness and reaction, it was something.
Gods be damned, but he was tired.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Scene- "Three cups and a song"
Master Dulier had suffered his fill of sniveling apprentices for one day. He sought refuge in one of the many taverns that cling to the great skeleton that is the Mage's Academy. A few pints of dark ale would give his mind a rest, and this bar had the best in dark ales.
The bartender at THE TOMB AND TANKARD was a wisp of a man who's smile seemed to weigh down his whole frame. He smiled that woeful smile and greeted Dulier as he did every night.
"Another long day at the books, eh Master?"
"Peh! Another day shouting at miserable first years that could enchant a wax candle to give of light, even WITH a matchstick." Dulier harrumphed as he gestured to the wooden keg labeled in a dwarven script that roughly translated to Stout of the Night Wanderer.
The tavern was full of regular faces that nodded in repsect to the renowned teacher, as he found his way to his fireside tabel. His eyes were drawn to a group near the window as their voices all raised. A group of third years were gambling and laughing with a man Dulier had never seen before. He had a thing for remembering faces. He payed it no mind and muttered to himself about the practicality of using tuition silvers to gamble with outsiders.
By the time his third drink and second heel of bread swam comfortable in his stomach the bar had managed to filter down to but a handfull of patrons. He was about to make note of the glorious absence of the youthful noisemakers when the chair across from his found itself filled.
The outsider gave him a hollow smile as he set down his tankard.
"I've spent a bit of time asking around these parts, and believe it or not, every person I asked to recommend the finest enchanter in all the city..why they all tell me 'Find Master Dulier'. Yes, they all sang the same sweet tune. There is no doupt in my mind you are the man I am looking for. You have exactly what I need my good Master."
The quick and precise way the man talked gave Dulier pause. It had been a long time since someone had come to HIM in such a bold way. While he held a great reputation for magical enchanting in every form, from axes to armchairs, there were few that came to him for his "special practices". He use to have keywords, or special winks people would use when trying to seek the kinds of magic other mages frowned upon. It had been a while indeed.
"I understand you are skilled in many trades" The stranger continued. "Perhaps you could even write me a song? Oh I do so love ballads. Tell me, could you write me a good long song? One to float in the air. A dark song that would even make an elf cry?"
Any doubt that this man was seeking illegal enchantments had vanished at that. 'A long song' meant he wanted a weapon. 'To float on the air' must have meant an arrow. 'To make an elf cry'...Who was this man, and how did he know these things?
"You are mistaken lad. I am a teacher of the magic arts, not some court magician. You have the wrong man."
A smile broke on the mans face.
"Oh no dear Dulier. I have made sure to select just the right person for this task, and you are he. Come now. Let us have a nice intelligent talk. We are both people of intelligence after all." His voice was heavy with mockery.
"Intelligence? You? You must be joking. Let me tell you a little something about intelligence young man. I have seen into the very eye of existence. I have read enough tombs of history to fill a library the size of this bar. I have spent decades climbing to the rank of ArchMagi, and YOU want to compare intelligence with ME?" Dulier chuckled and gulped down the last drops of his stout.
"Dear master, I meant to offence. I wouldn't dream of comparing my feeble brain with the all knowing that is your arcane mind. But there is something to be said for intelligence after all. It's a precious commodity in these hard times. You are no doupt a rich man in these treasures."
He was no stranger to flattery but Duleir nodded and smiled sheepishly. He felt stupid afterwards. Perhaps it was the ale...
"My good man, I have a splendid idea! I wish to witness you intelligence first hand, if I may?" Without waiting for approval the stranger produced some items from his pocket. Three tin cups and a glass ball. He set them on the table between them, the continued. "How does this sound. You and I play a simple game of Three Cups. Three times I hide the ball. You tell me where it lies, and you win. I hide it from you, and I win. You win twice, I'll leave you alone and never speak your name to anther soul. I win and you consider writing me this song I am dying to hear."
Dulier was not a gambling man, but this fellow amused him. It HAD been a rather long and painful day of dealing with students and their follys. A little game of wits sounded so very tempting.
"Allright then, I'll play your game. You win so much as once and I'll admit that I am indeed a scribe of fine musics. You win twice and I'll even give you a splendid discount." With the spells Dulier lived his very life by this game would be a mockery.
"Very good Master! Very good!" Without skipping a beat the man places the cup on the flat wooden table, and places a tin cup over it. The other two were placed on either side of it, and thus the game began.
The cups began to shift carefully under the strangers hands. It was a simple display. One hand over the other. First left, then right. Forward, then back, then reverse. Any common welp on the street would have lost track when his speed first increased, but Master Dulier had eyes that could read ancient scripts, and look into far of planes of existence. These cups were no challenge. Abruptly the cups stopped and the man places his hands on either side. Without hesitation Dulier lifted the right cup and out rolled the glass ball. The strangers face went a little white. Dulier chuckled to himself.
"Now now young man, you still have two tries. I say, I just got lucky is all. Lets try this again. Don't hold back for an old man like me." Dulier was beside himself at the taste of these sweet taunts.
"Right then" The man said unsure and a bead of sweat dripped from his brow. He began with the cups again in the same way. Dulier watched with amusement as he attempted to trick his eye. He followed the cup ball effortlessly. Just then a cup jumped off the table at the flick of the gamblers wrist and the ball flew up into the air.
"What is thi-"
Dulier was cut off as a second cup slashed out and scooped the ball out of the air, while the third was tossed up. The two cups now on the table danced back and forth. The empty one rolled over the mans palm with a spin and the second was tipped up to reveal the ball again. The airborn cup was snatched and came crashing down on the ball followed by the other two cups stacking on top o fit. All three were now off the table being shifted around right side up with the ball jumping back and forth like a drop of water on a layer of scalding oil. A twinkle sparked in the strangers eye that distracted Dulier for a split second, but in the instant he lost focus the cups were slammed down, and the strangers hands slowly moved away.
Shocked by the display of dexterity, Dulier looked down hesitantly. He was sure he had kept the ball in sight despite the juggling, but there was a shadow of doubt in his mind. Reassuring himself he reached out.
"Your quick lad, but no mere cup can hide from me this..." The cup he raised was empty.
"Now dear master, about that song? Or would you rather play the last round before you tell me what I want to hear?" The stranger had a cold apathy in his eyes that reminded him of some jungle cat, yet his lips curled into a grin.
"Oh, we will play again" Growled Dulier "But this time the cups are mine, and it is YOUR eye that must stay keen!" He was almost barking as he snatched the cups and the tiny ball.
A look of fascination washed over the mans face.
"Now that does sound like a bit of fun good Master." He folded his arms and stared at the Duleir with that hunters gaze.
Dulier was past being made a fool by this commoner, and knew just how to set him straight.
He placed the cups down, and put the ball beneath the middle one. Moving his hands slowly and carefully, Dulier began to whisper something under his breath. The speed of his hands increased without warning. The muttering sounded like no more than breathing, but as the cups swayed and shifted the spell completed. He left the cups at rest and chuckled to himself as he pulled his hands away. He looked up and to his shock he realized the stranger had never broken this gaze. His eyes didn't even appear to be on the cups. His hand reached out and he placed his finger on the middle cup.
"This one" Said the young man without the slightest pause.
Dulier could hardly keep his laughter in. This fool had no idea that right now the ball was somewhere in the southern kingdoms, smoking from the magical teleportation.
"You sound so sure of yourself young man, but I'm afraid to say that you-"
He was cut off
"I KNOW the ball is under this cup dear Master, and I will tell you why." Never taking his finger off the cup, his other hand moved forward and grabbed the cup on its left. "I know its under this cup because it isn't under this one..." He knocked the left cup over idly revealing nothing "And it isn't under this one" he flicked over the right cup revealing no ball. "So unless my dear Master wants me to believe the ball simply vanished, it simply MUST be under this cup." He never lifted it or broke eye contact.
That night Dulier complained to himself for hours as he toiled to put the final touches on the magical arrow that could cost him his job, if ever was discovered.
"I can't believe I gave him the gloves so bloody cheap...." He harrumphed as the sun began to rise.
The bartender at THE TOMB AND TANKARD was a wisp of a man who's smile seemed to weigh down his whole frame. He smiled that woeful smile and greeted Dulier as he did every night.
"Another long day at the books, eh Master?"
"Peh! Another day shouting at miserable first years that could enchant a wax candle to give of light, even WITH a matchstick." Dulier harrumphed as he gestured to the wooden keg labeled in a dwarven script that roughly translated to Stout of the Night Wanderer.
The tavern was full of regular faces that nodded in repsect to the renowned teacher, as he found his way to his fireside tabel. His eyes were drawn to a group near the window as their voices all raised. A group of third years were gambling and laughing with a man Dulier had never seen before. He had a thing for remembering faces. He payed it no mind and muttered to himself about the practicality of using tuition silvers to gamble with outsiders.
By the time his third drink and second heel of bread swam comfortable in his stomach the bar had managed to filter down to but a handfull of patrons. He was about to make note of the glorious absence of the youthful noisemakers when the chair across from his found itself filled.
The outsider gave him a hollow smile as he set down his tankard.
"I've spent a bit of time asking around these parts, and believe it or not, every person I asked to recommend the finest enchanter in all the city..why they all tell me 'Find Master Dulier'. Yes, they all sang the same sweet tune. There is no doupt in my mind you are the man I am looking for. You have exactly what I need my good Master."
The quick and precise way the man talked gave Dulier pause. It had been a long time since someone had come to HIM in such a bold way. While he held a great reputation for magical enchanting in every form, from axes to armchairs, there were few that came to him for his "special practices". He use to have keywords, or special winks people would use when trying to seek the kinds of magic other mages frowned upon. It had been a while indeed.
"I understand you are skilled in many trades" The stranger continued. "Perhaps you could even write me a song? Oh I do so love ballads. Tell me, could you write me a good long song? One to float in the air. A dark song that would even make an elf cry?"
Any doubt that this man was seeking illegal enchantments had vanished at that. 'A long song' meant he wanted a weapon. 'To float on the air' must have meant an arrow. 'To make an elf cry'...Who was this man, and how did he know these things?
"You are mistaken lad. I am a teacher of the magic arts, not some court magician. You have the wrong man."
A smile broke on the mans face.
"Oh no dear Dulier. I have made sure to select just the right person for this task, and you are he. Come now. Let us have a nice intelligent talk. We are both people of intelligence after all." His voice was heavy with mockery.
"Intelligence? You? You must be joking. Let me tell you a little something about intelligence young man. I have seen into the very eye of existence. I have read enough tombs of history to fill a library the size of this bar. I have spent decades climbing to the rank of ArchMagi, and YOU want to compare intelligence with ME?" Dulier chuckled and gulped down the last drops of his stout.
"Dear master, I meant to offence. I wouldn't dream of comparing my feeble brain with the all knowing that is your arcane mind. But there is something to be said for intelligence after all. It's a precious commodity in these hard times. You are no doupt a rich man in these treasures."
He was no stranger to flattery but Duleir nodded and smiled sheepishly. He felt stupid afterwards. Perhaps it was the ale...
"My good man, I have a splendid idea! I wish to witness you intelligence first hand, if I may?" Without waiting for approval the stranger produced some items from his pocket. Three tin cups and a glass ball. He set them on the table between them, the continued. "How does this sound. You and I play a simple game of Three Cups. Three times I hide the ball. You tell me where it lies, and you win. I hide it from you, and I win. You win twice, I'll leave you alone and never speak your name to anther soul. I win and you consider writing me this song I am dying to hear."
Dulier was not a gambling man, but this fellow amused him. It HAD been a rather long and painful day of dealing with students and their follys. A little game of wits sounded so very tempting.
"Allright then, I'll play your game. You win so much as once and I'll admit that I am indeed a scribe of fine musics. You win twice and I'll even give you a splendid discount." With the spells Dulier lived his very life by this game would be a mockery.
"Very good Master! Very good!" Without skipping a beat the man places the cup on the flat wooden table, and places a tin cup over it. The other two were placed on either side of it, and thus the game began.
The cups began to shift carefully under the strangers hands. It was a simple display. One hand over the other. First left, then right. Forward, then back, then reverse. Any common welp on the street would have lost track when his speed first increased, but Master Dulier had eyes that could read ancient scripts, and look into far of planes of existence. These cups were no challenge. Abruptly the cups stopped and the man places his hands on either side. Without hesitation Dulier lifted the right cup and out rolled the glass ball. The strangers face went a little white. Dulier chuckled to himself.
"Now now young man, you still have two tries. I say, I just got lucky is all. Lets try this again. Don't hold back for an old man like me." Dulier was beside himself at the taste of these sweet taunts.
"Right then" The man said unsure and a bead of sweat dripped from his brow. He began with the cups again in the same way. Dulier watched with amusement as he attempted to trick his eye. He followed the cup ball effortlessly. Just then a cup jumped off the table at the flick of the gamblers wrist and the ball flew up into the air.
"What is thi-"
Dulier was cut off as a second cup slashed out and scooped the ball out of the air, while the third was tossed up. The two cups now on the table danced back and forth. The empty one rolled over the mans palm with a spin and the second was tipped up to reveal the ball again. The airborn cup was snatched and came crashing down on the ball followed by the other two cups stacking on top o fit. All three were now off the table being shifted around right side up with the ball jumping back and forth like a drop of water on a layer of scalding oil. A twinkle sparked in the strangers eye that distracted Dulier for a split second, but in the instant he lost focus the cups were slammed down, and the strangers hands slowly moved away.
Shocked by the display of dexterity, Dulier looked down hesitantly. He was sure he had kept the ball in sight despite the juggling, but there was a shadow of doubt in his mind. Reassuring himself he reached out.
"Your quick lad, but no mere cup can hide from me this..." The cup he raised was empty.
"Now dear master, about that song? Or would you rather play the last round before you tell me what I want to hear?" The stranger had a cold apathy in his eyes that reminded him of some jungle cat, yet his lips curled into a grin.
"Oh, we will play again" Growled Dulier "But this time the cups are mine, and it is YOUR eye that must stay keen!" He was almost barking as he snatched the cups and the tiny ball.
A look of fascination washed over the mans face.
"Now that does sound like a bit of fun good Master." He folded his arms and stared at the Duleir with that hunters gaze.
Dulier was past being made a fool by this commoner, and knew just how to set him straight.
He placed the cups down, and put the ball beneath the middle one. Moving his hands slowly and carefully, Dulier began to whisper something under his breath. The speed of his hands increased without warning. The muttering sounded like no more than breathing, but as the cups swayed and shifted the spell completed. He left the cups at rest and chuckled to himself as he pulled his hands away. He looked up and to his shock he realized the stranger had never broken this gaze. His eyes didn't even appear to be on the cups. His hand reached out and he placed his finger on the middle cup.
"This one" Said the young man without the slightest pause.
Dulier could hardly keep his laughter in. This fool had no idea that right now the ball was somewhere in the southern kingdoms, smoking from the magical teleportation.
"You sound so sure of yourself young man, but I'm afraid to say that you-"
He was cut off
"I KNOW the ball is under this cup dear Master, and I will tell you why." Never taking his finger off the cup, his other hand moved forward and grabbed the cup on its left. "I know its under this cup because it isn't under this one..." He knocked the left cup over idly revealing nothing "And it isn't under this one" he flicked over the right cup revealing no ball. "So unless my dear Master wants me to believe the ball simply vanished, it simply MUST be under this cup." He never lifted it or broke eye contact.
That night Dulier complained to himself for hours as he toiled to put the final touches on the magical arrow that could cost him his job, if ever was discovered.
"I can't believe I gave him the gloves so bloody cheap...." He harrumphed as the sun began to rise.
Journal Entry 2- Anteel
The captain told the crew to get below deck so the wind and waves wouldn't put any lives at risk. The sails were tied down, the mast locked, and hatches bared. Everyone was safer in the ships womb. Yet one foolish man, one who often turns a deaf ear to authority and safety remained up top.
Anteel was balanced barefoot amid-ship being pummeled by heavy rain and tearing winds. His arms and legs bound in tight wool. The two swords in his hands were also wrapped in thick heavy layers of wool and burlap. The wet fabric pulling each down with extra pounds of weight. His friends sought guidance in their books. They looked to history. They looked to their spells. They looked to tradition, and they looked to their gods. He looked simply to the sea, and to his blades. Through them he found himself, and through him they moved with a dark beauty. In chaos he danced.
Anteel- Journal Entry Two
The sea. It seems I may have found a new friend in this endless blue world. All this time I have been running, hiding, and lying from city to city, to avoid those that choose to pursue me. All this time there has been a whole new world for me to take refuge in. A world of wood and waves. Out here I am still Anteel. Out here there are no laws or judgments to hold me higher and lower than any other man. Out here we all simply survive and try not to fall in. I feel very at peace in this knowledge.
Perhaps its just the water itself that gives me this feeling of safety. When it is calm and smooth as glass, It is like I can see forever. When it is angry and tearing with turmoil I can do not but stare in awe at its terrible dance. Looking at it I can feel it entering me. I am the water. I will be calm and reflective. Without warning I will enter my dance of death, unpredictable and terrible. I will dance like water. I will perfect this, and strive to learn the true steps to the song my blades sing.
Anteel was balanced barefoot amid-ship being pummeled by heavy rain and tearing winds. His arms and legs bound in tight wool. The two swords in his hands were also wrapped in thick heavy layers of wool and burlap. The wet fabric pulling each down with extra pounds of weight. His friends sought guidance in their books. They looked to history. They looked to their spells. They looked to tradition, and they looked to their gods. He looked simply to the sea, and to his blades. Through them he found himself, and through him they moved with a dark beauty. In chaos he danced.
Anteel- Journal Entry Two
The sea. It seems I may have found a new friend in this endless blue world. All this time I have been running, hiding, and lying from city to city, to avoid those that choose to pursue me. All this time there has been a whole new world for me to take refuge in. A world of wood and waves. Out here I am still Anteel. Out here there are no laws or judgments to hold me higher and lower than any other man. Out here we all simply survive and try not to fall in. I feel very at peace in this knowledge.
Perhaps its just the water itself that gives me this feeling of safety. When it is calm and smooth as glass, It is like I can see forever. When it is angry and tearing with turmoil I can do not but stare in awe at its terrible dance. Looking at it I can feel it entering me. I am the water. I will be calm and reflective. Without warning I will enter my dance of death, unpredictable and terrible. I will dance like water. I will perfect this, and strive to learn the true steps to the song my blades sing.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Jeth Jones - Entry Two
It seems i have a new favorite holiday. Full of crazy ceremonies, lots of drinking, and merchants daughters. Not to mention that our crew won a crazy gauntlet contest and got some serious gold out of it.
It seems that at the same time as our fun reached a new high, the seriousness factor kicked in as well. We found a placed talked about in "the book" that had been abandon for a few hundred years, and was in quite the disarray. We found some cryptic information, and found a new friend. A mechanical bird that has adopted the nickname "bobo". I hope he comes in handy and doesn't murder us all in our sleep. Who can tell with constructs, ya know?
We're setting sail tomorrow for the Academy. I hope to do a few things there. Publish some of my research for one. I've collected a lot of interesting information, taking in mom's footsteps. Even though i haven't been commissioned by them like mother was, my hope is to fill the role that she was doing. Possibly make a bit of coin while I'm at it.
Second I'd like to try to get a hold of some of mom's books while I'm there. I know she was doing research for them, and I know she had put out at least 3 botany books. I seem to remember there being other stuff, but, I don't really remember a whole bunch about it.
Third, and most important, I need to hit up the Divination wing and get some information about 'the elf'. I have his key, one of his personal effects and i hope to think that enough of his person is still on it that we can find out some good information about his whereabouts or motivations. Anything will be helpful, but i will find him.
The List:
The Elf With One Eye
It seems that at the same time as our fun reached a new high, the seriousness factor kicked in as well. We found a placed talked about in "the book" that had been abandon for a few hundred years, and was in quite the disarray. We found some cryptic information, and found a new friend. A mechanical bird that has adopted the nickname "bobo". I hope he comes in handy and doesn't murder us all in our sleep. Who can tell with constructs, ya know?
We're setting sail tomorrow for the Academy. I hope to do a few things there. Publish some of my research for one. I've collected a lot of interesting information, taking in mom's footsteps. Even though i haven't been commissioned by them like mother was, my hope is to fill the role that she was doing. Possibly make a bit of coin while I'm at it.
Second I'd like to try to get a hold of some of mom's books while I'm there. I know she was doing research for them, and I know she had put out at least 3 botany books. I seem to remember there being other stuff, but, I don't really remember a whole bunch about it.
Third, and most important, I need to hit up the Divination wing and get some information about 'the elf'. I have his key, one of his personal effects and i hope to think that enough of his person is still on it that we can find out some good information about his whereabouts or motivations. Anything will be helpful, but i will find him.
The List:
The Elf With One Eye
Saturday, December 27, 2008
The All-That-Is Guidebook
Here's the PDF of my class project guidebook for the campaign:
http://web.pdx.edu/~jbarratt/guide/guidebook.pdf
(Best if viewed in two-up with title page turned on.)
http://web.pdx.edu/~jbarratt/guide/guidebook.pdf
(Best if viewed in two-up with title page turned on.)
GM Downtime - Book Excerpt 2
"Not all portions of the myth of the Artificers' War are present in every retelling of the story, and indeed, some of the most cryptic portions of the story are present only in singular versions. For example, the following passage is known to only be present in the version local to parts of Terna entitled 'The Brothers' Spat,' here transcribed by Agrin Formos of Wayburn."
"'Then, not in flight but with a great and singular purpose, the Golden Brother (this is commonly believed to be Merath) ventured northward from the great battlefield until he arrived at the place of the Green Guardians, and living among the Guardians he built a place of seeing, the highest of high hills, wherefrom he could see for countless miles in all the directions it is possible to see.'"
"While the fullest meaning of this passage is lost on most, we can attempt to draw some conclusions. There is evidence in other pieces of local folklore that suggests that the Green Guardians were an order of ancient druids and naturists, or perhaps the ancestors of the modern race of elves. Unfortunately, this most likely means that all traces of such a group are gone; both druids and the ancient elves built in wood and cloth, and very little of their works or structures survive. The nature of Merath's 'high hill' is still something of a mystery. Explorers have searched most of the highest vantage points in Terna and found no sign of any ancient structures. This might lead one to believe that the hill is metaphorical; perhaps the place was a center for information-gathering, a nest of spies where Merath coordinated his surveillance efforts. Perhaps it was a place where divinations were used to see out into the world. Then again, it is equally possible that the structure simply has not survived, or is deep in the mountains of the Worldspine where no explorer has managed to find it. It is even possible, and indeed somewhat probable given that most tellings of the Artificers' War make no mention of it, that such a place simply does not exist except in the mind of an overly excited storyteller."
From Chapter 3 of "A Study of the Possible Validity of the Tale of the Artificers' War" by Sheridan Mott, Professor, Thaumheim Mages' Academy, City of Thaumheim, Terrandin
"'Then, not in flight but with a great and singular purpose, the Golden Brother (this is commonly believed to be Merath) ventured northward from the great battlefield until he arrived at the place of the Green Guardians, and living among the Guardians he built a place of seeing, the highest of high hills, wherefrom he could see for countless miles in all the directions it is possible to see.'"
"While the fullest meaning of this passage is lost on most, we can attempt to draw some conclusions. There is evidence in other pieces of local folklore that suggests that the Green Guardians were an order of ancient druids and naturists, or perhaps the ancestors of the modern race of elves. Unfortunately, this most likely means that all traces of such a group are gone; both druids and the ancient elves built in wood and cloth, and very little of their works or structures survive. The nature of Merath's 'high hill' is still something of a mystery. Explorers have searched most of the highest vantage points in Terna and found no sign of any ancient structures. This might lead one to believe that the hill is metaphorical; perhaps the place was a center for information-gathering, a nest of spies where Merath coordinated his surveillance efforts. Perhaps it was a place where divinations were used to see out into the world. Then again, it is equally possible that the structure simply has not survived, or is deep in the mountains of the Worldspine where no explorer has managed to find it. It is even possible, and indeed somewhat probable given that most tellings of the Artificers' War make no mention of it, that such a place simply does not exist except in the mind of an overly excited storyteller."
From Chapter 3 of "A Study of the Possible Validity of the Tale of the Artificers' War" by Sheridan Mott, Professor, Thaumheim Mages' Academy, City of Thaumheim, Terrandin
Monday, December 1, 2008
Anteel- "Behind Closed Doors" Expert 1
The remaining half of the candle cast faint light across the barrels and shelves of the store room. Shadows danced between crates of dried goods and tiny flares reflected off the half empty bottles stacked side by side. Yhavin, the Innkeep found little comfort in the familiar sight of his tiny "office". The fact that he was bound tightly too an arm chair and had been for quite a while now didn't help this. This wasn't the first time he had been drilled for information. He knew alot about the black market in his, and nearby towns. This was the first time however, that he had been broken. He looked down past the tears pooling in his eyes at his only free appendage. Bound impossibly tight at the wrist, His huge paw of a hand gripped a heavy red rag tightly. It had been white not an hour ago.
The figure before him was pacing back and forth very patiently, never making much eye contact. He stoped to look how far the candle had burned from time to time. This time he stood near it as it light up his wicked smile. He had been playing with Yhavin's severed finger like a man tossing a coin for luck. He now held it out over the flame of the candle ever so carefully, watching with a sick childlike fascination as the skin peeled back and bubbled. Yhavin felt like he was going to vomit.
"Oh my dear friend...How this town suffers. Even you, safe in your inn have felt the effects of this awful plauge. You must be quite troubled, no doubt from stress. Your clients are dying, your food supply is dwindling, and now you have told me all the secrets you swore to so many people you would keep. Your running out of friends dear Yhavin."
"Pleas m'lord...I've told you everything. I know of no One-Eye elf, or of any key wearing lizards, or of any bounty hunters..." He broke off crying before he could say any more. "Please master, just let me off an' I'll....I'll give ya all me coin. I has a daughter M'lord. She needs her Pa'." Yhavin stoped talking as soon as he noticed the man was now behind him. He felt a rope slide around his neck.
As the shadow paced around him in circles he could feel the rope tightening around his throat. He gagged back spit and blood from his broken teeth. The tears stopped finaly.
"Dear friend...Listen to yourself. The sickness has taken your mind no doubt. You must be malnurished. Perhaps the plague has found your grey brain and began to devour it. Now, I believe you have not yet told me but a fraction of the information you hold in that fat head of yours."
The figure stopped in his tracks, and like a cobra strike his leg shot out and kicked Yhavin and the chair flat on his back. The wind tried to fly out of him but the tightness of the rope choked it back. He felt dizzy. Hand over hand the figure pulled the chair back onto its legs using the rope and Yhavin's neck. He could feel the muscles and bones of his neck stressing to their limits and he tried to gasp for air. When the chair thumped back onto its feet Yhavin caught a glance of the man holding his new leash. He saw the pendant clasping his cloak in place, and his eyes went wide as the stories and rumors flooded into his mind.
"...Grey Owl...The...Hunter..." He choked on his meager breaths.
The figure stopped. It seemed like minuets passed before he moved or even said a single word. The flicker of the candle just washed over him again and again. Finaly he looked up and caught Yhavin's eyes in a gaze like a hungry hawk. His smile was gone. Those eyes...
"Oh dear friend...While there are few in worse spots that you right now, there are still people who you should not wish to be.... Someone who knows who I am for example. That is a very bad person to be my dearest dear friend."
With a snap of his wrist the rope flung loose from Yhavin's neck and in a panic he gasped for air. He opened his wide mouth and gasped like a mudfish, for it may be his last. In the blink of an eye Grey Owl was on him clasping his mouth shut with a gloved hand and pinching his nose like a crab. He was so afraid it took him a moment to feel the warm shape on his tongue. He handn't even noticed him slip the slimy weight into his mouth. He understood immediatly and the taste of his severed and cooked finger made him nautous to the point of fainting.
"Now my poor, sick, hungry friend" His lips curled back into a smile as he slowly mouthed the word "Chew".
By the time the candle had burned out he had told him everything.
The remaining half of the candle cast faint light across the barrels and shelves of the store room. Shadows danced between crates of dried goods and tiny flares reflected off the half empty bottles stacked side by side. Yhavin, the Innkeep found little comfort in the familiar sight of his tiny "office". The fact that he was bound tightly too an arm chair and had been for quite a while now didn't help this. This wasn't the first time he had been drilled for information. He knew alot about the black market in his, and nearby towns. This was the first time however, that he had been broken. He looked down past the tears pooling in his eyes at his only free appendage. Bound impossibly tight at the wrist, His huge paw of a hand gripped a heavy red rag tightly. It had been white not an hour ago.
The figure before him was pacing back and forth very patiently, never making much eye contact. He stoped to look how far the candle had burned from time to time. This time he stood near it as it light up his wicked smile. He had been playing with Yhavin's severed finger like a man tossing a coin for luck. He now held it out over the flame of the candle ever so carefully, watching with a sick childlike fascination as the skin peeled back and bubbled. Yhavin felt like he was going to vomit.
"Oh my dear friend...How this town suffers. Even you, safe in your inn have felt the effects of this awful plauge. You must be quite troubled, no doubt from stress. Your clients are dying, your food supply is dwindling, and now you have told me all the secrets you swore to so many people you would keep. Your running out of friends dear Yhavin."
"Pleas m'lord...I've told you everything. I know of no One-Eye elf, or of any key wearing lizards, or of any bounty hunters..." He broke off crying before he could say any more. "Please master, just let me off an' I'll....I'll give ya all me coin. I has a daughter M'lord. She needs her Pa'." Yhavin stoped talking as soon as he noticed the man was now behind him. He felt a rope slide around his neck.
As the shadow paced around him in circles he could feel the rope tightening around his throat. He gagged back spit and blood from his broken teeth. The tears stopped finaly.
"Dear friend...Listen to yourself. The sickness has taken your mind no doubt. You must be malnurished. Perhaps the plague has found your grey brain and began to devour it. Now, I believe you have not yet told me but a fraction of the information you hold in that fat head of yours."
The figure stopped in his tracks, and like a cobra strike his leg shot out and kicked Yhavin and the chair flat on his back. The wind tried to fly out of him but the tightness of the rope choked it back. He felt dizzy. Hand over hand the figure pulled the chair back onto its legs using the rope and Yhavin's neck. He could feel the muscles and bones of his neck stressing to their limits and he tried to gasp for air. When the chair thumped back onto its feet Yhavin caught a glance of the man holding his new leash. He saw the pendant clasping his cloak in place, and his eyes went wide as the stories and rumors flooded into his mind.
"...Grey Owl...The...Hunter..." He choked on his meager breaths.
The figure stopped. It seemed like minuets passed before he moved or even said a single word. The flicker of the candle just washed over him again and again. Finaly he looked up and caught Yhavin's eyes in a gaze like a hungry hawk. His smile was gone. Those eyes...
"Oh dear friend...While there are few in worse spots that you right now, there are still people who you should not wish to be.... Someone who knows who I am for example. That is a very bad person to be my dearest dear friend."
With a snap of his wrist the rope flung loose from Yhavin's neck and in a panic he gasped for air. He opened his wide mouth and gasped like a mudfish, for it may be his last. In the blink of an eye Grey Owl was on him clasping his mouth shut with a gloved hand and pinching his nose like a crab. He was so afraid it took him a moment to feel the warm shape on his tongue. He handn't even noticed him slip the slimy weight into his mouth. He understood immediatly and the taste of his severed and cooked finger made him nautous to the point of fainting.
"Now my poor, sick, hungry friend" His lips curled back into a smile as he slowly mouthed the word "Chew".
By the time the candle had burned out he had told him everything.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
CHARACTER PORTRAITS
I did them at work today! I AM SUCH A NERD!
Here they are! ( I will just add links so as not to clutter up the Blog )
RHYS
TERAN
JETH
ANTEEL
Please keep in mind these are just how I see them in my head influenced by the descriptions you all gave me. I hope they help everyone visualize the party on a new level. Please leave me comments!
-The Law
Here they are! ( I will just add links so as not to clutter up the Blog )
RHYS
TERAN
JETH
ANTEEL
Please keep in mind these are just how I see them in my head influenced by the descriptions you all gave me. I hope they help everyone visualize the party on a new level. Please leave me comments!
-The Law
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
GM Downtime 1
"The war began with the two brothers, Merath and Senath. Merath was a talented artificer; even from an early age, his ability to craft materials and magic into beautiful things was evident. His works were known far and wide, and he delighted kings and smallfolk alike with his "toys," often small automata and the like, or so the stories say.
They say that his brother Senath grew jealous of his ability. Some say that it was this alone that caused him to do what he did; others think that there was something dark to his nature. In any case, the stories say that, in an effort to gain the skill of his brother, he made a pact. Again, the stories are somewhat unclear as to who the pact was with. The most common theory is that it was a demon of some sort, although some of the later tales speak of both celestials and demons rising up together to aid Merath against his brother. In any case, Senath opened a doorway to somewhere else and brought through some sort of monstrous being, which gave him great power.
When Merath discovered what his brother had done, he gathered an army, drawing from as many places as he had allies, and managed after much hardship and sacrifice to stop him. Some traditions say that he killed his brother, others say he locked Senath away with the being or beings he had summoned. Little is known about Merath's doings after this time, even in the more conjectural tales; in most cases, he simply 'went away.' In a few instances, he charged his followers, called the Protectors or Keepers, to remain vigilant should his brother ever return.
There are many that know one version of this tale or another. Many a bard has sung the song of the Artificers' War, and many a book has been written about the significance of the story from a literary standpoint, but most regard the tale as just that: a tale. However, it is the purpose of this book to propose that the tale of the Artificers' War is, at least in part, the recounting of an actual event that occured over a thousand years ago. It is the opinion of this author that Merath and Senath were actual persons, and that it might even be possible that there are people who still call themselves Protectors, even today."
From the introduction to "A Study of the Possible Validity of the Tale of the Artificers' War" by Sheridan Mott, Professor, Thaumheim Mages' Academy, City of Thaumheim, Terrandin
They say that his brother Senath grew jealous of his ability. Some say that it was this alone that caused him to do what he did; others think that there was something dark to his nature. In any case, the stories say that, in an effort to gain the skill of his brother, he made a pact. Again, the stories are somewhat unclear as to who the pact was with. The most common theory is that it was a demon of some sort, although some of the later tales speak of both celestials and demons rising up together to aid Merath against his brother. In any case, Senath opened a doorway to somewhere else and brought through some sort of monstrous being, which gave him great power.
When Merath discovered what his brother had done, he gathered an army, drawing from as many places as he had allies, and managed after much hardship and sacrifice to stop him. Some traditions say that he killed his brother, others say he locked Senath away with the being or beings he had summoned. Little is known about Merath's doings after this time, even in the more conjectural tales; in most cases, he simply 'went away.' In a few instances, he charged his followers, called the Protectors or Keepers, to remain vigilant should his brother ever return.
There are many that know one version of this tale or another. Many a bard has sung the song of the Artificers' War, and many a book has been written about the significance of the story from a literary standpoint, but most regard the tale as just that: a tale. However, it is the purpose of this book to propose that the tale of the Artificers' War is, at least in part, the recounting of an actual event that occured over a thousand years ago. It is the opinion of this author that Merath and Senath were actual persons, and that it might even be possible that there are people who still call themselves Protectors, even today."
From the introduction to "A Study of the Possible Validity of the Tale of the Artificers' War" by Sheridan Mott, Professor, Thaumheim Mages' Academy, City of Thaumheim, Terrandin
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Portraits
So I am interested in drawing some portraits of our characters. It would be helpful if when you have just a second add a post with a physical description of your character. Here are some things I am looking for.
-Hair Style
-Facial/Body type description
-Clothing style
-Armor/Weapons (if they have a certain look or emblems)
-Other details.
If you would rather I not draw your character just let me know. James, this goes for NPC's too.
And David, in the last post you stated that Anteel was the Cleric. That's Dustin's character. His name is Rhys.
-Lawrence
-Hair Style
-Facial/Body type description
-Clothing style
-Armor/Weapons (if they have a certain look or emblems)
-Other details.
If you would rather I not draw your character just let me know. James, this goes for NPC's too.
And David, in the last post you stated that Anteel was the Cleric. That's Dustin's character. His name is Rhys.
-Lawrence
Break 1 - Taran Ullivarn
Boccob must be crazy!
It's amazing, really. I thought this part of my life was gone. Joining the forces of the legendary Warmagus of Gaeor was supposed to be my legacy; my stepping stone out of Meeran's Dell and to a world of adventure and insight. Calling lightning to smite airborne Blacks! Matching the mightiest of Reds, flame for flame, so to speak...
Instead I'm springing Good 'Ol Ezra from the Dell's jailhouse in the middle of the night, reciting mostly fabricated mumbo-jumbo doctrines that no one, outside of the War Camps of Gaeor, would ever care to remember. It's awe-inspiring how preaching something like "But in Article Six, Section Eight; it clearly states..." has such magical powers of bewilderment.
And then that fight with the elf and his hissing cronies ending in nothing but some fallen bodies and Ezra's house in flames. Almost gave me some Dragon-fear flashbacks, but a true soldier stands tall against all adversity and a couple of barrels of oil hardly compares to a Dragon's breath and those terrible, terrible eyes.
Doesn't alleviate the guilt of not seeing that arrow coming though. It landed in Ezra's gut right next to me! If only I'd had a proper defense posted! Protect the leader! I just always kind of thought that Ezra could handle himself. It seems too many of his stories were just that.
The gods giveth, and the gods - yadda yadda yah...
And really, Boccob does seem to have a sick sense of irony. He knows how much I despise the paper-pushing religious profanity that is "The Clerical Way", and yet He sees fit to reunite me with Rhys who's become a damned Cleric of Pelor! For Magic's Sake! He calls me brutal for helping torture the lizardman, but wasn't he the one who turned the metal in that damned elf's eyes damn-near to magma? Stupid Holier-Than-Thous with their "Do as I say, and not as I do" mentality. But I'll let it pass like the sick rush of a good Fire Orb leaving your body and just turn the grimace into a grin and nod the head as applicable. A man doesn't grow up as a God-chosen favorite in a school of combat-mages and not learn to have a thick skin and a favorable tongue. And to be honest, Pelor does seem to shine rather brightly off of him, though that may just be his pretty shield.
And the others:
Jeth, who I always thought would end up with an arrow in his own William Tell-shaped head, is a surprisingly good shot. A shaft right through the eye at damn near forty-five paces is nothing to scoff at. Even the best Dragon-Archers of Gold Keep would have a hard time managing that without a good True Strike or Accuracy spell to aid them. Especially when it seemed like he wasn't even really concentrating on it. Unfortunately, it looks like he contracted his daddy's ego along with his aim. I would have griped about keeping SOME semblance of formation, but he was SO sure that following the lizardman for a couple of days would turn up a lead. Maybe he's right, but I've already got five gold in the pot that says he doesn't.
And Anteel - his heart seems to harbor something darker than it did in our youth, I fear. He smiles the good smile and shows all the right amount of teeth, but his eyes give him away. Reminds me of the Maliyan Sulv Bugs that Archwarmagus Robalt made us study back in the Low Mountains just outside Wyv's boundaries. They play dead and let the smaller flies slowly devour their outer membrane, and then they strike - leaving nothing alive. Maybe it just takes a faker to know one. Maybe I've just seen too many betrayals. Either way, I will continue to subtly check any food or drink he offers for poisons or magics. I was taught better than that.
But alas, enough off-time to lament. Back to that Magic-damned Book, trying to find any clues that might help Rhys save Ezra. It would figure that Boccob's blessing, damn Him, once again turns out to be just what I need but never quite enough to be easy. Even with His eyes, the words seem to flow and pulse to some some unknown beat, and I just can't comprehend them properly. It doesn't help that Rhys's chanting and frustration keep causing me to lose my focus. Sometimes, the battle-axe at my hip twitches to shut him up, but I think I'm just worn at the hinges from the concentration. I was never really fond of book study. The only even slightly relevant thing that I've found thus far is a diagram of a key-shaped object that resembles something similar found on the lizardman's cloak. Maybe it's a coincidence. I'll just have to keep looking.
I wish this blasted book didn't read like a Terrandin Soundbox Manual.
It's amazing, really. I thought this part of my life was gone. Joining the forces of the legendary Warmagus of Gaeor was supposed to be my legacy; my stepping stone out of Meeran's Dell and to a world of adventure and insight. Calling lightning to smite airborne Blacks! Matching the mightiest of Reds, flame for flame, so to speak...
Instead I'm springing Good 'Ol Ezra from the Dell's jailhouse in the middle of the night, reciting mostly fabricated mumbo-jumbo doctrines that no one, outside of the War Camps of Gaeor, would ever care to remember. It's awe-inspiring how preaching something like "But in Article Six, Section Eight; it clearly states..." has such magical powers of bewilderment.
And then that fight with the elf and his hissing cronies ending in nothing but some fallen bodies and Ezra's house in flames. Almost gave me some Dragon-fear flashbacks, but a true soldier stands tall against all adversity and a couple of barrels of oil hardly compares to a Dragon's breath and those terrible, terrible eyes.
Doesn't alleviate the guilt of not seeing that arrow coming though. It landed in Ezra's gut right next to me! If only I'd had a proper defense posted! Protect the leader! I just always kind of thought that Ezra could handle himself. It seems too many of his stories were just that.
The gods giveth, and the gods - yadda yadda yah...
And really, Boccob does seem to have a sick sense of irony. He knows how much I despise the paper-pushing religious profanity that is "The Clerical Way", and yet He sees fit to reunite me with Rhys who's become a damned Cleric of Pelor! For Magic's Sake! He calls me brutal for helping torture the lizardman, but wasn't he the one who turned the metal in that damned elf's eyes damn-near to magma? Stupid Holier-Than-Thous with their "Do as I say, and not as I do" mentality. But I'll let it pass like the sick rush of a good Fire Orb leaving your body and just turn the grimace into a grin and nod the head as applicable. A man doesn't grow up as a God-chosen favorite in a school of combat-mages and not learn to have a thick skin and a favorable tongue. And to be honest, Pelor does seem to shine rather brightly off of him, though that may just be his pretty shield.
And the others:
Jeth, who I always thought would end up with an arrow in his own William Tell-shaped head, is a surprisingly good shot. A shaft right through the eye at damn near forty-five paces is nothing to scoff at. Even the best Dragon-Archers of Gold Keep would have a hard time managing that without a good True Strike or Accuracy spell to aid them. Especially when it seemed like he wasn't even really concentrating on it. Unfortunately, it looks like he contracted his daddy's ego along with his aim. I would have griped about keeping SOME semblance of formation, but he was SO sure that following the lizardman for a couple of days would turn up a lead. Maybe he's right, but I've already got five gold in the pot that says he doesn't.
And Anteel - his heart seems to harbor something darker than it did in our youth, I fear. He smiles the good smile and shows all the right amount of teeth, but his eyes give him away. Reminds me of the Maliyan Sulv Bugs that Archwarmagus Robalt made us study back in the Low Mountains just outside Wyv's boundaries. They play dead and let the smaller flies slowly devour their outer membrane, and then they strike - leaving nothing alive. Maybe it just takes a faker to know one. Maybe I've just seen too many betrayals. Either way, I will continue to subtly check any food or drink he offers for poisons or magics. I was taught better than that.
But alas, enough off-time to lament. Back to that Magic-damned Book, trying to find any clues that might help Rhys save Ezra. It would figure that Boccob's blessing, damn Him, once again turns out to be just what I need but never quite enough to be easy. Even with His eyes, the words seem to flow and pulse to some some unknown beat, and I just can't comprehend them properly. It doesn't help that Rhys's chanting and frustration keep causing me to lose my focus. Sometimes, the battle-axe at my hip twitches to shut him up, but I think I'm just worn at the hinges from the concentration. I was never really fond of book study. The only even slightly relevant thing that I've found thus far is a diagram of a key-shaped object that resembles something similar found on the lizardman's cloak. Maybe it's a coincidence. I'll just have to keep looking.
I wish this blasted book didn't read like a Terrandin Soundbox Manual.
Jeth Jones - Entry One
That stupid bird.
I could be studying the Astine flower right now, and I would be, if that bird hadn't found me. Instead I'm lying in a thicket, waiting for a lizard man to regain conciousness.
I knew that my trip back home was because of trouble, but I had no idea it would've been this bad. I thought maybe Ezra had gotten so old he couldn't live at home and maybe they were trying to move him out of his house. Possibly he had taken to the bottle and maybe he was in jail because of it. Worse case I thought maybe he woudld've lost his house in a bet or something, but I wouldn't have guessed that he would've been in jail for murder.
Seeing some of the boys from childhood was a pleasent thing to come home to. All 3 of the guys that I kinda figured would grow up to be the adventuring sort were here. We didn't a lot of catching up time, about as soon as i got into town we got down to business. Getting Ezra out of jail was pretty simple. Rhys had seen to that. Clerics sometimes make me a bit uneasy, but it was nothing short of a miracle what i saw.
The trouble came AFTER the jail though. While at Ezra's house, picking up a few things before we left town, we were ambushed. A group of lizard men, and the elf. I've put down a few bad days in my time, and everyone of them deserved it, but none of them felt it. One arrow right between the eyes. Its just easier that way.
He dodged it.
Not completely, I did get the eye. But it should've been a kill shot. I will finish what i started. No one comes into my town, burns houses, dodges my arrows, and just waltzes away.
We got out of town, but Ezra took a bad wound to the belly. A wound that cannot be healed by Rhys. We also got a lizardman to pinch some info out of. He had very little. So if he doesn't have the info, atleast he can lead me too some info. As soon as he wakes up..
The List:
The Elf With One Eye
I could be studying the Astine flower right now, and I would be, if that bird hadn't found me. Instead I'm lying in a thicket, waiting for a lizard man to regain conciousness.
I knew that my trip back home was because of trouble, but I had no idea it would've been this bad. I thought maybe Ezra had gotten so old he couldn't live at home and maybe they were trying to move him out of his house. Possibly he had taken to the bottle and maybe he was in jail because of it. Worse case I thought maybe he woudld've lost his house in a bet or something, but I wouldn't have guessed that he would've been in jail for murder.
Seeing some of the boys from childhood was a pleasent thing to come home to. All 3 of the guys that I kinda figured would grow up to be the adventuring sort were here. We didn't a lot of catching up time, about as soon as i got into town we got down to business. Getting Ezra out of jail was pretty simple. Rhys had seen to that. Clerics sometimes make me a bit uneasy, but it was nothing short of a miracle what i saw.
The trouble came AFTER the jail though. While at Ezra's house, picking up a few things before we left town, we were ambushed. A group of lizard men, and the elf. I've put down a few bad days in my time, and everyone of them deserved it, but none of them felt it. One arrow right between the eyes. Its just easier that way.
He dodged it.
Not completely, I did get the eye. But it should've been a kill shot. I will finish what i started. No one comes into my town, burns houses, dodges my arrows, and just waltzes away.
We got out of town, but Ezra took a bad wound to the belly. A wound that cannot be healed by Rhys. We also got a lizardman to pinch some info out of. He had very little. So if he doesn't have the info, atleast he can lead me too some info. As soon as he wakes up..
The List:
The Elf With One Eye
Monday, November 24, 2008
Jeth Jones - Entry Zero
Life is like a flower. It starts off as a simple, non-descript seed. It could turn into anything. It could turn into a giant tree that lives for thousands of years and gives shade to all the creatures and other smaller plant in the grove. It could turn into the prettiest, and nicest smelling flower that glints gold in the sun. or it could grow up nice and big and turn into the sucker that gets drug home randomly by a crow that gets tossed into some insane conspiracy surrounding a book and an old man that, now that we find out, lied to people when they were children.
I had found a kobold tribe that has a special healing salve. This tribe lives in a rather swampy area, so they werent a huge pleasure to spend time with. When I first approached the tribe, I was met with spears. Over the next 3 months I found ways to engraciate myself with the tribe, by bringing gifts of food, tools, and going hunting with the tribe. Eventually I earned their trust. They told me of their salve and hwo it was made. Taking a flower that is found only on the southern cliffs of a nearby valley. They pick it, then dry it in the sun, then mix it with the blood of a swamp rat.
They were very specific about hwo to pick this flower as well. The stem of the flower is covered in thorns. The thorns are covered in a poison, a strong poison that will put whoever is pricked into a near coma for three days, and druing those three days boils will appear. Amazing how such a plant that produces ill effects from the thorns can be such an amazing healing reagent.
So there I was, 50ft in the air, dangling from a rope, studying this flower. It had taken me 8 days searching to find this flower already, and a good half a day working my way up the clift. I'm not a great climber. Finally I get to the flower, and start to sketch it. I'm about half way through the sketch, completely enthralled in my work, totally facinated by this flower, its so amazing to finally see it after all this time, and then SWOOSH! CRUNCH! CAW!! the flower is no more. Looking back at me now is a crow. Stupid fucking crow. At first I was startled. Then I was amazed that wild life would just fly up to me in such a bold way. Then I saw the message on its leg. Stupid stupid message.
Called back home for an emergency. There could have been worse places to be summoned too. Atleast I was going to get to see the storyteller. Ezra was a big part of my childhood. He was the best entertainer around. Traveling bards would often leave the town in quite a snit after being upstaged by a local. Fond memories of bonfire camp out stories with erza, the other boys, my pa when he was in town. So I wonder why I was called.
Empty
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Intermission 1 - Rhys
~Wherein our intrepid heroes travel a long road seeking a cure for Ezra's plight.~
Rhys stood over the prone body, shuddering slightly as the light of Pelor filled him for the fourth time that day, setting his shield nearby to glimmering faintly. Ezra convulsed as the healing spell swam into him, pushing back the poison from the damned arrow that hit him on their escape. It was a never ending struggle; within hours, the wound would begin to fester again, seeping poison in blackened veins radiating away from the stomach wound.
And there was nothing he could do about it. Rhys had learned healing on the Wall, spending day after day walking the battlements with the men of Peron. He’d ridden out more times than he could count when some new emergency required the reserves to scramble for whatever was crawling out of the Fein. The attacks had been grievous towards the end, but the confrontation with the shambling horde on midwinter had been the turning point, the moment that he had been freed to go back to his childhood home at the behest of a man he hadn’t heard from in near a decade.
A man who was, by all accounts, dying in front of him. Rhys watched the tissue trying halfheartedly to knit around the puncture site, and felt a tinge of despair. He didn’t have the ability to heal this wound, not even the ability to stabilize it. Keeping the pestilence in check was draining more and more of his strength every day, and, soon, he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the demands of it. If they didn’t reach a senior member of the priesthood soon… there was a very real chance that Ezra would die, and that the shadowy creatures who had been after Ezra and his book would win after all.
With a quiet curse, Rhys stalked away from Ezra’s sickbed. If the book was part of this mystery, then it was possible that there would be something in it about the poison used. He laughed bitterly to himself there; he thought of this as a poisoning, but really had no proof of that. It could easily be a spell or something even more sinister. There was no way that he could figure it out in these conditions, unless luck held and there was something in the book. He made a litany of it in his head as he walked to where it had been left on Jeth’s departure: “Please. Something. Anything. Let me heal this man, and let us find the shadow men who dealt it. Please. Anything.”
Heart beating, he picked it up. The worn leather of the cover clung to his sweating palms as he slowly opened it, turning page after page, searching. After the first dozen, he began flipping through quickly, barely scanning the pages at all. They fanned, the moldy scent of the book spread, aged paper with a bare hint of strange spices, until they were all past and the back cover was closed. He sat still, book in lap, breathing deep and choking back his disappointment.
Rhys couldn’t read a single word of it.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Journal Entry 1- Anteel
Bloody black raven.... I hate being found so easily. Curse Ezra and his tricks.
I can't lie to myself though, its comforting to once again look upon the faces of my childhood friends. By the gods how we've changed. Two of the younger ones went off and joined churches. Regular army boys...Just a few steps above town guards if you ask me. The other seems just as tenacious, even if he doesn't parade around in his theologically advertising plate armor. As expected trouble found me...well...us. We burned down Ezra's home. Welcome home sons of the Del.
I must remain at least reasonable. I can't forget these are my friends. They were once, anyway.I only hope the feeling of brotherhood returns soon, for as it is I trust not a one of them. Not even the old lying coot. Rubies..pah. But they don't know what I have done, or the places I have been...They only know me as the old Anteel. This is in my favor. I will remain the hunter, and simply help my old friends, assuming they don't try to dance directly into the flames of conflict. I had hoped to escape such a lifestyle. Survival is key. My own.
Now we head off to some unknown town to find more holy men to poke around into Old Ezra's fatal wound. I knew he wasn't as tough as he always claimed. They cut up and cooked some poor fool lizad-kin and golden boy rode off after him once they let him into the wild. Back towards town no doubt. Pointless. Now I am left with a dying mentor from decades ago and two old friend who found a calling in life....Hunting men like me. This does not bode well for the last of the Derhilyans...
-Anteel
I can't lie to myself though, its comforting to once again look upon the faces of my childhood friends. By the gods how we've changed. Two of the younger ones went off and joined churches. Regular army boys...Just a few steps above town guards if you ask me. The other seems just as tenacious, even if he doesn't parade around in his theologically advertising plate armor. As expected trouble found me...well...us. We burned down Ezra's home. Welcome home sons of the Del.
I must remain at least reasonable. I can't forget these are my friends. They were once, anyway.I only hope the feeling of brotherhood returns soon, for as it is I trust not a one of them. Not even the old lying coot. Rubies..pah. But they don't know what I have done, or the places I have been...They only know me as the old Anteel. This is in my favor. I will remain the hunter, and simply help my old friends, assuming they don't try to dance directly into the flames of conflict. I had hoped to escape such a lifestyle. Survival is key. My own.
Now we head off to some unknown town to find more holy men to poke around into Old Ezra's fatal wound. I knew he wasn't as tough as he always claimed. They cut up and cooked some poor fool lizad-kin and golden boy rode off after him once they let him into the wild. Back towards town no doubt. Pointless. Now I am left with a dying mentor from decades ago and two old friend who found a calling in life....Hunting men like me. This does not bode well for the last of the Derhilyans...
-Anteel
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Background - Taran Ullivarn
Disciple and Discipline
It wasn't until my fourth year at The Dragon's Tooth Warmagus Academy that I truly understood the power of the rigourous training that I was forced to endure day after day. That was the first time I felt that stomach-churning thrill of an arcane spell reverberating through one's body and armor before releasing into a small ball of magical force. It was a rudimentary spell for the Warmagus. Indeed, I had learned the proper movements, speech and sublties of that spell in my first month at the Tooth, but this was the first time it had worked properly.
Now if you fall for that stereotype of the Mage as the miserly old fuddy-duddy with nothing but a stick and a coloring book to protect him once his spellpool runs dry, you would probably leave the Tooth feeling like the digestive track of a Lysisian noble after eating the latest delicacy the Fein had to offer - simply speaking, you'd likely need to change your armor.
The Tooth creates warmages - soldiers bred in the heat of Boccob's flames. The Warmagus are feared dragonslayers, every bit as potent as their sword and shield counterparts. They endure great hardships to be the best parts of a mage and a soldier: An Arcane Champion strapped into gleaming armor, his sword and shield only a tiny portion of his impressive arsenal.
At least, that's how it's supposed to go. For me, it was a slightly different story. My official title is Officer Warmagus-Vicar Taran Ullivarn, Third Rank, but calling me Taran is fine...and preferred. All the rest of that is just too much of a mouthful for my liking. It's a glorified title for a BattleMage-Medic on the front lines if you ask me.
Yes, I can throw spells with the best of them, and I do, but all the Royal Archmagus seems to be interested in is my other talent. A Blessed One of Boccob they call me, a Favored Soul. I call it a headache that keeps me from my real calling as a Warmagus Slayer, Boccob-Be-Damned.
He has me stationed at the Tooth's singular temple to Boccob when I'm not on rounds, I guess hoping that the Deacon there will rub off on me. It's probably for the best, really, since I did receive more than my fair share of ribbing from the other initiates for my first two years in the bunks. Apparently, being different makes you a target. Go figure.
Really, I don't have all that much against Boccob, Himself, but this "bigger plans" mumbo-jumbo is just a bit too much to stomach. Every time I scrape a knee, it's "The Will of Boccob" or some-such. I'm just a guy in iron and steel who likes to fling fireballs. When did that get complicated?
But my luck is sure to change soon. I am supposed to receive my orders any day now to head up to WarCamp Gallant; Second in command of an eight soldier detachment of Dragon Slayers to go hunt a troublesome Red sighted Northwest for the last few weeks.
Soon this will be but a distant memory.
It wasn't until my fourth year at The Dragon's Tooth Warmagus Academy that I truly understood the power of the rigourous training that I was forced to endure day after day. That was the first time I felt that stomach-churning thrill of an arcane spell reverberating through one's body and armor before releasing into a small ball of magical force. It was a rudimentary spell for the Warmagus. Indeed, I had learned the proper movements, speech and sublties of that spell in my first month at the Tooth, but this was the first time it had worked properly.
Now if you fall for that stereotype of the Mage as the miserly old fuddy-duddy with nothing but a stick and a coloring book to protect him once his spellpool runs dry, you would probably leave the Tooth feeling like the digestive track of a Lysisian noble after eating the latest delicacy the Fein had to offer - simply speaking, you'd likely need to change your armor.
The Tooth creates warmages - soldiers bred in the heat of Boccob's flames. The Warmagus are feared dragonslayers, every bit as potent as their sword and shield counterparts. They endure great hardships to be the best parts of a mage and a soldier: An Arcane Champion strapped into gleaming armor, his sword and shield only a tiny portion of his impressive arsenal.
At least, that's how it's supposed to go. For me, it was a slightly different story. My official title is Officer Warmagus-Vicar Taran Ullivarn, Third Rank, but calling me Taran is fine...and preferred. All the rest of that is just too much of a mouthful for my liking. It's a glorified title for a BattleMage-Medic on the front lines if you ask me.
Yes, I can throw spells with the best of them, and I do, but all the Royal Archmagus seems to be interested in is my other talent. A Blessed One of Boccob they call me, a Favored Soul. I call it a headache that keeps me from my real calling as a Warmagus Slayer, Boccob-Be-Damned.
He has me stationed at the Tooth's singular temple to Boccob when I'm not on rounds, I guess hoping that the Deacon there will rub off on me. It's probably for the best, really, since I did receive more than my fair share of ribbing from the other initiates for my first two years in the bunks. Apparently, being different makes you a target. Go figure.
Really, I don't have all that much against Boccob, Himself, but this "bigger plans" mumbo-jumbo is just a bit too much to stomach. Every time I scrape a knee, it's "The Will of Boccob" or some-such. I'm just a guy in iron and steel who likes to fling fireballs. When did that get complicated?
But my luck is sure to change soon. I am supposed to receive my orders any day now to head up to WarCamp Gallant; Second in command of an eight soldier detachment of Dragon Slayers to go hunt a troublesome Red sighted Northwest for the last few weeks.
Soon this will be but a distant memory.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Anteel Derhilyan
So here is a scene I wrote to set up the story of my character.
There was a criminal in the King’s wood. The sacred trees that bordered a kingdom of men stood proud and full of life, as they had for generations. None but the royal family and the castle guard were allowed to set foot in this sacred forest. Tonight a wanted murderer advanced through deep snow in hopes of finding isolation. He always felt he was being watched, and never went more than a few paces without looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t afford to be followed. He was always being hunted.
The criminal left the King’s wood using the same path he had made entering it, with a well wrapped bundle over his shoulder and a smile on his face. Men who are wanted for murder can rarely be counted on to change their ways, but in Anteel’s opinion, poaching was something he was much more suited to.
Indeed Anteel has made some bad choices in his time, not that he truly regrets a one...but he knows that his temper and sometimes too-quick thinking gets him in trouble. The road he has traveled ages a man, and makes him tough as cured hide. He has no shortage of courage, street smarts, or even skill yet trust is something he has in short supply.
There was a criminal in the King’s wood. The sacred trees that bordered a kingdom of men stood proud and full of life, as they had for generations. None but the royal family and the castle guard were allowed to set foot in this sacred forest. Tonight a wanted murderer advanced through deep snow in hopes of finding isolation. He always felt he was being watched, and never went more than a few paces without looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t afford to be followed. He was always being hunted.
-
Anteel found a fresh set of tracks in the King’s wood, and couldn’t resist following them. He would eat well this month if he found the prey he sought. He did not enjoy his job.
He was a young man, despite the crease that found home on his brow, or the hen scratches around his eyes. A neat trimmed beard that formed a characteristic point was riddled with far more grey than most men his age. The only thing that would cause an onlooker to think he wasn’t in his decline was his young eyes. So full of life and awareness. Neither orange, nor brown, but the color of a pane of honey stretched with the sun at its back, and with as much luminescence. He wasn’t tall, nor was he short. He wasn’t thin but he did enjoy his sweetbreads. Many things about him were average, but once you saw his face you couldn’t forget it. This was his 5th year in this land, and his 27th year on this world.
He knew how to track well, and keep himself silent, even in the autumn when the fallen leaves crackled underfoot like dry wood on the hearth. He could spot a crow flying in a rainstorm in the dead of night. He could single out the fattest grape in a vast vineyard and pierce it with a bolt from his crossbow. At least that’s what the boys at the tavern always barked on about. The prey stood no chance. They rarely did.
He followed the tracks for half a league. Slowly and quietly. Every step. At one point he thought he had lost them, an impressive feat for the hunted (considering there was a fresh bed of snow up to a man’s navel). It took little time for him to recover the path though. He could tell his prey was growing more fearful as the tracks became clearer and clearer. He decided it was time to load his crossbow. Never had dry wood and cold metal springs made less noise.
He held his position near the base of a fat tree, slowly lowering his weight into the deep snow, with his weapon loaded and leveled. His target was near…he could almost hear another heartbeat and taste the breath still floating in the cold air. How could they hide so well from him? Where did the tracks vanish? A single furneedle dropped to the snow not a meter from where he crouch. He suddenly felt quite green.
No sooner than he had realized the fat tree he hid under was the same tree his prey had climbed, he dove away from his hole. Turning his body in the air he landed on his back as he saw the angry form diving from a low branch towards him. A cloud of powdery white snow exploded as his body hit the ground and from it came a snap. A speeding metal bolt tore out from the cloud and struck his enemy square in the neck. The writhing from landed hard in the snow and danced the dance of death until the life left its twisted body. The last of the exited snowflakes flittered to the ground.
Several minuets passed before Anteel got to his feet and examined his fine work. He couldn’t lie to himself. Every ounce of skill that went into that shot was shoved aside and outdone by pure luck. He knew what he had to do now.
His hands went to work the moment his curved blade slipped out of his boot. Blood painted a troubling landscape on the forest’s white canvas. He would be a rich man for this. He held up his dripping bloody prize. The sparkling white pelt of the rarest and more elusive snow leopard. It was speckled with tiny black eyes that made it a piece of art in itself. Any lord would pay a gunny of silver for such a fine piece of trophy. He would make good use of the meat and bones too. He didn’t care for cat meat, but a man has to eat. He didn’t enjoy his job.
The criminal left the King’s wood using the same path he had made entering it, with a well wrapped bundle over his shoulder and a smile on his face. Men who are wanted for murder can rarely be counted on to change their ways, but in Anteel’s opinion, poaching was something he was much more suited to.
Indeed Anteel has made some bad choices in his time, not that he truly regrets a one...but he knows that his temper and sometimes too-quick thinking gets him in trouble. The road he has traveled ages a man, and makes him tough as cured hide. He has no shortage of courage, street smarts, or even skill yet trust is something he has in short supply.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Character Sheets
Hello! Lawrence here, posting some ARTIFICE CHARACTER SHEETS for us to use for game-play. They are very compact, so I hope people can write small and be organized. Otherwise the interwebdz are full of other character sheets to use. I made them for how I like to play, so I can't guarantee others will enjoy the style. Either way, here they are.
PAGE 1
PAGE 2
SPELLS
-The Law
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SPELLS
-The Law
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