Tonklin
10-23-2010, 01:11 PM
Own a piece of history and what not!
Shadow grey spidersilk robe
Zested pocketed and closeable. Armor worn.
You gently stroke a finger over the surface of your spidersilk robe, and the fabric shimmers faintly beneath your touch.
loresong as followed
As your song draws forth the resonances in the spidersilk robe, everything around you seems to darken, and you smell faint smoke. The sound of far-off chanting reaches you, although the words are too muted to be understood.
The image of a fat black spider resting on its web wavers into view. A wrinkled hand approaches the spider from underneath, as if the spider will be scooped away and the web destroyed, but the hand pauses half an inch away. The spider skitters forward, then backward, then leaps down into the hand's blue-veined palm, and its black fangs sink into the ancient flesh.
Not even a twitch greets the spider's savage bite. If there is any response at all, it comes in the chanting, for the voice rises to an exultant crescendo as a second hand pulls the spider web away from its moorings and places it carefully into a vat of shimmering elixir. The first hand removes the spider to a new perch, and the spider skitters away across a surface of pitted onyx as the vision dissolves.
Your song draws forth another vision, and your surroundings waver and drift away as dense layers of spider web appear around you. Busy arachnids flit about on all sides, but the center of the loresong's resonance is a massive ebony loom.
The loom's closely spaced ebony teeth are carved in the stylized forms of grasping spiders. Glimmering spidersilk threads stretch across the gap between the rows of loom teeth. To draw the weft through the warp, a ruby-inset shuttle flashes repeatedly back and forth among the threads, manipulated with deft care by a pair of wrinkled, long-fingered hands. The rhythmic clacking of the treadles mingles with the sound of your heartbeat as the weaver shifts the frames and works the reed. The tension and the closeness of the threads varies repeatedly, forming a pattern as intricate and as precise as a spider's perfectly woven web.
The vision unravels from your mind.
As your song weaves the resonances of the spidersilk robe together, everything fades from view except the robe. When the loresong takes hold of you, a strange paralyzation overcomes your body, and you have no control over anything at all -- not even the song, which continues unabated as you stand frozen.
Two wrinkled hands come out of the grey nothingness, one holding a paintbrush and the other holding a small vial. You sense the toxin within the vial as the paintbrush dips within, and you remain involuntarily motionless as the tip of the paintbrush brushes over the spidersilk surface... once, twice... pauses... then passes over the shimmering fabric twice more, inscribing a stylized spider in the poisonous black ichor. The hands retreat from sight, and you are left immobile. Even the song has faded, trapping you in the vision.
Then, the wrinkled hands return. One is empty, and that hand repositions the cloth, but the other holds a gleaming lancet, and the blade bites into your hand. As the drop of scarlet wells forth, the blade turns the blood so that the drop strikes the cloth, where it sinks in, staining a bloody hourglass mark in the center of the painted venom spider.
In uttermost silence, the vision fades away, and the world returns to normal. Your hand is unwounded, and, rather than being freshly placed, the small spider-shaped mark fully penetrates its spot upon the spidersilk robe.
Instead of the spidersilk robe, you suddenly see a pebble-sized black spider resting in your hand. The creature shifts its weight slightly and tilts its head to look up at you. The sense of being inspected by an alien yet knowledgeable presence is very strong.
Unbidden, images and emotions flicker through your mind... you recall threads of old anger, grudges that never fully faded, goals never quite reached, desires left unfulfilled, envy quashed instead of expressed, and a deep, powerful yearning, the undercurrent to every other emotion, which tastes like temptation. Brighter and richer than the finest ruby, a scarlet hourglass shines on the arachnid's back. You sense unfathomed potential within yourself that waits only the proper moment to be unlocked, if you are just willing to act -- if you will do what it takes, whatever it may take....
The enchanted resonances of the spidersilk robe overwhelm you in the depths of your own emotion, and your voice fails, breaking the spell. With the verse broken, the magically imposed emotion ebbs away from your soul, and you become aware of yourself again. Your eyes are closed, but you still feel pressure in your hand...
Opening your eyes, you find that there is nothing in your palm except the spidersilk robe, which lies still and inert.
As your melody weaves the resonances of the spidersilk robe together, the world distorts into eight different sections around you, each colored with a slightly different hue. The visual illusion lasts only long enough to become disorienting, then dissolves as you complete your verse.
mb 25 mil.
bo 100 mil trades accepted or cash 5 bucks per mil.
Shadow grey spidersilk robe
Zested pocketed and closeable. Armor worn.
You gently stroke a finger over the surface of your spidersilk robe, and the fabric shimmers faintly beneath your touch.
loresong as followed
As your song draws forth the resonances in the spidersilk robe, everything around you seems to darken, and you smell faint smoke. The sound of far-off chanting reaches you, although the words are too muted to be understood.
The image of a fat black spider resting on its web wavers into view. A wrinkled hand approaches the spider from underneath, as if the spider will be scooped away and the web destroyed, but the hand pauses half an inch away. The spider skitters forward, then backward, then leaps down into the hand's blue-veined palm, and its black fangs sink into the ancient flesh.
Not even a twitch greets the spider's savage bite. If there is any response at all, it comes in the chanting, for the voice rises to an exultant crescendo as a second hand pulls the spider web away from its moorings and places it carefully into a vat of shimmering elixir. The first hand removes the spider to a new perch, and the spider skitters away across a surface of pitted onyx as the vision dissolves.
Your song draws forth another vision, and your surroundings waver and drift away as dense layers of spider web appear around you. Busy arachnids flit about on all sides, but the center of the loresong's resonance is a massive ebony loom.
The loom's closely spaced ebony teeth are carved in the stylized forms of grasping spiders. Glimmering spidersilk threads stretch across the gap between the rows of loom teeth. To draw the weft through the warp, a ruby-inset shuttle flashes repeatedly back and forth among the threads, manipulated with deft care by a pair of wrinkled, long-fingered hands. The rhythmic clacking of the treadles mingles with the sound of your heartbeat as the weaver shifts the frames and works the reed. The tension and the closeness of the threads varies repeatedly, forming a pattern as intricate and as precise as a spider's perfectly woven web.
The vision unravels from your mind.
As your song weaves the resonances of the spidersilk robe together, everything fades from view except the robe. When the loresong takes hold of you, a strange paralyzation overcomes your body, and you have no control over anything at all -- not even the song, which continues unabated as you stand frozen.
Two wrinkled hands come out of the grey nothingness, one holding a paintbrush and the other holding a small vial. You sense the toxin within the vial as the paintbrush dips within, and you remain involuntarily motionless as the tip of the paintbrush brushes over the spidersilk surface... once, twice... pauses... then passes over the shimmering fabric twice more, inscribing a stylized spider in the poisonous black ichor. The hands retreat from sight, and you are left immobile. Even the song has faded, trapping you in the vision.
Then, the wrinkled hands return. One is empty, and that hand repositions the cloth, but the other holds a gleaming lancet, and the blade bites into your hand. As the drop of scarlet wells forth, the blade turns the blood so that the drop strikes the cloth, where it sinks in, staining a bloody hourglass mark in the center of the painted venom spider.
In uttermost silence, the vision fades away, and the world returns to normal. Your hand is unwounded, and, rather than being freshly placed, the small spider-shaped mark fully penetrates its spot upon the spidersilk robe.
Instead of the spidersilk robe, you suddenly see a pebble-sized black spider resting in your hand. The creature shifts its weight slightly and tilts its head to look up at you. The sense of being inspected by an alien yet knowledgeable presence is very strong.
Unbidden, images and emotions flicker through your mind... you recall threads of old anger, grudges that never fully faded, goals never quite reached, desires left unfulfilled, envy quashed instead of expressed, and a deep, powerful yearning, the undercurrent to every other emotion, which tastes like temptation. Brighter and richer than the finest ruby, a scarlet hourglass shines on the arachnid's back. You sense unfathomed potential within yourself that waits only the proper moment to be unlocked, if you are just willing to act -- if you will do what it takes, whatever it may take....
The enchanted resonances of the spidersilk robe overwhelm you in the depths of your own emotion, and your voice fails, breaking the spell. With the verse broken, the magically imposed emotion ebbs away from your soul, and you become aware of yourself again. Your eyes are closed, but you still feel pressure in your hand...
Opening your eyes, you find that there is nothing in your palm except the spidersilk robe, which lies still and inert.
As your melody weaves the resonances of the spidersilk robe together, the world distorts into eight different sections around you, each colored with a slightly different hue. The visual illusion lasts only long enough to become disorienting, then dissolves as you complete your verse.
mb 25 mil.
bo 100 mil trades accepted or cash 5 bucks per mil.